Life and death short story 2

I am eighteen. I am not longer a child and now have to have responsibilities. Responsibilities I have not thought of yet and will not until the last minute. One advantage that should be the case when turning into an adult is being treated with more respect. I remember in school, the teachers used to make me feel worthless, they used to scream at me when I showed emotion and I never knew the reasoning behind it. They expected me to always wear the puppet strings but I never had them attached in the first place. No one could control me. Everyone has emotions and expressions, so why belittle that? Since then, I am programmed to believe that crying is a sign of weakness, a sign of needing help or a sign that I just can’t cope anymore. Now I am eighteen, does this change? Does a number and reaching adulthood really make a difference in this judgmental world?  So far I have yet to see any difference. People don’t care that I’m older, wiser or even a bit prettier. I don’t feel any different now I am eighteen. I can drink. Yes. I have control of my life. Yes. But who wants to wish their childhood away? I miss not worrying about everything.  I worry to the point where I have to stop myself from ringing all my loved ones if I don’t get a reply, or if they are late home. My father was the same. It’s funny how the psychological attributes can be passed along the family chain. I miss the support of my family and relying on someone. Now I just feel alone.  Eighteen should be the age where I grow up and finally know what I am doing. But I don’t. There is too much pressure on the future when all I want to do is go back to the past and relive some of the moments that I took for granted. Such as, being honest when a relationship wasn’t working, or trying too hard to be what someone else wants and in the process losing myself. There is so much more to learn at eighteen, nineteen and even twenty. Maybe then I will find the answers to the unanswered questions.