One hundred years from now, what would they diagnose me with from a mental health standpoint?

I’m well aware that one hundred years in the past I would either be silent about the inner workings of my brain, or be in an asylum.

But, one hundred years in the future… Will we be advanced enough to see that what we need is environmental change? Or will there be a lobotomy in pill form?

Will my descendants be a free and fed people of joy? Or more cog-like than we are today?

I wonder all this, while also believing that mental health is so fluid that a permanent diagnosis is shit.

I wonder all this while an overwhelming sense of both apathy and hopelessness constantly creep behind my every thought.

I wonder all this while taking my Lexapro and going through the motions because I have wonderful little humans counting on me.

I wonder if those little humans know how incredibly happy I am they exist, and how incredibly sorry I am that I brought them to a broken world.

Now I’m rambling.

This blog post today is about curiosity for the future of mental health, because the current understanding of it is bullshit.

If you’re taking the time to read this, I’m sorry. Also, if you’re taking the time to read this, I wish you nothing but laughter and joy and love and “good” mental health- whatever that may be.

I’ll be dead one hundred years from now, but I hope joy isn’t.