It took me twenty-one years to learn that wanting is not weakness. Hope – which I had abandoned – is not as dangerous as all of the writers and whining singers make it out to be. It has been helpful to me, and I have been making it out of bed slowly. Just to think about the future in the smallest way used to scare me into a wine glass or a riverbed, but I am enjoying it now. 

Hope and safety are one and the same for me, now. When I curl up back inside myself age seven or fourteen and I feel myself retreating to violence and raised voices, I can hope. That a new city will bring recovery, for me anyway. The distance will be my safety. Being only twenty-one I can look to the future and see a world of possibilities and growing up that I’ve yet to do. Houses to live in, holidays to take, money to be made. 

What am I wanting? I want to write by the sea. I want to be warm inside a denim jacket with a dog at my feet. I want to be comfortable and I want my sister to be safer than I ever was. I want to be known and I want to drink, but I don’t want to start smoking again. I want coffee and I want to see my breath every morning because I managed to wake up and face it. I am wanting to live. I want disposable cameras and poetry every evening. I want to be a part of something. I want family that I made for myself, and I want friends who are willing to travel. This wanting is not a lack of gratitude, nor a lack of knowledge.

Wanting is safety. Wanting is hope. 


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