We live for the hope that one day things won’t be so dark, that the grief won’t drown us so completely, that our world will not be destroyed by such slight things every time we think we’ve built them back. That our sense of trust will not be so often broken, that the events that broke us will one day recede into the distance to the point that they don’t return so often, or at all.

We live for the hope that the pain will subside and be at least bearable, that the intrusive horror of fear will learn its place and that someone, anyone, will understand and satisfy our need for empathy, because the loneliness is so completely isolating that it’s hard to stay a safe distance from despair.

We live for the hope that the trauma that we’ve experienced and the boundaries that it blew away will stop leading us to cope in ways that don’t help us heal, and that there is a chance that we can build the kind of relationships and environments that we need to be healthy and whole.

We live for the hope that if we get up again, that if we keep trying and if we don’t quit, we can get far along in this non-linear hell that we can look back and feel as though it’s somehow not as bad now, and that things are and will get better.

I keep hoping. But it’s hell in the meantime.