I’m afraid. All this week I have felt fear, clawing its way through my being, sharpening my words and heightening my emotions.

And that makes sense.

My life is currently rather scary.

I am walking around with unpredictable, debilitating symptoms. They have popped up in class, rendering me unable to communicate, on walks, weakening my limbs, and at night, preventing me from sleep.

Not only are the symptoms themselves scary, but they are steadily becoming more frequent visitors. Some are settling in. I am experiencing greater fatigue and pain on a daily basis, and regular difficulty in vision and comprehension.

My father excitedly spoke to me of a segment of Canadian History and I could not understand whatever it is he said.

And that’s terrifying.

But the thing is, I’ve been here before. I’ve experienced unknown, worsening symptoms. I’ve floated through the medical system with tentative labels, some dismissive, others serious. I knew it was likely to happen again.

Yet I am experiencing an edge of desperation in my fear. I feel as though there is something I should be doing, be changing, to adjust to my current situation. I feel an overwhelming urge for action.

And that doesn’t quite fit.

Of course, I want to investigate what is happening in my body. But I, personally, do not have that ability. I am waiting on appointments and tests and, even then, there is a strong possibility that there won’t be an answer.

I know that. What’s more, I have lived that. I have learned to accept that. Or at least to work through my fears.

When I talk to family and friends, communicating that I feel the need for action, their words turn baffled.

What is there to do, besides wait and see? Besides going day by day?

And they’re right, of course. There is nothing to do. I am in the earliest of stages, with no information or idea of what this new development might turn out to be.

They’re right, yet I have found myself increasingly dissatisfied with their responses, bordering on anger.

I don't want to wait and see. I am scared now.

I feel new fear, because I have something new to lose.

I have just begun to construct a life for myself. A life with school, volunteering, and work.

I have just begun to make plans for the future.

And I have made commitments. Commitments for tomorrow and the next day and the day after.

I do not feel desperate because I fear my medical situation.

I feel desperate because I fear for my life.

I fear for my ability to live the life I have constructed.

I fear that my commitments will turn from something exciting and fulfilling, to something draining, causing resentment.

I fear that I will waste valuable time, trying to force my plans to fruition.

I fear that I am, and will continue to be, incapable of independence.

And those are all valid fears. It makes sense to want to avoid them. It makes sense to want to be proactive, to ensure that my life is the most fulfilling that it can be.

But identifying them is rather reassuring. Because, in the midst of all of this complexity and abnormality, there is something completely ordinary.

I am in my 20s, and I am overwhelmed.

I am overwhelmed by thoughts of the future.

I do not know what I want or what is best for me.

I am scared of making the wrong decisions.

I am panicking.

Thoughts of education, finances, career, and family crowd my mind.

I am in my 20s and, while my packaging may be different, my hopes and fears are not.

They are typical.

They are normal.

I am normal.