In the future I want to love and be loved. I want to marry and grow old with her. I don’t want to fear my heart being decimated. I want someone to let me hold them all night and forgive me if I snore or talk in my sleep. I want to be more comfortable with her than I am in my own skin. I want to trade stories about all our scars and memorize every freckle. I want to be accepted for all my mood swings, negative qualities, and weird quirks. I want to lay in her lap and look up at her while she strokes my hair. I want to learn about her culture. I want to hold her hand in public and not care if other people are looking. I want to try hard to be all that she deserves. I want to be close to her parents. I want to live next door to my best friend and her family. I want to have a cute puppy or two running around the house. I want to run away with her and raise children. I would promise to do better than my parents. I want to teach our kids all about life, acceptance, their bodies, old music, and more. I want to play pretend with them and build forts with blankets. I want to encourage healthy eating and exercise, but teach them to love their body. I want them to learn everything I know and more. I want them to speak multiple languages and feel proud of that. I want to send them to good schools and give them the best education. I want to take them on vacations to see the world. I want to let them decide their own religion. I want to talk to them and guide them through their hardships. I don’t want our kids to get picked on because of me. I want to shield them from hate from teachers and the school children that pick on people. I don’t want them to know what mommy used to do when she got sad, stressed, or angry. I don’t want them to ask why my body has so many straight line scars. I don’t want them to ask where their grandparents or aunt and uncle are. I don’t want them to have my genes. I don’t want them to ever feel the way I have. I don’t want to feel like that ever again. But then I wonder if this is all just wishful thinking. Doubt floods my mind and washes away these thoughts. I drown out my dreams and I hear the internal voice speak again, saying nobody will love me and that I’m stupid for having hope. It’s another struggle with reality, but in the back of my mind this fantasy scenario plays and continues to elaborate and gives me something to live for. But maybe they are just dreams.