Most days I don’t feel courageous. I’m not sure I even know what courage is really. Is it breaking down walls? Is it finally being able to trust someone just enough to share your story? Is it putting words to the unspeakable?
I look at other people who survived difficult childhoods and I see them as courageous, but I don’t see it in myself. I see myself as weak, broken, flawed and completely unlovable most of the time.
Time and time again I ask myself if I can do this. I wonder how much more I can wait for things to change, for me to change. Just once I think it would be nice to have a quick fix for things.
I wish it were easier. Not any one particular part of it. Just, in general, I suppose. It never feels easy for some reason. It’s just where I am right now, I guess—sitting here wishing my life was a little bit easier and feeling absolutely sorry for myself. A huge part of me knows there is no quick fix and no magic that is suddenly going to make it all just go away but there is still a small part that holds onto the hope that maybe, just maybe, it will happen.