It’s been five years.
One year of heavy denial.
Two years of feeling guilty, not to mention, repulsed by my own self.
Three years of diagnosis and treatment.
Five years of screaming internally,
of hitting myself in fits of unfathomable rage,
of mixed emotions,
of heartbreak and heartache and a lack of trust and also, faith.
Five years of envisioning crushing your world like you crushed mine,
of blaming myself and then hating that I do so,
of panic attacks and a dreadful fear of the unknown.
And I thought that time healed wounds,
but it seems like this will never end.