The doubters are just dreamers with broken hearts.

-Atticus-

When I was five years old, all I ever wanted to do was fly.

I was young. Too young. And incredibly naive.

I remember shivering at night, terrified of the dark, and the spiders that carelessly spun their webs in my mother's attic. For days on end she'd lock me up there, no food, no water, and certainly no blanket.

Terrified, alone, and shouldering more weight than a five year old should ever have to, all I'd had were dreams.

I'd climb up on the dusty abandoned furniture, face pressed to the only window in the room so that I could view the world below. I would take the image of the open skies into my mind's eye, and then I'd close my lids, and pretend I was a bird.

My cheek would almost always come away from that window covered in dust and grime, an offense worthy of the metal end of my stepfather's belt.

At five years old, I became a mother.

Not in the literal sense, but I became responsible for my younger siblings and their well-being. Mother would leave us alone in that silent house for days, as if she'd forgotten that we ever existed. My brother was still in diapers, and my sister was only two a year younger than me.

But I loved my siblings, even if mother did not.

I was only five, but I took care of them as best I could. I changed my brother's diapers, and comforted them at the expense of my own tears. I was older, stronger. It was my duty.

Even if I didn't know at the time that it shouldn't have had to be.

I clearly remember the pain in my own stomach, so hungry that I wanted to cry. But there was never very much food in the house

Maybe a couple of slices of bread, and a half eaten jar of peanut butter.

So I split the food between my precious siblings, and kept none for myself.

It was worth it, if only I could make them happy.

Later, mother would come home with my stepfather, bags full of leftovers from restaurants that I'd never been to. In my desperation, I'd sneak into the fridge and gorge myself on the scraps from their plates.

Another worthy offense.

Another beating.

But I was just so very hungry.

At five years old I took to the written word as fiercely as mother did her drugs.

I fell in love with stories of dragons and elves, princesses and their knights on shining steeds. When I was reading, the real world melted away, and nothing hurt quite as bad anymore.

Not even the way that my stepfather touched me when mother left us all alone.

I wasn't me anymore, but someone else. I'd look through the eyes of the characters of my favorite stories, and dream that someday, I'd be like them.

I'd conquer injustice, and have epic adventures surrounded by friends and loved ones. People willing to die for me.

People who wanted to keep me safe.

But reality only ever became more cruel.

How could I fight injustice when I couldn't even defend myself against it?

So I began to develop a shell, a wall. If no one could see my pain, then maybe it didn't exist.

If I could seal myself away between the pages of a book, then maybe I could make reality go away. I would remain with my favorite characters in a land of magic, of wonder. A land where anything could happen.

A land where even a child like me could be loved.

When I was five years old, my stepfather stole from me what little innocence I had left.

Mother took us all to the lake, and for the first time that I can remember, I was allowed to swim and have fun. It was as if every dream I'd ever had came true.

I remember clearly the way mother had smiled, and how kind she'd seemed to me that night.

Had I finally been good enough to deserve her love?

But as the night fell upon us, she grew more and more irritable. Finally, she left my brother and I behind, taking my sister with her. She said she was going to get snacks, but she never came back.

My stepfather left his son in that hideous fold-up pack and play, and soiled my body under the open sky.

And when he packed my brother and I into his tiny rundown truck, he acted as if nothing had ever happened at all.

But I was broken inside. Tainted by what he'd done.

Even at five years old, I'd known that what he did to me was not right.

He drove us to a friends house. Low and behold, my mother was already there.

When I tried to tell my mother what he had done to me, she slapped me so hard that my ear bled.

But my aunt heard it all, and my stepfather faced prison in the end.

It was all my fault, mother had said. I should have said no.

One minute I'd seduced him in her mind, and in the next, I was lying. She clearly couldn't make up her mind, but because of that I realized one final, heartbreaking thing.

Mommy would never love me.

No matter how hard I tried, no matter how diligently I scrubbed. No matter how helpful I was, or how well I behaved.

No matter how much I loved her, and no matter how much I longed for her to love me in return.

She would never, ever love me.

At five years old I lost all faith in humanity.

And yet I still continued to dream.

I still buried my nose in book after book, and dreamed of a better future.

Fairytales, in particular, were my favorite. In the tales from the Brother's Grimm, the villains always received the painful consequences of their actions.

And I wanted them to hurt the way they hurt me so badly.

I would close my eyes and envision a world in which my mother and stepfather would suffer, and I'd find a family to love me and shower me with all the affection that I so desperately craved.

So when my stepfather went to prison, and my mother sold me to drug dealers, I wasn't in the least afraid.

I wasn't sad. Not even when she told me that she couldn't stand to look at my face.

If anything, I was overjoyed.

T

hey were an elderly couple.

Unable to have children of their own, they spoiled me rotten. For a time, I had the life of a fairy tale princess. For a time, I was loved, cherished, and treasured.

I found myself owning my own room, and rows after rows of dolls and dresses.

I even played the tambourine in church, surrounded by adults who adored me and showered me with praise.

For the first time in my life that I could recall, I was happy.

For the first time in my life, I belonged.

I even received my first, and last, birthday party.

There was a Cinderella themed cake, and friends of my new father's showed up with gifts and children of their own.

I felt normal. I felt safe. I felt whole.

On my sixth birthday, I finally became part of a family.

But life is cruel.

I should have known that already. But it didn't make my heart break any less when daddy's friends came to visit a few weeks later with guns in their hands and angry voices in their throats.

My world crumbled once more when one of the very men who brought me gifts upon my birthday lifted a gun to my head. I can still remember to this day the words that he spoke and the way that I clenched at the skirt of the woman I'd come to consider my mother.

Get her out of here, or I'll shoot.

I ended up in foster care the very next day.

Nothing would ever be the same again.

I spent all my time reading, daydreaming, and filled with absolute rage.

No one understood.

The adults around me labelled me a troublemaker, and I was constantly in trouble. I'd tried so hard to be a good girl, for so very long, but I refused to be a good girl anymore. I did not need their love, nor did I have any desire to earn it.

But every night I would seal a wish within my heart for a real mommy and daddy. A real family, who could love someone even as terrible as me.

Despite my instinctual anger at the world around me, I'd felt as if everything was my fault. Why couldn't my mother love me? What was wrong with me?

I saw how deeply other parent's loved their children. And I wanted that so desperately for myself, no matter how much I tried to deny it.

But my foster parents always made it exceptionally clear that I was not a part of their family.

And the kids at school were always quick to remind me that I was not a part of anyone's family. Not even my own.

My childhood was hell on earth.

Not that the years to follow were very much better.

As a teenager, I shunned the company of others. I'd long since figured out that it wasn't my fault, despite the occasional pangs of guilt that I still felt. But all of the rage, the anger, had burned itself out of me. All that as left was a profound distrust of human beings. I'd seen it time and time again.

If I allowed anyone close, they'd simply stab me in the back and abandon me in the end.

I was world-weary, and numb.

And for a time, I preferred things that way.

I found myself reading every book I could get my hands on, and spent nearly every free second within the library's hallowed halls. I was lonely only when my nose was not crammed inside of a book.

I didn't allow myself to feel lonely very often.

I'd always loved to sing and create.

For as long as I can remember.

As a teenager I found solace in music when my books were not enough. And when I was too sorrowful to utter a single note, I would instead turn to writing.

I loved the written word so much, that writing was just as good as reading. And I quickly discovered how much I enjoyed it.

I lost myself to dreams of writing and singing, dreams of earning the love of thousands, no, millions with my talent. For the first time in my life, I finally felt like I was good at something.

I wanted to sing, to write. I wanted to be a shining star that could shed the painful rejection of my youth.

I'd long since learned that wanting is dangerous. But I wanted it with a passion so fiercely, that no amount of cold logic could shake me lose from those dreams.

In a twisted sort of way, those dreams became my life-vest, the one thing that kept me afloat despite the horrors I faced at home, and in my head.

I cling to them for dear life.

I never stopped dreaming.

Not even when reality crumbled in around me.

When I was eighteen, I was thrust into the world with no knowledge of it.

The world was big, and scary, and my dreams turned to dust in my mouth as I realized that I didn't know what to do.

Be realistic.

They told me.

You'll never succeed.

And in my fear, I believed them.

Sadly, sometimes I still do.

At nineteen years old, I nearly killed myself.

I hadn't attempted suicide since I was ten, having tried three times then only to fail.

But I was lost, and floundering.

I was not good enough.

And I never would be.

I didn't have direction, and whatever drive I might have possessed was blocked by fear. My whole life has been dictated by fear.

Fear of loss, fear of pain. Fear of rejection, and fear of happiness.

So I turned inward, and only acknowledged my dreams when my eyes were closed.

It felt like I was dying inside.

But I was so terribly afraid of wanting anything.

Because deep down I knew, that everything I want gets ripped away from me.

And every time I feel as if I might finally be allowed happiness, tragedy is merely waiting in the wings.

I spent many dark year's like that. Hollow, and numb.

I wandered the streets, not even caring what happened to me. If I died, I died. The world would not mourn my loss.

But maybe I would finally be free of that black cloud that I just couldn't shake.

I made many stupid, stupid choices. Choices that still affect me to this day.

But the best choice I ever made, was when I married the man who made me want.

He loved me with such a deep and unconditional love, that he even accepted my daughter as his own child. And to this day he maintains that she is his child.

For a while, things were amazing. I'd never been so happy in my life!

It felt as if I had finally found the place where I belonged, as if my knight in shining armor had finally arrived.

We were too poor to afford a proper wedding, and there was no honeymoon.

But I didn't need any of that.

It was enough that he loved me.

Our first few months together were absolute bliss, though secretly I worried that he might still change his mind.

But he remained kind, and patient with me, spoiled me rotten and encouraged me to try new things. He gave me the freedom to be me, crazy, messed up me. And he loved me anyway.

Little by little I began to hope again.

And just like that, the dreams returned.

And just when I began to believe that it was okay for me to be happy after all, my world fell apart once more. And all my dreams turned to ash.

One second I was happily texting my husband of not even a year, and the next, the authorities were knocking on my door to tell me that he would never be allowed to come home again.

He was imprisoned, locked up to await a trial for a crime that he did not commit for six months. And I was not allowed to speak to him.

"For my benefit."

But they were wrong, he was innocent, and in the end, they could not keep him.

He finally came home to me, a full six months after that trial, but the damage was already done.

I simply couldn't allow myself to be happy ever again.

Because I couldn't bear to lose anything anymore.

So now, here I sit, crying my eyes out over a dream that I can never have.

I live in poverty, but I am rich in love. I have two children, two beautiful little girls whom I love with all my heart. I have a wonderful husband, who's withstood hell and back just to hold my goddamned hand.

Who could ask for more?

I should be happy! I finally have my family!

But my dreamer's heart longs for more.

I long for a mother and a father, for the childhood that was robbed from me. I long for bedtime kisses and cuddles, and a mother's homemade cooking. I still can't wrap my mind around the fact that my mother does not love me, and to this day, it still stings.

My heart aches for things that I can never have.

I long to do great things, things that I will be remembered by. I want to sing, and write, and leave a legacy. I want to experience joy, and share that joy with others.

I want to live.

But instead I merely exist.

I long for a day when, head held high, I can truly believe that I am worthy.

That I am good enough.

I long to spread my wings, and fly.

But I am older now, and cynical.

And sometimes, I feel as if that little girl never actually left me at all.

She's still inside, peering out at the world around me and weeping for the things that she will never experience.

At times, I curse my dreamer's soul.

Because I feel as if I were born a bird without wings.

I long to fly, to soar. To rise over the troubles of my past, and the insecurities so deeply ingrained within me.

I long to share my talents with the world, and be able to look back and claim that I did it.

That I rose above.

But my wings are missing, and I can't help but find myself lacking.

And even still, when there is no capability for hope within me, I dream.

But that...

That is the dreamer's curse.

No matter how bitter and bruised my heart is, it continues to dream, and long for the unattainable. My very nature taunts me, hounds me every step that I take.

I put on a cheerful facade, and talk about all the things that I plan to do when my dreams become true. But I am older now, and I don't believe in them anymore.

So why must I still dream?

N.N.C