My hope, my fear in writing is to find love. Not a romantic kind of love, but more of an acceptance kind of love. Yes, I do not feel like I belong anywhere, to anyone - not even to my current family, and definitely not to my own mother. I fear that if I write about my life, my childhood, my mother would disown me for the second time. I fear that people would think I was too damaged to be worthy of love. I fear my world would be lonely; lonelier than when my mother called me a disgrace because I didn’t understand about sex. But there is still that desire to write, to share the world of me, to show that I am not invisible and that I do have something worth writing, worth telling, worth reading.
BUT. THAT. IS. JUST. A. DREAM.
Dreams don’t come true for me. Though I pray and wish and hope that they do, they don’t. How cool would it be if they did? How wonderful would it be to be happy for a moment, to be happy to the point of fear – the fear of losing that feeling of ecstatic joy, the fear of waking up and knowing that it was just a dream.