A New Home, The Real Me

I feel like everything here, in Northern California, is who I was. Everything. And I hate who I was…

But the Pacific Northwest…somewhere new—I could finally be who I am. Or at least discover who I am.

But seven years ago, the ability to dream was stolen from me. I mean I dream. I hope. But not in the way the rest of America does. It is just this novel idea, this…picture that pops into my head, but one I highly doubt will ever come true. The future seems…well, actually, quite often hopeless.

I just can’t shake who I was here. I can’t move on, move forward. I’m being held back. I’m stuck. Stagnant. Frozen. Lost. Who I want to be is so imprisoned, so buried. So lost. I’m so afraid that if I never make it out of here, I will never get to be who I am. And I want so desperately to be who I am, and to never be who I was ever again.