I don’t know who I am anymore.

I don’t know who I am anymore. And the worst part is, I keep blaming myself for the things they did to me

“A raw reflection on identity, self-hate, and the quiet pain.”

There’s a kind of pain that doesn’t scream. It just sits there. quiet, familiar, constant like background noise you’ve gotten used to. And maybe that’s what hurts the most. The fact that hating myself has become so normal, it no longer shocks me.

It’s not just about disliking my reflection. It’s deeper than that. It’s about looking into my own soul and feeling like I’m a stranger in it.

I don’t know who I am. And the versions of me that I do know. the ones I show to the world, to friends, to family. feel like performances. Carefully rehearsed roles. Smiles that don’t reach my eyes. Laughter that fills the silence but never touches the emptiness.

I shapeshift so easily, it scares me. Around one person, I’m loud and funny. Around another, I’m quiet and reserved. Around myself? I don’t even know. Maybe that’s the most terrifying part – not having a version of me that feels safe, or real.

I hate how I overthink every word I say. I hate how I shrink myself in conversations, just so I don’t seem “too much.” I hate how I hold back when I have so much to give. just because I’m scared of being misunderstood or rejected. I hate how I crave love, but don’t know how to receive it without doubting it.

And I hate how I’ve built this habit of being “okay.” How I’ve trained myself to smile through sadness. How I dismiss my own feelings because I think they’re inconvenient. How I punish myself for being sensitive. for feeling things too deeply, too loudly, too often.

But more than anything, I hate that I’ve let other people’s opinions become my truth. That I let silence define me more than my own voice. That I let the fear of not being enough shape everything I do.

Sometimes, I hate the things they did to me. The way they dismissed me. The way they left without explanation. The way they looked at me like I was too heavy to carry. I hate the way they broke me with ease, and walked away like I was never fragile.

I hate their actions. I hate the way they made me feel – invisible, unwanted, replaceable. But I still can’t bring myself to hate them.

So instead… I hate me. I turn the blame inward, again and again. Because hating them feels unfair. But hating myself? That’s a pain I know how to carry.

I tell myself maybe I deserved it. Maybe if I had been easier to love, they would’ve stayed. Maybe if I wasn’t so intense, so emotional, so me, they wouldn’t have hurt me the way they did. And when the truth becomes too heavy to face, I punish myself for still caring.

Some days, I feel like I’m drowning in my own mind. Like my thoughts are too loud and my soul is too tired. But I keep showing up to school, to conversations, to life… with a face that says, “I’m fine.” Even when I’m not. Even when I haven’t been for a very long time.

They say, “Be yourself.” But no one tells you what to do when “yourself” feels like a mess of contradictions. When you want to be seen, but you hide. When you want to be loved, but you push people away. When you want to be enough, but your mind keeps whispering that you never will be.

But maybe. just maybe. I’m not broken. Maybe I’m just tired of carrying a version of myself that was never mine to hold.

Maybe the self-hate I feel isn’t mine either. Maybe it’s the voice of the people who made me feel small. The words I was never meant to believe. The wounds I was never meant to keep open.

And maybe identity isn’t a perfect definition. Maybe it’s not something you “find” once and for all. Maybe it’s something you slowly build, through moments of clarity and chaos, through heartbreak and healing.

I don’t have all the answers.I don’t know how to love myself yet.

But I do know this:

I’m tired of carrying this hate.

I’m tired of being at war with myself.

So I’ll try. To unlearn the lies. To speak more gently to the mirror. To forgive myself for the years I spent in silence. To forgive myself for still missing the ones who didn’t deserve to be missed.

And on the days I feel like I don’t know who I am .I’ll remind myself that maybe I’m still becoming. And that becoming… takes time.

-I’m tired of carrying hurt that wasn’t mine. Maybe that’s the first step toward being me again-