I know I shouldn’t. I know some people say worry is a sin. That I’m either not a good Christian, or I need to let go or… whatever it is you tell people when they say they’re unreasonably afraid.
But I am.
I’m afraid every day of the unknown.
I’m afraid that I won’t get a “real” job and I’ll lose my house. I’m afraid that I won’t be able to support my small family. I’m afraid of what would happen to the cats if something did happen to the house. Dot, notsomuch. She’s young. She’s got relatives. She’ll be okay. But I worry about being separated from her and the felines and Bedford Manor. I worry about it all the time.
I worry about car accidents. I’ve been in ten plus hit as a pedestrian. All in the last 27 years. None my fault. But I worry about more. I’m afraid of being injured again. I’m afraid of never being fully healed from past injuries. I’m afraid of being without a car, and I’m afraid now that Dot has a license.
I worry that my past concussions will interfere with my future. That I might someday need assistance to be mobile, or worse: to remember.
I worry about bad things happening to my family. What if they get injured, or worse? What if we’re separated for some reason like moving away, or death? I’m afraid of someday not being able to have coffee with my mom or talk to my brothers on the phone or watch TV with Dot.
I’m afraid that Dot’s chance for a future, a really good future, is lessened because of me. Because I’m an unemployed, single mom and we are a statistic on the poverty threshold. I worry that she’s never really had a chance to succeed, and it’s all my fault for not doing more. I worry that we won’t be able to afford the transfer to a four-year University when the time comes.
I worry that choices I made in the past about people, places, events, and opinions will affect her future.
I’m afraid of always being in debt and never being solvent. Of not being self-sufficient. Of being a burden to those around me and never being able to pay it back, or pay it forward.
I’m worried that I won’t always be able to write well. To share my thoughts, my stories, my inspirations.
And I’m worried that I will.
I’m afraid that I’ll be successful and it will change everything.
I’m afraid that my past will always haunt me. That certain people will try to sabotage me and tell me I’m not good enough. I worry about expending more energy into proving them wrong than doing things right. I’m afraid the wrong people will care and the right ones won’t.
I’m afraid of the freedoms that being a Good Writer means: publication. Payments. Solvency. Recognition. Freedom to move, to travel, to explore. Obligations to work and opportunities to play.
The chance to be balanced. To give my family a future.
To live. To live the life I have planned.
I’m afraid of trying because I’m afraid of failure. But I’m also afraid of never trying.
I worry about saying, “I don’t know what to do,” and being laughed at. I’m afraid of being mocked.
I’m afraid of being alone.
And never being heard.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!