Five for Fighting

Five years. How is it true? And yet, I feel every day of those five years. The wishing for is gone. The pain has dulled to a quiet throb that just murmurs in the background. One that you become comfortable with, ignore, accept and claim as your own. It isn't even really about that anymore. It's about the aftermath. It's about the redefinition. It's about the novacaine numbness that feels better than it should.

The new normal takes center stage and everyone plays their parts. It is a lovely play. Life proceeds and joy exists. And yet, for me, in the background is this idea that I was somehow elementally changed five years ago. Not only did I lose her, I lost part of myself. In losing the comfortable warm place that I landed on the worst of days, I was left to face myself. All the words that had been spoken to me became more true.

I'm a fighter. It's what I do. I'm very good at fighting for others, but maybe not so good at fighting for myself. I give too much to everyone, and I mean everyone. Sometimes I wish I didn't. I'm better about taking care of myself, but still not so good at asking for what I deserve. I don't understand the rules of honesty. I often tell the truth when I probably shouldn't. I'm a terrible liar. I wish she was here so that I could understand how I got this way.

I fight all the time. Sometimes I win. The one fight that I struggle with all the time is a nagging loneliness since she left. Happiness has been elusive these past five years. It feels like it is there and yet it feels like a phantom. Maybe it's the part of me that disappeared on that day.