I've been struggling a bit lately, and I've decided it's because I don't know what I'm meant to do about Hope.

Hope, after all, is all about the future: what might happen, what could happen. For most of my life, I didn't have a future. I stayed hyper-focused on the present. I built defensive walls to keep out the distractions of Hope. That's how I stayed alive. 

I taught myself to live without Hope. And I scoffed at the Pollyannas who clearly didn't realize how bleak this world is. "The true test of character," I told myself, "is how you live, how you treat others, when you realize you're unequivocally alone."

But Hope, she's good. She'd slip into bed beside me. She'd be the big spoon, which I love. I could feel her warmth against my back; I could feel her breath on my neck. And she'd whisper to me.

"You're wrong, you know," she'd say. "You do deserve love. You do deserve a life with joy and peace at its core. Just take a small leap of faith."

An sometimes, when I felt especially vulnerable, I would.

But this world is very, very good at letting you know exactly what you do and do not deserve. So I'd build the walls a little higher, a little stronger.

Now that I'm no longer closeted, I am trying to build a healthier, more authentic life, a life where most, if not all, the cards are face up. And so I've settled on a new approach to Hope.

Now, when she slides under the covers, I turn and look her right in the eyes. As she tells me all about what my life could be like if I just had the courage to say something, do something, I'm staring into those bottomless, wine-dark eyes. I'm looking for something deeper than words. I need to know if Hope really has my best interests at heart, or if she's just fucking with me.