Heartache, depression, uncertainty: all the emotions that prepped, kneaded, and baked into this year.

I came back, bright eyed with new experiences in the professional and social field hoping to launch a respectable career. In reality, I sunk back into the hospitality front with pieces of my soul getting shattered by bigoted folks. I sold my intellect to gain extra bucks; sold my looks to become employed; sold my personality to stay employed.

Depression: I’ve been battling depression since high school. I’m not clinically diagnosed, but I’m self-aware enough to save myself the money. In my solitary, I’ve concluded that it is my brazen personality that set people off, and I suppose it’s a reason why I’m not easily likeable. I used to think that I was similar to fine wine; let me sit and age for a bit, you’ll soon like me. Now, I realise I’m more of a banana. I’m too green, bitter tasting in the beginning, but let me sit too long and I’ll go bad. I’m only good for a finite time; a delicate hourglass with quicksand running through.

Heartache: I’m not exactly sure what “heartache” entails, and I know I haven’t experienced it’s true definition, but this faux feeling still gives me insomnia. This year was full of lustful relationships, purely based on appearance. How unbelievably shallow, 2017. I engaged with men who were several years older than I, more experienced, and well off in their careers. This all fascinated me and made me that much more interested. They’d gloat about their lives and success, and I sat there numbingly entranced in their ego. Their words made me think I haven’t had any semblance of success; my mother’s words imprinted in my mind. And there I go, tumbling down Alice’s rabbit hole.

Thus, after a frivolous spend at Lush, I’m going to treat the new year to me. 2018 will be the year of self-love, to find a new city of residence, and perhaps the start to a mom-approved career?

Uncertainty: the thesis of my life. I’m uncertain with most things, it’s comfort that takes the prefix off. It was comfort and familiarity that made me come back to Philadelphia; it was easy for me to go back into the hospitality industry. But now, I’m uncertain about this city, friends, and job(s). Basically, I’m at a WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING point, and have been this way for the past couple of years. I do know I look up grad school applications when I’m obliterated off of whisky and gin, and I do know my patience for incompetency is nonexistent. So perhaps I can find some answer within the combination of these two character traits.

A coworker of mine confronted me on these exact insecurities/failures of mine one night. I mean, we are our own worst critic, but when someone throws those exact thoughts out in the air, it’s like having a bundle of knives jammed sporadically into my body. I saw/see myself as a complete failure, having wasted 21 years of classical piano training and education only to be a barback & hostess. Now I had a coworker who viewed me as a failure as well, and yes, it was the worst feeling one could experience – could this fit the heartache definition? I was in disbelief and overcome with shame. That same night, I went home and cried myself to sleep in hopes that I was stuck in a cruel nightmare.

So fuck ’em. I’ve never had someone be so blatant toward me, especially on something so sensitive and personal. No one has the right. It’s my life, my choice, my mistakes. If you didn’t have a contributing factor to my existence, then your opinion means nothing. This year, I’m going to take charge of my life and make every minute of time useful. In collection, I’ve wasted months of time by doing exactly nothing, and that thought alone pains me. I could’ve started a business, could’ve written countless of essays, could’ve gotten a fit body, but instead I sulked in anxiety and people’s useless judgements.

Hold me to this, I gotta start doing being better for my entire self.