The small, dark moments cry out to me. What if he doesn't love me? What if no one loves me? What if no one has ever loved me? And I drown the sorrows in champagne and denial. Text another person. Take another pill. Start another self-help mission.
It's simultaneously what I always envisioned adulthood would be like, and not at all what I imagined. Equal parts freedom and sorrow. I have two clear memories from my childhood: a memory where I reassure myself that my adulthood would come with the opportunity to do whatever the fuck I wanted, and a memory where I realize that my own adulthood would be punctuated with profound, inescapable sadness like my father's.
Twenty-seven and I still fantasize about driving my car into the center divide. They tell me it gets better.