The Commitment

Competing in a triathlon was certainly an ambitious goal, but achieving that level of personal victory was destined to be hollow at best. If, after losing my mind, facing death and rebuilding myself into a pillar of strength and fortitude, the highest achievement I set for myself was to repeat a performance I had already completed, what was the point of growing at all?

I needed a new challenge, something beyond the level I knew. Something requiring the integration of dedication, determination and spirit that I was now capable of. I knew I had the tools, but didn't know how to demonstrate them. I needed a symbol, something recognizing the man I had become, the survivor I was, and the way I had learned to thrive against the odds in this world and in my own unbalanced mind.

Looking around my home, I was surrounded by elements from the past. The trophies, championship jersies, the long-retired basketball shoes were artifacts representing a variety of successes attained through physical exertion, but without brain power. I needed to add to my collection, to deepen the magnitude of accomplishment, to show what my new mind was capable of.

I wanted a medal.

I signed up for the Chicago Marathon and never looked back.

Committing to a marathon is a big deal. When you use the word commit near a psychiatric patient, it has many negative connotations. Enrolling myself as a participant in the marathon gave new meaning to the word committment, a positive connotation, and I felt a tremendous sense of victory in performing the act, feeling that I was taking back from the disillusioned public a word and an act that now belonged to me.