434 days have passed--I hate this place.

This is wild. 

I've been in this seat before. I spent my first day of Chemo here, wrote about it, and started this blog. Through all of the treatments following that day, for whatever reason, I was never here again. 

I wore the same green and white. 

I had a beard then.

I haven't been here since that day. 

But now, as I restart a years worth of Chemo today, I'm in the exact same spot, with the exact same surroundings. 

Time has passed. 

434 days. 

10,416 minutes. 

37,497,600 seconds. 

Much has happened in that time span. Good days, bad days, people, places, victories and failures. 

It feels like yesterday that I was here. 

It feels like years ago. 

I've changed. This place hasn't. 

An elderly woman nearby was just told she wouldn't be going home today, and needed to be admitted to the hospital immediately due to dangerously low blood counts. 

She is thin, weary. She has been at this for a while. I feel awful for her. 

Her husband is stoic, strong. He has questions that the nurse can't answer, so he's frustrated. 

There's a teenage girl receiving treatment, her friends joined her. They're all on their cell phones and giggling and having a good time. They bring at least a measure of levity to this heavy place. 

Her father is seated nearby, looks stressed as he tries to converse and laugh with them. 

Others are asleep. 

Others are tossing and turning with pained expressions, trying to find a tolerable position. 

An elderly man is alone. His straightforward stare is piercing. He looks hearty, new to this. 

He looks like he absolutely hates this place. 

I'm with him. 

Last time I was here, the space and the people in it served as a cold but needed reminder that I was facing something serious, that I wasn't special, and that it was time to focus, and take all of this head on. 

This time, I just hate it. 

I don't look like the others in here. 

I look around, and I see death and discomfort. 

I see optimistic visitors and pessimistic patients. 

I see a place of healing and treatment in a world where both come at a price. 

Physical, mental, financial. 

I'm not special. It's not that I don't belong. 

It's that I don't want to any longer.

I'm sick of belonging. 

I'm tired of the heaviness of this place, and I've only been here for an hour. 

I have it better than everyone here, I would presume. I'm sure my diagnosis is better, positive my treatment is lighter, and sure I'll be here for a shorter duration. 

I'm not better than them--that isn't why I'm "sick of belonging"--and being around it makes me feel terrible for them. There's a strange sense solidarity--even if it hurts. 

I just have this sense, right or wrong, that I've done my time. 

I've paid my dues. 

Somehow earned the "right" to be anywhere but here. 

It's wrong.

This is a bullshit way of thinking. 

I'd come here every day until forever if it kept me healthy and around to experience all the things I want to. 

I don't mean to complain.

My life at the moment is wonderful in so many ways. 

In almost every way. 

I'm just angry.

Angry that this fluorescent-lit, saline smelling, life saving dump--is a reminder of the one thing that isn't. 

434 days of belonging. 

There's no way of knowing exactly how many more days have to pass before I can move on from this. 

Until I can say I belong to a new group(s): 

In remission. 

Survivor. 

No amount of time is too long for me to wait for that.

I'm not too tired to continue or too disillusioned to care.

Apathy is not something I'm capable of.

It's not a moment of weakness. It's just a combination of experiences that add up to frustration. To hate.

I'm not done. I'm fine.

I'll come here forever if I have to, so 434 is a blink of an eye. 

When I'm done tonight, I'm going to walk by the old man with the stare, shake his hand and say "fuck this place."

I have a feeling it will be well received. 

Here's to 434 more.