2024年没有关键词
从去年12月中旬起，脑海里的年末倒计时就不停报警，一天一天推着我走向焦虑的边缘。每年这个时候，对过往一年的不满化成了无孔不入的焦虑，随着新年将近，不安的情绪就这么不受控地一丝一丝挤压进大脑，追在我身后催着我思考，却蒙着我的理智，让人无法冷静公平地审视过去一年的得失好坏。
2023年年底回国，本来是想着借此机会好好从这一年的忙碌绷紧疲惫心累中缓上片刻，但是临到头在飞往上海的国际飞机上，我却陋习不改，写了至少20件事儿的回国to-do list，要在短短一个月内完成，主打一个productive rest。（什么乱七八糟的悖论！）在写完之后我就知道，我注定会失望。喜欢计划不是坏事儿，但不切实际地设定期望，在最后落空的时候只会带来焦虑。一个月过去了，我没有猜错，我果然还是了解自己的。
直到今天才动笔记录这些天的所思所想，也是从12月至今累积焦虑到临界顶峰的结果–早上是带着焦虑醒来的，今天28了。
生日和过年重合在一起对于我这种焦虑成瘾的人并不是什么双喜临门；双重打击更准确一些。年和年的更替，岁数和岁数的更替，都在提醒着我流逝的时间。时间从来没有停止流逝，但在日记本上写下的日期从2023变成2024的时候，在被问年龄时改口从27到28的时候，在来来回回写错说错纠正自己的时候，就好像是上帝把捉不住的时间具象化地摆在我面前，逼迫我睁开眼面对一直逃避的现实。
客观上讲，人类不会越活越年轻。从出生的一刻起，我们就向着坟墓不停地不以自己意志为转移地进发。这28年，从焦虑症开始的时候起，我的身后仿佛是追着一个时钟怪物。我脚下的路并不是通向山顶的路，而是400米跑道。路没有终点，一年一年只是循环。怪物追赶着我跑，我本以为可以最终登高，结果跑过终点线才知道，这本就不是什么比赛，接下来等着我的是和前一年一模一样的圈，所以只好重整旗鼓再跑一遍。
这个月想了很多关键词–”rejuvenation 焕活“，”shalom 去燥平和“，”habit 建立习惯“，etc. 但回顾这么些年设置关键词，年年虽都不同，但年年回顾起来都是在重复前一年的无用功。2020年love，2021年peace，2022年health，2023年joy–2020年和前男友分手，没了love；2021年从平静南卡搬回喧嚣纽约，丢了peace；2022年体重飙升属灵下降，失了health；2023年以焦虑疲惫结尾，谈何joy。当然，每一年都还是有积极高光的事儿，我总归还是在某些方面有所进步，但总体看时，还是免不了失落。
这是去年生日写下的给自己的寄语：
正式步入我定义里的late 20s感谢家人朋友，让我能在欢笑中度过一年一度变老提醒日。感谢真心祝福，电话连线，远程礼物，和某大批量迭代祝福。延续今年的关键词，27岁目标从每周一joy开始，记录常常被我忘记的幸福。希望一年后，我不再会觉得这一天是变老提醒日，也能在回想时，发现更爱自己了一点，更爱别人了一点，更爱上帝了一点，离true joy更近了一点。
虽然还是认为今天是变老提醒日，但是很高兴自己做到了周记，也仔细和耶稣基督以及心理医生探讨了joy。但今年我想就一步一步来。一天一天，一点一点，不期望一蹴而就或是一年成圣得道。做一点就一点，进步一点就一点，不设期待，带着好奇看看自己一年后会被捏成什么模样。一月一记，安静思考，把焦虑思绪吐在文字里。今天吐了许多，希望读到这里的朋友不要感到膈应。把情绪写下来就是想把它留在文字里，离开时轻装出发。
朋友们，还有我自己，你好2024，我们2月底见！
Below is a Google Gemini-generated English translation. I did not edit afterwards.
No keywords for 2024.
Since mid-December, the year-end countdown in my mind has been blaring like an alarm, pushing me day by day toward the edge of anxiety. Every year at this time, my dissatisfaction with the past twelve months morphs into a pervasive unease. As the New Year approaches, this uncontrollable restlessness squeezes into my brain, chasing me, demanding reflection, yet veiling my logic, making it impossible to calmly or fairly assess the year’s gains and losses.
I returned to China at the end of 2023, originally hoping to take a breather from a year of tension and exhaustion. Yet, on the international flight to Shanghai, my old habits died hard. I wrote a “to-do list” of at least 20 items to complete in a single month—a paradox I called “productive rest.” (What a ridiculous contradiction!) The moment I finished writing it, I knew I was destined for disappointment. Having a plan isn’t a bad thing, but setting unrealistic expectations only breeds anxiety when they inevitably fall through. A month later, I was right; I do know myself after all.
I am only now putting these thoughts into words because the accumulated anxiety since December has reached its tipping point. This morning, I woke up with it—it’s the 28th.
For someone addicted to anxiety like me, having my birthday and the Lunar New Year coincide is not a “double blessing.” A “double blow” is more accurate. The transition between years, the shifting from one age to the next—it all serves as a reminder of the relentless flow of time. Time never stops, but when the date on my journal changes from 2023 to 2024, or when I have to correct my age from 27 to 28, it’s as if God has taken the intangible and placed it right in front of my eyes, forcing me to face the reality I’ve been trying to evade.
Objectively speaking, humans don’t get younger. From the moment we are born, we march toward the grave, independent of our will. For these 28 years—especially since my anxiety disorder began—it feels as though a “clock monster” has been chasing me. The path beneath my feet isn’t a trail to a mountain peak; it’s a 400-meter track. There is no finish line, only cycles. The monster hunts me, and I run, thinking I might finally reach some height, only to cross the line and realize there is no competition. Waiting for me is simply the same loop as the year before, so I brace myself and run it all over again.
I thought of many keywords for this month—Rejuvenation, Shalom, Habit. But looking back at the keywords I’ve set over the years, though they differ, they all feel like a repetition of futile efforts. 2020 was Love, 2021 Peace, 2022 Health, 2023 Joy. In 2020, I broke up with my boyfriend—no more Love. In 2021, I moved from quiet South Carolina back to bustling New York—lost my Peace. In 2022, my weight surged while my spirituality dipped—lost my Health. And 2023 ended in anxiety and fatigue—where is the Joy? Of course, there were highlights and progress in certain areas, but the overall view remains one of disappointment.
Here is the message I wrote to myself on my birthday last year:
“Officially entering what I define as my ‘late 20s.’ Grateful for family and friends who let me spend this annual ‘aging reminder’ in laughter. Thank you for the sincere blessings and gifts. Continuing this year’s keyword, my goal for 27 is to start every week with Joy, recording the happiness I so often forget. I hope that a year from now, I will no longer see this day as a reminder of getting older, but will find that I love myself a little more, love others a little more, love God a little more, and have moved a little closer to true joy.”
Although I still see today as an “aging reminder,” I am glad I kept my weekly journal and explored the meaning of Joy with both Jesus Christ and my therapist. But this year, I want to take it one step at a time. Day by day, bit by bit. I don’t expect to achieve everything at once or become “enlightened” in a year. I’ll do what I can, improve where I can, set no expectations, and watch with curiosity to see what shape I will be molded into a year from now. Once a month, I will record, think quietly, and vent my anxious thoughts into words. I’ve vented a lot today, and I hope those reading this don’t find it off-putting. Writing down these emotions is my way of leaving them in the text so I can travel light.
To my friends, and to myself: Hello 2024. See you at the end of February!
