I have irrational fears.
I am terrified of clowns, so much so that I will begin to shake and lose my breath when one is near me. My parents tell me I’ve been scared of clowns since I was about three-years-old. A ceramic lamp in my older brother’s room seems to have been the cause.
The very thought of snakes make me cringe. I am constantly worried that I will arrive home to find one slithering out of my toilet.
I hate hospitals. I’m scared of what happens inside them. More than once, I’ve panicked while visiting relatives. I begin to cry, uncontrollably. It becomes hard to breathe. And then I can’t escape fast enough. This doesn’t always happen, but it’s happened enough for me to want to avoid hospitals. My grandfather died in a hospital. I was six. I loved him. The doctor told us he passed away. I didn’t know what that meant until my father took me into his room and asked if I had anything I wanted to tell him. I shook my head. I stayed silent. I didn’t understand death then.
I fear that I won’t be able to conceive children. I fear this because I have a disorder called Polycystic Ovary Syndrome (PCOS). It stops me from being able to menstruate on my own, among many other smaller symptoms including acne, oily skin, and mood swings. Most women who suffer from PCOS are still able to conceive. My fear is irrational.
More than not being able to conceive children, I’m scared of having a miscarriage. I’m strong in many ways, but am not strong enough to deal with such a loss. My desire to be a mother is too great. This would ruin me.
I worry that I will never succeed. That I’m not as great of a writer as I have led myself to believe for so many years. That I will never write a novel and, even if I do, no one will want to read it. I fear that I will never be financially stable as a writer. That, eventually, I will have to tuck my tail between my legs and go back to the type of job that eats at my soul. The kind that will give me stability, but make me so unhappy that I’ll no longer be able to recognize myself in the mirror.
I fear, as many do, death. I think about death often. My own death. My loved ones dying. I fear not being able to say goodbye. I wonder what it would be like to get sick at a young age and know that I’m not going to make it. I fear dying before I’m ready.
I fear that losing any one of my best friends would be something I wouldn’t be able to recover from. That a piece of me would die with them and moving on would be just too hard.
I fear losing my parents before I’m ready. I fear losing one parent will be too hard for my family. I’m not sure what would happen to my siblings and me if we were left on our own — I fear our relationships would crumble and I would lose them too. I also fear losing my brothers before I am able to build the kind of relationship with them I have always longed for. Before I can get them to love me the way I always hoped they would.
I am utterly terrified of the very thought of someday not having my mom around. She’s the single best thing in my life.
I fear being alone. That when it’s all said and done I’ve somehow alienated everyone close to me. I’m scared that I may be unlovable. That my many quirks and neuroses will drive people away. That one day I’ll look around and I’ll have no one to share my fears with.
Rosemina is a writer from Toronto, Ontario. She is a lover of music, bad TV shows and all things pop culture. You can read more of her musings by following her on Twitter @RoseminaN.