New Year...New Anxiety

Dear 2010...

I am writing to you because there are a few things I'd like to explain and get off my tightened chest.

I find you incredibly intimidating and I'm not quite sure what I should be doing this year; in your year. I'm already struggling to express myself, I'm a nervous quivering wreck. Umming and Ahhing are the only sounds that leave my lips, I can't even speak. "Two thousand and ten", "twenty ten", "ten"? Even your name causes me to panic. What if I say that wrong too, will you hate me, think me stupid? I couldn't bear it.

2009 went by so quick, so I expect you'll pass me by much in the same manner. I don't appreciate this in the slightest and can't bear the pressure of all that so-called "achievement" and "progression" that I'm expected to partake in. It makes me weary just thinking about it. So little time to take action or reach a set of goals that I haven't really thought out. How can I when the clock is ticking? It's hands are tightly clasped around my throat.

I'm staring down at the notes I made earlier - words which back then had meaning now sound pathetic, lacklustre, no way good enough to be heard. Struggling to breath, think, speak...at least I can type, although it's little comfort to me knowing all the plans that I have made or been made on my behalf for your year.

So, what have you given me so far? Lets see...a rather underwhelming New Year's Eve celebration (but let's face it, you all do that, each year exactly the same as the last). A pressure to out-perform last year. A loss of direction, uncertainty and palpitations as I realise my old friend blankness of mind has returned...no words, only the foreboding feeling of inadequacy. I can't articulate myself. I'm a disappointment to 2009, a disappointment to you and worse still, a disappointment to the ones I love. An inability to cope is all I possess. Choked up with that dry feeling in my throat for company because all the moisture has travelled to my eyes. I want to break down, cry. Crying would inevitably turn into sobbing.

What have I become? What have I done? I know these should be: What will I do? and What will I become? because that's all you understand. Yet, I can't begin to fathom the latter questions. I'm defeated before I've even begun. A failure, a let-down, a disappointment. That's my problem, I have no will to speak of.

How pathetic.

I'd like to thank you for encouraging me to think about my life in this way and I reluctantly look forward to hearing from you.

Regards,

Emma-Jane Corsan