Shadows On Our Eyes Leave Us Helpless, Helpless, Helpless

What a bizarre feeling, the end of one year. Knowing that I won't have to study like that again for three months. Walking into the house, thinking of all the books I can read now. Thinking of how my time has suddenly expanded.

It's weird because it feels like there's no closure. Although I know more that I did initially, it never seems like enough. I wonder when I will stop feeling like I am playing doctor. I wonder if I will ever feel like I know enough to succeed, to do right by my patients.

It's exacerbated by the still-not-knowingness of my program. I thought once I got here, that would be it. No changes for eight years; plenty of time to settle in, get a house, buy books to fill it. Enough time to buy a fish who doesn't have to be shunted around in a sandwich bag; enough time, even, to buy a dog or two. Enough time to build a life.

But I don't know if I'll even be here more than one year, if I'll leave and get a PhD somewhere else before returning here for third and fourth years. No time to get a dog or even a fish.

But I've built a life. It's not the life I had imagined I would build here, but it's better and more wonderful. Joey and I have managed to survive--and flourish--in a year apart. We've been stronger and better than anyone--certainly anyone who doubted--could ever have imagined.

I made new friends here, and built better friendships with friends I already had. I've made friends who accept me with my shortcomings: the lacks of motor skills, the lapses in attention, a mental illness that, when untreated, drove so many people away.

Tonight, I was telling a story from that point in my life. In between all of the moments of laughter, all the moments we couldn't pull it together. I told a story, a real story about things I don't often like to talk about. And when I was done, Joe told me I should write a book about that time, and I told him why I don't think I ever will. "Your story is beautifully tragic," he said.

We talk about how I've been through more things in my almost-23 years than most people have the opportunity to experience in a lifetime. Not good things, but things that made me able to relate to people. Things that make my pain very real.

But soon after, the laughter picked back up. It carried us through dinner, the ride home, ice cream and the bowling alley. It carried us, like it always does. Between our moments of solemnity and silence, the moments when we are honest and vulnerable, between these moments our laughter carries us.

In one year, I've managed to build this life. The end of the year is not so much an end as we would like to make it. One Monday, I will make the same walk I've made the last year. Joe will make the same drive. Jacob will look for a job for the summer. We will meet for dinner, for video games, for anything that makes us feel sane and alive. Between all these things, our laughter carries us.