Expectations

H has convinced me that I still need to view myself in a time of recovery, recovery both from both mental and physical assault. Physically, I am doing well. My strength is returning, and the pain is manageable. Mentally, it is slower going. I no longer fear walking, dressing or driving small distances and have returned to work. There remains a plethora of activities such as driving on the highway, being alone, and exercising that is a part of the general terror. Each day, I do a little more and feel a little better. It would be a mistake to say that I am a hundred percent.

A hundred percent is what is expected though. Supportive and caring, my parents are ready for me to move back to my place. Bosses and fellow employees expect the old Luka. The man, who slept in cheap La Quinta, drove dusty Neons and lived off tea and popcorn, off the radar.

I am not near what I was in April. I cannot do what I used to do, not yet anyway. There is no way to explain it. I look fine. I put on a good show acting normal complete with flippant comments. Friends assume ‘I’m back’, while at Wal-Mart I am one extra heartbeat away from a panic attack.

I am not back, despite what I want and most think.