My heart goes out to you @Daydreamer. I worry about that a lot, everyone says too much. I’m so scared that I will get sick one day and not be able to support myself. It’s reason #999999999 that I don’t want kids. If I had a kid I would want to provide for them.
I’m no where near where I want to be either. I wanted to go to a good, all girl’s school. I was so smart when I was little, so much smarter than I am now. I wrote beautiful poetry which I deleted most of because I didn’t think it was “worthy”. I wish I would have kept it, you know, just for myself. But I was angry and impatient. I had what you were going through even then. I wanted to be the best, to be perfect, I wanted my dreams to come true instantly and I got really mad at anything I did that I deemed “inadequate”. I don’t think I was as hard on others as I was on myself, just like you.
I think the only salvation for people like us is art. I retyped a story that won the nonfiction category for my Podunk college literary magazine. I didn’t particularly like it, I didn’t want to submit it (submitting something was a requirement for the class), and I probably would have never given it a second look. Even as I was rereading it (I had to read part of it out loud for the award thingy. I didn’t remember what I had written and I had to give it a quick once over) I wasn’t impressed and I was under the impression that I had won the “slow turtle race”. I still think that’s true, but as I retyped it I realized that it was the best think I have ever written.
So, what I am saying is: Go into the arts. I don’t think either of us will be successful business people, famous lawyers, or even renounced surgeons (well not without a huge amount of support that is both preparing for and during our careers), but the arts are easy. You can spin yourself into an angry ball of fury because your proportions are off, but once you learn to calm down and embrace things like your wording, your flawless brush strokes, or your growing dexterity on the cello, things get a lot easier. Then you can feel like whoever is supporting you isn’t supporting nothing, they are supporting an artist in the making and eventually are true master. Van Gogh wasn’t appreciated in his own time. If I remember correctly his brother pretty much supported him.
You have an edge over all other artists. Lots of them ruin their brain with drugs to see what you have seen. It sounds odd and stupid (and it is) but they want to suffer because they think it will make them better artists. And it does. The more you suffer, the harder your life it, often shows in your work. The pain you express through the clarinet even when learning to play Twinkle Twinkle Little Star becomes real. When one trumpet player was asked how he put so much expression in his solo (I don’t remember what it was about, but it was supposed to be sad) he said he immersed himself in the feelings he had when his wife was dying. To quote the penguin from Happy Feet (a movie about a dancing penguin. It’s kinda inspirational in a childish way. I like the songs).
“Happy feelings, sad feelings, so many wonderful feelings”
I know it doesn’t feel like that to you, it doesn’t feel like that to me either, but other people seem to love it. Edgar Allen Poe suffered immensely with depression, but his work contributed to the welfare of others. You read “The Raven” and you look at trees differently. You see everything with new eyes. I guess that’s what people like. Through listening to music, looking at painting and sculpture, reading, ect. they borrow our eyes for a moment and they marvel at our view, but only because they only catch a glimpse.