Is it too early to say I’m having a quarter-life crisis? Or is it just my anxiety getting the best of me? Whatever. It’s depressing.
Last year, when I celebrated my 21st birthday, the thing that bugged me most was the fact that I was going to be 22 next.
And what. The. Actual. Fuck.
I spent the entire year dreading the days leading to my 22nd birthday.
I mean, 21 was OK. Still young, only a bit older than an actual teenager.
I was fresh as a fresh grad, with the exception of a few wrinkles and pimples here and there, all thanks to the sleepless nights of fighting depression.
Now, I’m 22.
I’m still young, I know, if we’re talking about experience in the corporate jungle or life in general.
Yet I feel old, so old.
I feel like I’m a 54-year-old spinster trapped in the body of a 22-year-old dreamer.
Perhaps it’s the depression that’s talking.
“What, you’re 22? You’re getting old, and you’re dying soon.”
Or maybe it’s the responsibilities I carry on my shoulders.
I mean, I’ve always felt old—I’m the eldest. I’ve always been the enabler, the leader. I’ve always guided my siblings, my peers, my partner, my colleagues. Heck, I even parented my parents.
I’ve always led the pack, even though I’m usually the youngest wolf.
And yet I’ve always felt old.
I can’t believe I’m 22.
I can’t believe I’m getting older and older each day. It bugs me every night. I can’t believe it’s been 22 years.
I spent two decades acting as an adult, as THE adult, because I always felt the need to act like one.
Now, all I want to do is raise my middle finger to Adulting.
My youth is slipping through my fingers no matter how hard I try to save it. I can’t save it. I want to save it.
I don’t want to get old.
I remember Jeremiah de Saint-Amour from Love in the Time of Cholera, who took his own life before death took its toll. All because he didn’t want to grow old.
And like him, I don’t want to grow old. Just like him…