I’m a dreamer. An all out full fledged dreamer. I want what I may never have. A few dreams are too deep for me to express to anyone but my husband and God. They are so deep they hurt to have… yet I still dream them, almost defiantly. 
When I first became an adult and later a Christian I squashed my imagination; believing it was a waste and my dreams to be too indulgent. It was time for me to cast off those childish things and grow up. Oh, but when I squashed the dreams I squashed a chunk of what makes me, me. What a tragedy to go well over ten years denying myself my dreams. If it didn’t look spiritual or have a spiritual leader’s stamp of approval I killed it before the first slip of a root could form. 
Then this depression thing came up. And it sucked. Still sucks. I hate my emotions being tumultuous.  It’s exhausting to fight the urge to think of only the most horrendous and painful memories. It’s exhausting to differentiate between what is real and what is chemical. And it’s not my brain’s fault.
Not my fault. 
It reminds me of the story of Jesus and the blind man (See John 9). The disciples wanted to know who sinned to make the man blind: the man or his parents. Jesus said it was neither. Y’all. That is so freeing to me. I believed for so long that I must have caused this, brought it on myself. Yet I know deep down I didn’t. So I fight the urge to go back to the pain. Sometimes it knocks me out and I get up quickly. Sometimes it takes longer. Still I get back up. There’s a hope inside of me that won’t let me die. 
No blame to be had, no matter the accusations.
Turn you to the strong hold, ye prisoners of hope: even to day do I declare that I will render double unto thee.
Zechariah 9:12 KJV
That strong hold, that safe place is me being a prisoner to hope. Believing against all reason that I have all (any) reason to hope. Even when I hate that hope it still nags at me to get up and live. To do it again. Because there is no try: there is only do or do not. So I get up and I do it again. And I fail miserably. But that hope that I sometimes curse won’t let me give up. My will to live defeats any urge to give in.
And that same hope has still been clinging to the imagination and dreams I’ve for so long denied. Dreams of dancing and loving and trusting. Dreams of writing and schooling and truthing. Dreams of running wild. Dreams of being free to just be me.
The dreams will grow.
It reminds me of the Smashing Pumpkins song Mayonaise. It didn’t really occur to me until just now that I identified with it strongly because one line in particular described me:
“No longer will I follow/Can anybody hear me/I just want to be me/when I can I will.”
Y’all. That’s been my heart’s scream and plea for as long as I can remember. I just want to be me. Not a model. Not just like so and so. Not my mother. Not what people think I should be or am. Not a categorized me. Me. I want to be me. But for so long I wasn’t allowed to be me. And even worse than nobody hearing me: it felt like nobody cared that I couldn’t be me.
My heart screams for me to not follow what I was taught by my parents and grandparents. It screams at me that I am good enough. More than good enough. It screams for me to not listen to the depression and anxiety. It screams for me to try something different. To believe that my dreams have my purpose hidden inside. That my dreams are just the seed–my purpose is so much bigger than my dreams.
I’m dared to believe that I’m valuable enough to be heard. I’m dared to keep doing and failing because soon enough I’ll be to the part where I can and will be living the dream. The dream of being me. 
Oh, what a beautiful risk.
The depression I hate is the very thing I have to thank for my awakening. The doubting of my faith is the very thing I have to thank for the renewing of my beliefs. The tears and the pain and the memories that I have tried so hard to discredit… they’re the very things that bring me here to writing. 
Which until recently I’ve only dared to believe could ever be a possibility.
It’s what I’ve always wanted to do. 
So instead of following the depression I fight. I scream on the pages for anyone who is willing to hear. Plain and homely as the words may be, I just keep being me. And I can now. So I will. 
I remain (thankfully) a prisoner of hope.
Even little weeds beckon you to dream.
What is it that you need to say, for someone to hear? Please say it. If you can’t say it, write it. And if you can’t write it, think it. Don’t give up. You are valuable. You are filled with purpose and meaning; therefore so are your words and dreams. Think them, write them, say them. For the record: I’d be honored to hear them, read them, look at you even while you think them. You are so, so brave. You give me strength: just knowing that there is a you out there living makes life sweeter for me, too. I don’t quite know how to ask you this except clumsily: please let me be there with you. Whether it be proverbially or not: let me sit with you. Email me at or comment right here on the blog.
I’m proud of you, dear and brave one.

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