I'm afraid.
I'm afraid that, at some point, I will get so overwhelmed that my fortitude breaks, and, in a fit of irrationality, I'll try to hurt myself (or others)... I'm also afraid that the damage will end up being irreparable.
This may already have happened, financially.
I'm afraid of the medications that are supposed to cure that fear. Not that they'll fail - rather that they'll succeed too well. That, instead of trying to fix some or all of the underlying difficulties, they will rather turn me into a euphoric zombie, blindly blotting out the pain.
I'm afraid of change, of walking through some tribulations to reach better plateaus, of asking for help and of sacrifice. I want to be better employed, to reduce my debts, to curb my spending.
...and I want to learn again. Could I be a doctor? An artist? A teacher?
...and I want to love again.
Yet, I'm afraid this cruel world has caged me in to this lower class hell, and melted away the key. I'm afraid that I've been thrown away and burned up, stigmatized as a bipolar alcoholic, with no useful skills and no exploitable assets.
I'm afraid that I've been babbling so long, in my own private dementia, that everyone who had cared about me, cares no more. "Just leave him to his rants..."
Or, maybe they're scared. That secrets whispered in the dark will be broadcast far and wide in the light? (I ask, though, "have I said much about you? do you really take me for a gossip?")
I'm afraid of my health deteriorating, with no one around to soothe the pains.
...and I'm still afraid that life is coming to an end, powered forward by all those greedy small men.
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