Being a depressed adult child is tough
Okay, here’s this thought that has a few degrees of scariness, which can vary depending on the mood I’m in. Sometimes it doesn’t seem frightening or even somewhat important at all. The other times it scaries the shit out of me. The thought is: “I cannot (for the love of my life) imagine myself getting old.” That’s it, plain and simple. Like there’s no future in which I can live a life long enough to grow old, and get all the things old people get. Like, grandchildren, a small orchard of my own for some quiet, peaceful life of a good old hag. Like there’s no way I’ll ever be able to even produce children (and therefore we cannot even speak about grandchildren). I just cannot picture myself having even the shittiest and loneliest existence of an old person. There’s no possible future for me at all. There is neither a happy, nor an unhappy option. There are no options whatsoever.
I’m not a millenial, I’m a child of early of nineties, fully adult now. A person who has lots of responsibilities and considers themselves able to deal with all the crap life has prepared for them. But sometimes, just sometimes, I wish I could stop thinking so much.
