Every day, I hope.
I hope it will get better, that it won’t hurt so much.
I hope that I will be able to slow down and not be at everyone else’s beck and call.
I hope that I can say no. And mean it.
I hope that I can sleep until I want to get out of bed, instead of rolling out every morning before dawn because I have obligations to meet.
I hope that I make it through the next six weeks of no-money until I get paid again (a yearly problem, and January has thirty-one long, cold, and dark days).
I hope that Christmas will again just pass, without requiring from me efforts to be social that I just do not have the resources for.
I hope and I am chagrined that I still hope.
I hope that the house I currently am spending all my free time remodeling (paint smears in my hair and decorating both my forearms, random punctures, scratches, and broken nails) soon will become a respite and sanctuary – a place of peace and repose.
I hope that it will get better – that it won’t hurt quite so much.