I hate the anxiety.
I hate the worry that no matter what, I’ll never be understood for who I am.
I hate the comparison.
I hate when people tell me to look at where I’ve been, and how much better off I am now.
I hate the feelings.
How can I tell you that it’s like I was being hanged and I was on fire, and maybe the fire is out but I’m still choking?
I hate the feelings.
“But you’re not on fire anymore,” you say, ignoring me clutching at my neck and my flailing legs, “so it’s a better situation than before, right?”
Sep 29, 2025
Sep 29, 2025 at 6:06 PM UTC
I hate the anxiety.
I hate the worry that no matter what, I’ll never be understood for who I am.
I hate the comparison.
I hate when people tell me to look at where I’ve been, and how much better off I am now.
I hate the feelings.
How can I tell you that it’s like I was being hanged and I was on fire, and maybe the fire is out but I’m still choking?
I hate the feelings.
“But you’re not on fire anymore,” you say, ignoring me clutching at my neck and my flailing legs, “so it’s a better situation than before, right?”
