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I'm eighteen and I have no clue what or where I am to go from here.
At a young age I had to grow up. I didn't have an actual childhood. Instead of playing barbies with friends, I worried if you were okay.
I worried if you were being abused; I worried if you were sick; I worried if you were dying.
I grew up fearing every second— I wondered if [you] were okay. I wondered if it was going to be the last time I talked to you or the last time I saw you. I wondered if this was it, that you were going to die.
I hate that all I have done, and continue to do is worry about you. You are my everything; yet you are so toxic.
I need to leave, I need to escape, but it will not happen. My fear controls me, it keeps me bounded to you.
I know it's not your fault. You didn't ask for the illness and you didn't ask for me to become so obsessed with the fear of losing you to it.
But I wish I could just be my own person. I wish I didn't have to worry. I wish I had normal problems.
I wish I could just . . .
