Will you read me a bedtime story?

Will you share with me all the pains of the world I gratefully call my future?

Will you explain to me all the hurt and injustice that plagues the beautiful creatures of the earth?

Will you share with me the reason why some call pain strength?

Will you hold my hand with every step I take?

Will you let me fly when I ask you to trust me?

Will you tell me why life passes by?

Will you remind me of the good days?

Will you forget about the bad days?

Will you let me dream while I'm awake?

Can you share that story with me?

When I awake, will you explain to me how unfair it is that we live this way? And it is our fault, or is it our choice?

Will you ever tell me the bedtime story?

I don't get it, and I'm not sure if I want to. I'm so closed, I can't even see the door. I want to be that kid lying in bed, so enticed by all the fantasies and the wonder of mystical valleys and the adventures that the brave have experienced. And when you finish, turn off the lights, and I will fall asleep in awe of the story for I believe it is true and morally real. I will hate the day I grow old and realize those 4 minutes were all a lie, when my enchanted mind, just like that, falls into the trap of disillusionment. Why not tell me the truth: life is made of five percent freedom, and the rest is spent making others satisfied while my silence enables the mob to bury me in dark, purposeless noise. Will you ever tell me how to take the cap off the bottle where I store all my anger and my confusion? Will you ever give me the number to call the one person that may understand me? Will you tell me, during the story, how many tears I will cry? How many anxiety attacks I will suffer? How many times I will fall? How many battles I will fight? How many I will have to suffer through and lose? Will you tell me that my opinion really doesn't matter? Will you tell me when to be strong? Will you tell me when I will need love the most? Will you make a timeline of my self destruction so I can warn the crowd ahead of time? Will you tell me the reality of life and the many ice packs I'm going to need for the bruises? Can you please tell me how many band aids I will need to buy?

Will you tell me?

Please tell me?

As I lay here now, listening to the stories of fearlessness and compassion of the ones that came before me, snuggled in my happy days before the despair and moments of mass destruction, will you share with me the guidelines for recovery? I no longer want to hear the happy ending stories where everyone finds peace and love at the end; I want to hear the story where struggle is real, but most importantly, I want to the story of life... real life--no make believe.

My imagination is enticed, but I have a stomach for reality that has never been fed that hopes to be filled with transparency of the knowledge of recovery.

I will not be hurt

I will not be discouraged

But prepare me for the day when I can look back on those life moments and when I can say I have the answer.

So please, I beg you, read me the Perfect Bed Time Story.