Hope Is Real.

Welcome to the week of Hope. (Sponsored by my therapists great ideas.)

For the next few days, things will be…different. It’s homework, but I’m not allowed to be sarcastic about it. Shit, I think this means I’ve said too much.

Hope is my favorite word. It’s my favorite feeling. I’ve written about it before, I’ve defined it, I’ve searched for it… and I’m here once again.

In the name of hope, in the name of all things possible.

Writing with a ……positive spin…(I’m not allowed to imply it’s fake. I just have to do it)…it requires some inspiration.

I have a very specific source of hope. A book, a collection of writings…a writer…an organization… that means absolutely everything to me. And he has, for something like 10 years now. His words are tattooed onto me, with the hopes of just that…inspiring hope.

I do believe in hope. I believe in the possibility of better endings. I’ve always said that without hope, I’m nothing. A hopeless version of me is a scary one. A scared one.

I’ve got a week. I have a week to write with this…strange, not fake, but slightly forced, concept. I understand the purpose, I get the point. This will be the last time I speak of the task at hand, and will just try to write it, as honestly…….(?) as I can for the next few days.

If I’m being honest, I’m scared it will feel very inauthentic. That it will read as very forced. Whenever I try to write with an inserted emotion, rather than an actively felt one…I hate rereading it. It sounds so fake. And I hate that.

But I have enough hope to make this possible.

Possible, without sounds like actually shit. While maintaining a level of writing that I don’t just want to get rid of whenever I reread it.

If I believe it for others, I should be able to believe in it for myself as well. I’m just as worthy as hope and change as anyone else is. (ugh. I hate myself so much for trying to sell it. No, it’s fine. This is the task. And I’m going to do it. Without hesitation. Even if it’s……………hard.)

There’s a reason his words hit a little bit too close to home. Because they mean something, because they matter. And if they matter, that means that it matters for me, too.

There is more to life than what we feel. There are things missing all the time.
But there’s even more not missing. Don’t be blinded by the ghosts.

Don’t live only in your head. It’s lonely and dangerous. Allows others in. Be honest with them, and invite them to do the same.

Hope is real. I know it is, because I’m still alive.

(By the way, she made me lay on the floor in therapy today. I don’t usually do things that are…outside my realm of normal, but she made me anyway.
I guess it was probably worth it.)