In the history of mankind there is only one emotion that I can think of that is both equally uplifting and equally cruel: hope.
Hope keeps you holding on to bad situations, wishing for things to improve.
Hope wakes you up in the morning, puts your feet on the ground, and makes your eyes stay open, when all you want is the sweet, obliterating, deep sleep of sadness.
Hope keeps you afloat when everything else tells you to give up and sink.
Hope teases a light at the end of the tunnel that may be escape, or it may be the train.
Hope puts one foot in front of the other, when all you want is to turn back.
For me hope can be an especially cruel companion. My vivid imagination allows me to see my dream played out, as if it was already happening. My dream becomes so real, so tangible, that my hope is an after-thought, because the conclusion has already been reached.
I can envision the child in my arms. I can clearly see Connor in mainstream classroom. I look around my home and I see what could be, not what is. And it all fills me with joy.
I am a hopeful person. I can’t help it.
So when life disappoints me, when it falls short of my visions, I feel betrayed by my own heart. My hope pushes me to such heights of belief that when reality steps in I am shocked.
I don’t despair for long though, it’s truly not in my nature.
I see the good, I look for the bright side, and I always have hope.