The hatred I grew up having for myself was somewhere buried deep inside of me. I don’t know where it came from, don’t know where it’s hiding now. If I inherited it or if every little piece came together the older I got, the more I saw, the more I felt.

I couldn’t tell you.

I lied to my therapist, (yes, I’m aware. Lying to your therapist doesn’t help because duh, it’s your fucking therapist.)

and told her that the feeling of being unloveable wasn’t there anymore because on the surface, it was good. I felt good.

But bubbling beneath that surface, that feeling grew and grew. I never felt deserving of anything good in life. I felt like I forced a lot of in my life because that’s what I wanted to go after.

I don’t know if that makes sense. I really don’t think it does.

“You’re so pretty, you shouldn’t hate yourself.”

It’s beneath the surface.

“You’re so smart, stop hating yourself.”

It goes deeper than that.

“You work so hard. You shouldn’t hate yourself.”

It has nothing to do with that, it’s more.

I’m aware that your past mistakes shouldn’t define the person you are because we’re people. We can change. We do change.

But when we repeat actions, it’s convinced me that there’s a part down in me somewhere that just can’t let go.

They say when you grow up in a burning house, you’re so accustomed to the flames and it’s difficult to live in a home that doesn’t have your insides panicking to find the next exit.

But I’m aware of the change. I’m aware it’s not okay to take those flames and throw it into someone else’s house to run away from my own.

I’m accountable for the changes I need to make. For the apologies I owe. I have to hold myself accountable to reconstruct what I’ve broken down.

And that includes everything that’s burning beneath the surface.