I'm okay.
Trying to be okay.

Struggling to be okay.
 
In a place where hope, on a personal level, seems somewhat fictional. Like an idea, something that is a reality for all others, something only I am unable to find.
I'm ashamed of this. Maybe that's why it's so hard to talk about. Maybe that's why it's so hard to find hope - the secrets and the shame, and the way I hold on to them.
 
I guess this is a confession that I sometimes fight with more fervor to protect my shame, this sense of identity, than I ever have for hope and truth. It is a confession that sometimes I lie down in the mud and give up, because it hurts too much, I'm just too damaged, I can't see a way out, I don't deserve a way out.
It is frequently hard to see, but more often than not there is someone willing to come alongside and help pull me out, but it is something I have to choose. Hope and truth -and maybe even help- are constant, but they are not one-sided things. I have to choose not to lie down in defeat. To accept an identity not defined by shame and sadness. To grasp the hand of the one ready to pull me up. To trust there will be victory. To believe that hope is not a work of fiction. Hope is real.

I wish I could leave you with these words and say that everything is peachy, but the reality is that it's not. Reaching out and stepping into community is still hard. The fight can be and has been exhausting, and failures discouraging. Embracing the truth...maybe that's the hardest of all. And though hope is not a work of fiction, I am struggling to believe it.