Fiver

I will reach the five year mark on July 1, 2016. That’s supposed to mean something. That I’m in the clear. That I’ve made it to the point where a recurrence is less likely. For me it says: it’s time to stop whining. It’s like moaning about a car accident for five years, move on. I would like to argue that I haven’t been moaning too loud. It’s been more like a constant internal keening that sometimes gets so loud that I can’t hear anything else. Sometimes it’s a buzzing I can almost ignore, but it’s still there. My grieving has persisted for five years, whether I let you see it, whether you noticed, whether I acknowledged it. It has been there. I’m just reaching (fingers crossed) the one year mark of no hospital stays or leave of absences from work. One year in four that my health was stable. How do you celebrate four years, when you are happy for a year in the clear. How do you celebrate five years when you are worried about what will happen in the next fifty.

I keep grappling with what five years really means. Am I going to wake up when it’s five years and one day, and be different. No. I will still be me. My past will not have changed. My future will remain unclear. Is it a day that should be celebrated? A day to be ignored? Or a day that should be acknowledged, and nothing more. I think it will be a day to grieve. For a loss of innocence. For five years of hardship. For pain. For sadness. For scars. For depression. For constant fear. For self-loathing. For helplessness. For alienation. For lost time.

And on July 2nd, I will look back on the last five years, and say you are still here. You can survive today.