Untitled

 Nearing 30 isn't much change from when I was 20, unfortunately. Not as much as I had hoped. Mental illnesses don't go away with age, and my depression remains looming over my head. You live with your monsters, roommates in your brain for life, till death do you part.

My autonomy is what changes, and thankfully for the better. 

I used to love reading books, it gave me an escape from my own reality, a way for me to not become me. But in my late 20s, I grew afraid of reading, because of how much self-analysing I would inevitably do whenever I read something. I grew afraid of my own perception, that it would evoke too strong emotions that would make me feel as if I'm suffocating in them.

I grew afraid of what my brain would conjure, and what it could bring out from inside me.

I grew afraid of my own emotions, fearing that I don't have the capacity to sit with them.

In a way, this is all a part of my own self-hatred. Hating what I am not, hating my own responses, hating my own humanity. Hating what I couldn't do, and hating what I did do. Nothing in my eyes are correct to me, and all I could see in the mirror is a failure of an existence.

Hating what I couldn't change, hating what inevitably did change.

Hating my own helplessness.

Hating my own suffering.

Hating my own survival.

Hating my own strength.

All that I've lost, all that I've gained. It feels hopeless.