Seven

Today's my daughter's birthday. She would've turned seven. One more year than the number of days we got to spend with her before she died.

When I began writing this weeks ago, I wanted to tell the story of how — even 6 years and 358 days after she passed — she is still my guiding light. How I struggled with depression before she was born and was scared to pass it on to her. And how, after she died, while in the clutches of grief, I made a vow to live my life to the fullest.

Because to do anything else would be to add to the tragedy of her death. Instead, I would march on. I would do good, for me and for others, in her name. Not in spite of losing her, but because she had lived. I would do whatever I could to make sure her short life made a big difference.

All of that's true. And, somehow, from it, the last few years have become the best years of my life.

But, as this day grew closer, that all vanished. Like dew in the sun. And on the eve of her seventh birthday, not a speck of positivity remains.

All I feel is frustration and anger. It encapsulates me in an all out assault. I cannot concentrate. Cannot think clearly. Why did it have to end up like this? Why did I only get six days with my firstborn daughter? Where is she? Will I ever see her again? Why us?

My legs feel weak. My stomach is in knots and my mind a cloud. I want to sleep but I can't. I want a sedative. I want a hit. Anything for a reprieve. Please, just give me a break.

I was caught off-guard. Thought I had moved past these feelings, seven years on. But I haven't. Maybe I never will. I don't know.

But I know that there's good in-between. And that good will come again. In a week, or a month, perhaps. Or, maybe later today, as I eat ice cream and celebrate her birthday with her mother, brother and sister.

But fuck, sometimes life without her is just too much to bear. But bear it I will, for her. No, for you, wherever you are. Until we meet again. Then I will tell you of all the good you did for this world, and you will smile and we will hug.