Artist, Athlete, Addict is a personal philosophy of mental, physical, and spiritual health.
I’ve come to this theory through fire. In 2012, I was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes, a life-threatening illness that appeared in my body around age 27. The experience of illness descending, of morphing from a well person into a sick person, from independent and self-sufficient to insulin-dependent and medicalized has been complex and, at times, nightmarish. The shift was tectonic.
It has taken me ten years to reconstruct my body and mind after both broke down. And, crucially, the reconstruction has been a creative process. The reality of illness is that there is no “recovery” to a pre-illness state, no recovery of that body, of that person, that you once knew. She, the person you grew up with, is gone. Living in a different body with a different life leaves very little of one’s “self” to recognize anymore.
But when the body betrays you again and again, it obliterates whatever nascent trust you’ve restored in the universe and your place in it. Each time, it becomes harder to recover your sense of safety. After you’ve had the ceiling cave in on you — whether through illness or some other catastrophe — you don’t assume structural stability. You must learn to live on fault lines.
—Suleika Jaouad, Between Two Kingdoms
At times, I’ve had to improvise. Most of the time, in fact. Not just with my body and physical health, in obtaining, enacting, and managing the healthcare it needs, but in relating to myself, to others, to my upended professional and social lives. And that improvisation - the highest form of play, and a uniquely American one at that - has led me to rebuild myself and my life, one part at a time.
Those parts being: Artist, Athlete, Addict.
Let’s see if I can explain this.
The Artist represents mental health, manifested in the human impulse toward creativity. We all have an artist, despite how many of us are so inclined to declare “I don’t have an artistic bone in my body.” Humans create; we create everything from paintings and sculptures to babies and families to businesses and civilizations. The human impulse to create is as natural as the human impulse to procreate.
The Athlete represents physical health, manifested in the human impulse toward embodiment, including embodied cognition - meaning, we think through movement. We all have an athlete, despite how many of us are inclined to declare “I don’t have an athletic bone in my body.” Humans move; modern life notwithstanding, we are built to walk and run long distances with our bipedal upright hairless bodies. The human impulse to move the body is as natural as the impulse to get out of bed in the morning; and we know by now how much the latter depends on the former.
And, finally, the Addict represents spiritual health, manifested as the unavoidable human need for medicine.
I am a medicalized person; I live in a medicalized body. I have a life-threatening disease that compels me to inject a (wouldn’t you know it, life threatening) medication multiple times daily. That medicine is called insulin, and is manufactured, owned, and litigiously guarded by Big Pharma. My point being: I know from needing medicine.
One definition (among a few in the New Oxford American dictionary) of “medicine” is: a compound or preparation used for the treatment or prevention of disease, especially a drug or drugs taken by mouth. Since my medicine is injected, things are getting slippery already. Another definition, again from Oxford American: (especially among some North American Indian peoples) a spell, charm, or fetish believed to have healing, protective, or other power.
My point is, medicine can look like a lot of things to a lot of people. When I talk about the human need for medicine, I am talking about all of it. Modern medicine as well as traditional; healing and comfort as well as treatments and cures. I am talking about Gabor Maté’s premise of addiction as self-medication: it’s “an attempt to escape to escape suffering, temporarily.”
As an insulin user, I can tell you that my medicine - one of the miracles of modern medicine, a wonder of the modern world - is itself no more than an attempt to escape the suffering a life-threatening illness, temporarily. Once I inject it, it’s only in my system for a few hours, 24 at the most. After that I must inject again, and again. A temporary escape from suffering.
At one point or another, we all need medicine.
I’d like to explore that with you.
Thanks for being here.
Congrats, Robin! I'm thrilled to see that Artist, Athlete, Addict has launched. What an interesting and thought-provoking angle on a topic many will find relatable. I cannot wait to read and learn more from you.
So insightful and well expressed. Thank you.