As another month draws to a close I am once again amazed by the speed at which the world seems to be moving past me. I can’t help but to feel that I am partaking in some race against the clock of time and success and I am simply not capable of keeping up with the hands of that clock or other creators. Every day it becomes harder to see the finish line because I keep subconsciously moving the goalposts.

I know that we all live on our own timeline, as much as I know that comparison is a thief of joy. But I also know that a lot of creatives suffer from imposter syndrome or feelings of inadequacy and uncertainty, in large part because their skills and passions are not valued or celebrated by society. I also know that there are gatekeepers blocking many of the “societally acceptable” paths to creative “success”, such as can be seen in the publishing industry. Our society does not value creativity and empathy, while it worships money and “progress”. People who don’t share those values or pursue those goalposts can feel outside and alone.

When you live in this world leading with your heart and a need to create, it can be difficult to survive. It can be nearly impossible knowing who you really are and weighing it against who you think you should be.

I’ve struggled with these feelings for most of my life. I was raised in a family that expected greatness from me, a family that polished me to shine, to be a “success”, to make money and start a family and set our troubled past to rest and to rebuild a new future for us. I created a moral code, I excelled in academia, I overworked myself just like the system encourages us to do. Then during my last year of university my body began to shut down.

Health concerns I had held at bay for years began to force their way to the surface. Suddenly, between my three part-time jobs and full-time class schedule I had to deal with torrents of suicidal ideation, a skin rash that bled viciously through my clothing and never healed, and (during my finals) I was struck with three consecutive cases of strep throat that mutated into a much more serious condition that landed me in the ER nearly unable to breathe or swallow.

I spent the first six months after the summer of my university graduation in the deepest depression of my life. I had spent almost 15 years with a single goal, one narrative of who I was and what I was meant to do cemented into my head, and then it was over. The girl who excelled in academia, who got straight As, who always appeared on the Dean’s list was gone, because I had accomplished my goal, but I felt an enormous emptiness take her place.

All I seemed to have left of myself was my undying passion for writing, a fascination with the power of the written word, and a vague dream of entering the publishing industry. I knew that path was going to be a difficult one and that in all likelihood I would never actually reach my goal, but it felt like my only option.

About five years on from that dark period nearly all of my fears have come to life and my dreams don’t feel that much closer to fruition. The continuous rejection, uncertainty, and poverty that I anticipated have been ever present. Some days it is very difficult not to feel utterly hopeless or regret my life.

I often look back now and wonder what took me so long to pursue these goals. Then I remember how immersed I was in pursuing other things that I thought would help me feel less outside of the world around me. And still I wonder, how was I writing little stories in elementary school and yet I never even submitted a poem to a publisher or magazine until I was 25 years old? I was first published in a small online literary magazine that same year. Since then I’ve accumulated about 20 publications, with more on the near horizon. Now I wonder, how did I never even think about submitting a genuine chapbook for publication until this year, as I became 28 years old and 30 hangs there over my head like rotting fruit?

This is all to say, in some ways to confess, that I still have no idea what I am doing or where I am going in my career or my life. Maybe five years from now I will look back on this and be so thankful that I kept going. Or maybe I’ll look back and think about what an idiot I was to keep walking all the way towards a dead end with so little regard for the future.

In conclusion, if other creatives are feeling this way, you’re not alone. Sometimes I think that is all I have to offer the world— when you’re going through the really bad stuff, feeling really low, you’re not alone, because I’ve been there or I’ll be there with you. It’s all I have for now, but I hope one day I can be the inspiration rather than the companion in misery.

As usual, here are some excerpts from things I wrote this month:

Every tongue can taste the way heartache sours.

As for all the women, the astronomers,/ the mothers, the healers I will never be/ I will build continents for you.

There, in a post office that smells of tea and old wood/ somewhere in Catholic country,/ somewhere as green as the serpent’s eye in Eden/ is the rosary you gifted me.

Love,

Ariel