I opened up my diary from before I was eight years old. It had a page for you to list your wishes. I suppose these were supposed to be material things, gifts you wanted for your birthday or Christmas. Under wishes, I had written I wish to be good. My mother engrained in me over and over that I was bad and not a good person. My wish was so simple, I wished to do and be good. Mostly, in her eyes because I had been told by outsiders that I was such a good child, so well behaved. I never did anything out of line or rebelled once. I would throw tantrums, but that was usually because she asked for the impossible sometimes. Another page was entitled hopes and dreams. My hope was simple. It was that my mum and sister would love me. I hoped one day to be good enough for them. To be loved by them. I still do not know whether I have achieved that. They see me as a burden. A depressed mess. A child, who is no longer a child and cannot take care of themselves as an adult. Honestly, I do a pretty incredible job considering. I may be emotionally stunted, but I am responsible and I live, taking each moment as it comes and for what it is.
It is crazy how my wishes, hopes and dreams have not changed after all this time despite being so profoundly simple.