Five More Years

     Memory’s a funny thing. I’d swear blind that this evening is so much lighter than at six o’clock on this day five years ago. I remember it as being colder, darker, bleaker. In this place. At that time. Inside my head. Five years ago.

     I thought it was the end. I thought I’d said goodbye. I thought I had no distance left to run.

     Which just goes to prove that when you’re suicidal, you think complete and utter pretentious bollocks. The pain says it won’t stop. The pain lies. The pain can stop. The pain will stop. And not because your life has.

     The pain can fuck off. Depression is a complete and utter cunt. And just like an ex-boyfriend, you will keep bumping into it when you look and feel like shit. But he’s an ex for a reason. Because he’s a cunt. You’re better than that. So get thee to the far side of fuck, shitty brain chemistry. I’ve woken up every morning* for the last five years. Some days are super bouncy, hyper excellent. Some are black dog, wearing black, under a black sky, painting a red door black black black. Most are just… unremarkable in terms of events.

     But each day has happened, each day has passed, and each day has been lived. By me. Which, considering where I was five years ago, is one of those everyday miracles that occurs, and goes unnoticed, unremarked, unacknowledged, by anyone except me.

     Happy anniversary, me.

     Five. More. Years.

*Sometimes I skip mornings & go straight to afternoons.