Afflicted. Plagued. Sick. That’s who we are every day and especially on Friday nights when the urge to see through ourselves in front of a mirror is extraordinarily strong. So strong that our vision pierces through our lungs and we question why we’re still breathing. And we behold our heart and we think about why in the world it’s still beating.
And sometimes, we see all the way to our soul and find out, well, that it’s not there anymore. There’s a note pinned on the empty blank space where it used to be. It’s been on sick leave for a very long time.
What does being “healthy” even mean? Is it the state of being pain-free, fuss-free, germ-free? If that’s the case then I would have to say being healthy is the greatest abnormality of all–an aberration so uncommon that it’s not worth talking about.
For surely, I might have been pain-free at many points in my life, but then I wasn’t fuss-free or germ-free. And I might have been fuss-free during, say, long vacations far from my office cubicle but… I was probably not pain-free or germ-free. It’s most likely impossible to be completely sanitary in all aspects of life.
You could say one is always contaminated.
There’s a constant need to go after a cure. Somewhere out there is a panacea to heal all these diseases of the body and of the mind and of the heart and of the soul. It’s in the form of an opportunity that sounds too good to let go, a thing so amazing not to own, an idea so powerful not to subscribe to, or a person so unique and useful not to be with.
We take them and inject them into ourselves, suffusing our lives with their well-advertised medicinal properties. And there are mornings when the thought of merely doing something to treat yourself, no matter how small, is enough to make you feel better.
At times, the belief in the power of that medication is so potent that we convince ourselves that we’re ok now. We’re fine now. And that we can live this way for years–a placebo effect necessary for our own sanity and survival.
The funniest thing is that we’re all doctors. Talking to each other, diagnosing one another, giving away endless prescriptions to any patient who’s patient enough to listen or care. I say “or” because some people listen but they don’t actually care. They could win a medal for being the best listeners though.
“Oh, you’re hurt? I know EXACTLY what you’re going through! Here’s what you need: take one dose of self-confidence in the morning, two doses of shopping sprees in the afternoon, and three doses of sex at night! Take a full glass of prayers with these and never forget to apply a dollop of independence. Wash it down with alcohol and stay in bed far away from everything for a decade. I promise you’ll feel like brand new!”
If only we were as accurate as our imaginary licenses claim to be. Unfortunately, we’re not. In fact, we’re unbelievably bad at what we do. And many times, instead of correctly pinpointing what’s ailing our friends and our loved ones, what we see is nothing but a reflection of our own illnesses and pains that we ourselves have tragically failed to cure. But if we can’t even mend our own maladies, then how could we be expected to find a pill that works for others?
If there’s one thing that’s going for us it is that we never give up. Debilitated as we are with all the hurts and injuries we’ve suffered, we keep on moving forward. Doubtless there’s courage in that albeit a lot of it rooted in hard-headedness and, frankly, being naively dumb.
But perhaps there’s something there when one strives for excellence when the odds are against oneself. Or not even excellence. Not even mediocrity. Just one really good, healthy day.