Freedom to Live Again
I had it once. When I was 30 years old. My very existence was fading at the time - well my experience of it was at least. I had been struggling for some time with a progressive movement disorder which had recently been identified as Parkinson's disease.
Everything was difficult. My feet and arms were often cramping up, my gait and posture were awkward and I was generally slow off the mark.
Then came the time that my considerable resistance to medication was overcome by the weight of my struggle to enjoy life. The first medication that I started taking was a dopamine agonist. Almost instantly I felt as though I had been set free, unshackled from the chains of this terrible illness. I could move again. I could live again.
I could live again. Those four words may not mean much to you if you have never been carrying such a heavy burden for so long. But if you have, you will know what I mean. It is the answer that hope and desperation so frailly seek. The search for the vibrant figure that creates the shadow and the unwillingness to accept the shadow as its meagre substitute.
That lasted until I was almost 40. Only then did I discover how misplaced my conception of freedom had been. What The Lord so kindly giveth with one hand He taketh away with the other. The medications became my taskmaster and I their slave. I was driven ever deeper into a pit of desperation where my actions were not my own to control.
And it is that precipice that I fear I may be once again sitting at the edge of right now, having just gone through surgery for deep brain stimulation. Can it really be all that it promises it may? Or will I once again end up being deceived by another horse from Troy?
Once again, it may take me another decade to discover the answer, so I guess that I must do as I did the last time and simply enjoy the ride while it lasts, being more conscious of how fragile the promise of true freedom actually is.
