On Fear: 11/26/2014
Becoming a professional writer scares me. I think that's why I chose education [major] at first. I mean, everyone talks about the uncertainty of the writing industry and how hard it is to make a living and "don't quit your day job." People always need more teachers. Mom and grandma were teachers, too. I was following the family footsteps, you know? But now [English Lit major] I'm being just me in a brand new world and I'm so afraid of failing or going broke and being just another average Millennial story. I'm not afraid of being a terrible writer. I'm afraid of being an average one. Ho-hum, three stars, not worth ranting over but not worth my money either. I'm afraid of being forgotten.
Fear's all wrapped up in the idea of depression, too. I didn't want meds because I was afraid. I put off seeking help because I was terrified of being put on pills. Pills and their stories of shootings and murder and suicide and breaking or going off or whatever. I was scared to death that the stories of school or public shootings being caused by an antidepressant or the disclaimers of "may cause thoughts of suicide" on med commercials would be true. Would be me. Would destroy me. I was scared to death that the path of pills would end with me and a gun.
But now my decision to try meds anyway isn't any different. It's still fear, all fear. But I'm not scared of pills this time -- not as scared, anyway. I'm scared of me. I'm terrified of the idea that I could have another Saturday Night but there won't be another Heather to stop me. I've seen the darkness -- my darkness -- the darkness in me -- and I hate it. I hate it because it could kill me, literally kill me, end my life and there's nothing I can do, not one thing. How am I supposed to fight back when the despair and the suicide is all me? It's all in me and I can't get it out and it won't go away and I can feel it there, just there right now, hiding behind the surface, breathing down my neck, waiting to come back and I don't want to die but how do I cut off my own two hands?
I just need to make it to Christmas or at least my counseling appointment next Tuesday but what if I can't make it?
I don't want to die. What if I can't do it? Won't do it? Don't make it?
Rachel said my writing and maybe this journal can save me. It's all I've got, all that's left till Tuesday.