Speaking of fear, my greatest one is probably my own future. I may have mentioned this sometime in a previous entry, but ADHD yada yada yada anxiety blah blah blah social phobia, et cetera.
I’m sixteen now (my birthday was this month), and that means I’m one year closer to being old enough to take care of myself, by society’s standards. However, as I’ve explained, I’m NOT ready to take care of myself, and I know for a fact that I never will be. The idea that my parents will die one day, leaving me and my siblings all alone scares the hell out of me. I don’t want to die alone on some sidewalk or on a bench or something, out in the cold or heat of the outside world.
But as time moves on, the reality that I’ll starve or die of thirst out in the world in just a few years is making it hard for me to keep myself calm. I keep trying to convince myself that my death is inevitable either way, and that I should just accept that I won’t live very long past eighteen. But the fear and horror of the truth is something that I can’t just wish away. I’m going to die soon, alone and in horrible pain.
The thought makes me feel sick, and I feel like crying. I don’t want to grow up anymore. I don’t care if I have to live under my parent’s thumbs until the day I die, I just don’t want to be alone with no one to take care of me.
If I could, I’d like to become a light novel author. But I’m not the least bit confident in my writing abilities, so I’m not confident I could make it in the industry. However, if it’s somehow possible, I’d like to make my money writing stories that I enjoy. That’s literally my only hope of survival, to put it in layman’s terms. If I can somehow make money off of doing something like that, I can support my family and myself, and everyone can be happy.
Yeah, fat chance.
Okay, I think I’ve calmed down a bit. Time is running out for me, a fact that hasn’t hit me until now. Two more years and then I’m on my own. Two more years and then I’m dead. No big deal…