“The days are long, but the years are short.” My kids mock me for quoting this statement regularly; I find it more accurate the older I get. Daily drudgery demands more energy and patience than I seem to command, yet time slips around my consciousness and leaves me questioning my participation in its passage. For the last five years, I’ve been lost. I’ve descended into the blackest of pits, existed in the muck until I couldn’t stand the smell of my disease, latched onto a handful of stability, and pulled. I’m not clear yet. Many times, I’ve released my grip and sunken down to my knees; it’s messy and embarrassing. Many onlookers turned away the first time I fell. Others waited a bit before giving up. Sometimes it was easier to hide in the darkness than to share my struggle with loved ones… of course, my progress then was delayed. I’m angry! I’m frustrated by the wasted, lost time. My closest loves are distant to me even in my presence. Time and circumstance joined together and now, no matter how determined my footing or how furiously I climb, success promises a bittersweet and solitary end.