My name is Hope

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How amazing it would be to wake up one day and not be sick. Mentally I'm messed up, physically I'm tired, emotionally I'm numb and spiritually I'm drained. I don't want to feel like this anymore. I don't want to feel sad, angry or hurt. Most of all I don't want to feel hopeless.
I find it ironic that 17 years ago my parents named me Hope. I don't know what it's like; to be hopeful I mean.
Hope; to trust in, wait for, look for or desire something or someone; or to expect something beneficial in the future.

I am the daughter of Michael and Lydia Evans. From the little I remember they were good Christian parents who loved me  like no other. Unfortunately they had trouble conceiving a baby. Miraculously, after 10 years of marriage and 7 years of failed pregnancies, they were blessed with a healthy baby girl. And they named her Hope Naveah Miracle Evans.
12 years ago, when I was 5, three men broke into my parents house. My mother locked me in my parents closet so that the men would not get to me. The last thing my mother said to me was. "Don't be afraid baby. Be brave like David. God will take care of us. Mummy and daddy loves you." Then she locked the door. A few seconds after all I could hear was the helpless screams of my parents and a knife piercing their flesh. I fell asleep in the closet to the cries of my parents. I was found the next morning by police officers. The female officer that brought me out of the closet blocked my eyes but I saw it all anyway. Blood. The sheets, floor, walls, it was everywhere. And of course my parents. Their bodies layed  lifeless next to each other, hands tied. I'd never forget that night. The night all hope was lost.

I am Hope. I suffer with PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder) and severe anxiety.

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