Six years, as of yesterday. Six years. It feels a moment and a lifetime. A fresh, angry, gaping wound and a dull, ever-fading scar. I didn't really mark the day yesterday. I acknowledged it briefly and then I tamped it down, powered through and pretended it wasn't happening. I survived the day. It is an ugly, ugly day and it is just a day like any other. As I'm sure I've said in past years, my little brother is just as dead today as he was yesterday. The anniversary technically makes the number of years he's been gone continue to tally up, but it's arbitrary, really.
And you know what? I was fine yesterday. By evening, I felt I'd been bottling up the feelings of the day, and I was afraid I wouldn't fall asleep easily. I knew if I didn't settle to sleep, the flood gates would open and I'd probably end up crying late into the night. I did, though. I fell asleep and I slept fairly well. For the first time since Greg died, I marked the anniversary without falling apart AND without feeling guilty about not falling apart. Being okay doesn't mean I miss him any less. It doesn't mean I am less sad or less hurt. It doesn't mean I won't still have bad days, sad days - I definitely do - but it does mean I'm healing. It means I am making my active, conscious decision, every single day, to live life and to move forward.