When

When do we get to call him a survivor? When will there be t-shirts and wrist-bands commemorating his fight?

When will the fight be over?

I sat mulling over the word survivor for hours.

He came home from war and ‘it’ reared its ugly head as soon as he attempted to regain a normal life. He tasted gun oil, spent time in the hospital, took meds, saw doctors, and fought like hell to recreate something similar to normality.

For a long time it didn’t look like he was going to make it. But then he met someone. Someone who was willing to look past the duffle full of issues he’d carried with him since war awarded him with its dark parting gifts.

They built a life together. Got married. Bought a house. And they were generally happy. But it reared its head each time they thought they were free.

Still they lived on together in happiness even with its presence looming like a black cloud waiting for an opportunity to remind them and reclaim him.

But when does he become a survivor instead of a sufferer? We’ve clung to each other for three years and I have no intentions of him being a sufferer forever. But when? I want a new title.

I want him to be a survivor and I say he is.

It’s been years since he’s been in the field. He’s survived gunfire, IEDs, mortars. He survived his own attempts to quiet the voices. He’s survived to build a life not ruled by alcohol and anger, drugs or violence.

He’s managed to stay alive a damn long time. Longer than, at one point, I thought he would. Isn’t this the definition of survivor?

But he says no. Not a survivor until it’s gone. We disagree on this point and will continue to do so, because when I look at him I see him surviving.