I woke up with every intention to live. Live like I did when I was four. When I ran into so many rocks that my toe nails never regained a normal shape. I woke up ready to barrel forward. I was going to become and do everything I intended to be when I was eleven and simple. I woke up with the knowledge that I would live, and that I would die much sooner than I was meant to.

My hands turned blue when I didn’t eat. It’s a product of my genetics. My grandma’s hands turned blue when she was cold. My moms never did. She was only cold like me for a year, but I know it hurt her beyond what can be healed. I watch her cry when she remembers that time, how badly she was run over by so many people she was supposed to trust. She never let anything slip out in words. She never called herself fat in a way that demeaned her. She never took on crazy diets or let me see her pinching her waist in the mirror. I could see it behind her eyes though, and I could see it behind mine.

If she could never fix that damage, what chance did I have? Cold for three years, broken for more. I was given so much. We had enough money that I could always have what I needed and usually what I wanted. We were white as possible and I had a good brain for all the things a kid needs a brain for. If I broke living so well with so much opportunity, how could I be fixed?

I let myself fade as my weight swung back and forth. I stopped caring how many pills I took, as long as they drained me of everything inside. I pretended it was my last night alive before I fell asleep, just to regain the desire to live another day. When I woke up I was ready to live, but never to touch. Cracked boats keep floating, but I was so afraid that if I tried to move my hull would break in two. I was afraid of drowning and couldn’t grasp that falling into the water doesn’t mean you’ll never emerge

I woke up with no intention to be steady, or to find memories that would carry my life somewhere meaningful. I woke up to feel like I was four again, with no fears, no intentions, only the blind emotions of a moment. When I was four I didn’t have to process anything I didn’t want, it was just the world and I and I would forget all of it soon.

It was a good way to live, when I was four, but there’s a reason people don’t live that way when they’re grown. I was meant to develop connections and compassion and instead I was too afraid of being hurt, of ruining what I found to be broken.

I have realized though, since I started to get warm, that it’s better to open up a stopped clock and tinker with it than let it be stopped forever. You may break the clock beyond repair in doing so, but how is that any worse than always being stopped? And, if you tinker longer it’s likely you’ll get the clock to work again. Maybe my second hand is still slow, and my hours never move, but at least I am telling time rather than watching it.

I wake up with every intention to be alive. Live like I can now, and live for as long as I can.