Dear Reader, 

New Year's is always a difficult holiday. On the one hand, it’s the biggest party of the year and on the other, it paralyzes you with a depression wholly unique to this time of year. My routine is as follows:

I go to my best friend’s house and we struggle through her family party together—now that we’re a bit older I see the appeals of such a party much more clearly;). Then, the next day I isolate myself in my room, overcome by extreme boredom but also loathing the idea of seeing or talking to anyone else. I take this time to scrutinize myself and the year I just had. I’m always very pessimistic. I love to look back on my collection of old journals to show myself that I’ve essentially been feeling the same three emotions since I was 16. 

This year, however, was slightly different... Instead of writing my usual, melodramatic entries on my eternal loneliness, fear of vulnerability, and desperation for deep connection(all the classics), I find myself writing about my future career, my intellect, and my ambition. For the past few months, I’ve been overwhelmed with feelings of inferiority—in the realms of work ethic, intelligence, creativity, and pretty much any other characteristic that is required of someone looking to be successful as a writer.

I feel as though none of my ideas are my own, and any that are…suck. Nothing I say or do inspires me or, at least, makes me believe for a moment that I’ve made the right choice in pursuing writing. My friends, who are not in creative fields, tell me I’m talented and that they love to read the things I create, but I have trouble accepting these compliments because when I’m in these fits of self-depreciation I don’t consider them adequate judges on the quality of my work. I compare myself to award-winning authors like Joan Didion and Annie Ernaux—I mean, why would I even do that? I know that these feelings are irrational and that I’m way too hard on myself, but when I try to bring myself back to Earth, I see what my peers are accomplishing and it sends me spiraling all over again. Even with the knowledge that many of these peers feel the same way as me, I still force myself to feel isolated and like a failure. 

These feelings are specifically heightened during the new year because it is an in-my-face reminder of my looming graduation year(I know I still have two more years but it doesn’t feel like nearly enough time). The New Year is something that I should be celebrating, but I am spending it curled up in bed telling myself I should be applying to summer internships yet not being able to peel myself away from my phone or silly crafts. I want to hold onto my simple summers, having to pretend like school meant something, and not paying for my groceries. I want to stay a kid but I also know I need to move on and accept the fact that I never will be one again. 

Now that I’m not looking forward to adulthood, my youth is so much more appealing to me than when I was living it; I’m sure I’ll look back on my 20s the same way when I’m going through menopause. Maybe in 2050, I’ll read this entry and think about how everything and nothing changes each year. If I’m one thing, it’s consistent. 

Love, 

Isabella

Photograph: Pinterest