I’m a pessimist, with enough social training to usually keep my doom and gloom to myself. I have to try not to rob optimists of their joy.

I’m a worrier. I fret about things until I can’t bear it, then frantically distract myself from further thinking. I have two modes: Panicked and Forgetful.

I’ve had my hopes dashed so often, I hate myself for still having any. Northing betrays me so consistently as the spark of optimism I have left.

These are the reasons good news makes me nauseated.

I’m too afraid for optimism, of everything that could go wrong, of my heart leading me astray.

Plus there were the years with irresponsible lovers, men who saw an extra ten dollars in the bank not as a tiny cushion but as a reason to spend twenty.

And the years of mollifying their anger, soothing their disappointment. I haven’t just lost hope. Witnessing hope is a trigger.

This a terrible mindset for a mother, nurturer of a young mind that I am. I don’t feel like “You can be anything you want!” is honest, and I struggle to keep my negativity from seeping in.

I am tired. So tired of treading water and fighting through quicksand. Tired of hoping for solid ground only to discover I’m still sinking.

Some days I am a fighter, filled with righteous anger, ready to right the wrongs of the world and correct every imbalance. Other days I’m tired. Most of the time I just muddle through.

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