i have this internal haunting feeling that everyone around me simply hates me… logically it would be absurd to think everyone around me fakes 24/7 that they tolerate me, do i think people are cruel enough to do that? maybe its my gigantic ego trying to make me feel special in the most twisted way, so many people consciously acting nice around me when in reality they cant stand me. i know, its absurd right?

well, that doesn't save from thinking its real.

my first thought is that the truth behind that is that im the fake one, im constantly trying to be someone im not to be liked and tolerated but who i truly am is awful, i wouldn't know if thats also my ego trying to gain some strength inside of me, or if just the self hate monster i keep feeding in me.

no matter what i do its always there, haunting my every day. maybe listening to noah kahan sing "to know me is to hate me" doesn't help my case, but i just feel deeply related to it.

it could be my inability to find me lovable that builds these ideas in my head, if i don't see something likable about me, then why the fuck would someone else find it? but what confuses me the most about this is how much it hurts myself to think that way.

im not at peace with those awful thoughts, they make me feel worse, and i wonder also if it isn't my way of self harming myself emotionally instead of physically doing it. i know, its a lot.

maybe im trying to find answers where there isn't, maybe im giving space to yet another destructive thought i should dismiss and go about my day.

yesterday i swear i thought my mom hated me, simply cause she said something about me that hurt me, and i would say that the most natural response to someone hurting us is feeling upset towards them right? yeah i don’t think i've ever gotten upset at someone for how they treated me, my first thought was "wow i really am an awful person" and second "i think she hates me but maybe she's not even aware of it"

my mother is not a perfect mom, and we don’t have the best relationship either but if there's something completely unfathomable to think is that she could hate me or my sister, i think the amount of love she has over us is bigger than her own existence, so again, why would i think she hates me?

sometimes i think my friends hate me when i text them. i just lied, it’s not sometimes, every time i send a text i think they get annoyed at my notification, when we meet and i talk i think "they just want to leave, i have nothing interesting to say" i feel like they regret seeing me after we hang out.

when someone falls in love with me, its when i feel it the most, its who i eventually let in the most, and in the depths of my being theres everything to hate, my incapacities, my wrongdoing, my mistakes, and i don’t believe any amount of love they could have for me would save them from the hate they can have towards me.

if im not being actively loved then im being hated, and if i make mistakes i don’t deserve that love, its an endless cycle of undeserving anything good.

i would like to write something comforting as a conclusion, but i don’t have it yet, i haven't figured out a way to think better of myself, to exit this negativity loop that keeps growing in me. im fighting it constantly and therapy does help, you can imagine how much worse it was a couple years ago.

i have this need when i write to end with something hopeful, happy maybe, the happily ever after tales i read as a kid got engraved in my mind, but the reality is different sometimes and being real i believe is more hopeful than fake positivity, so theres no happy punchline, this is just my feelings, raw, messy and uncertain.

if i was to maybe give advice i'd say the same thing i say to myself all the time, be gentle with your own heart, people have enough power to hurt you, don’t become your own aggressor too.

i've talked before about how it is possible to love someone when you don’t love yourself, but can someone's love make me love me?

it would be the biggest lie to say that i live without expecting to be loved, without expecting some people to like or think i’m great, since i first wanted my parents' approval and love, i keep searching for acceptance outside of me, i want people to find something great in me.

i tell myself that maybe, just maybe if someone uncovers something beautiful hidden inside of me, i will be able to see myself through their eyes and hopefully ill start liking myself too.

i grew up surrounded by strangers who never told me i was great, i was okay, bearable at most. and it doesn't matter how much family love i got, it wasn't enough, cause if the world doesn't love me then family loves me because they must. we all know not every family loves their kids just because they have to, but its a different type of love.

every relationship we build outside of family is an active choice, and if no one chooses to love me, then i’m sure theres a problem with me. i tried for a while to be what everyone wanted, i became the biggest people pleaser i could be, it wasn't cruelty, i wasn't being fake, i was just trying to mold myself to who was around me, to make them happy, and by doing that, they would love to have me around.

of course after a while i realized i was more alone than ever, cause who i truly was just wasn't being loved still, thankfully i realized that and stopped it, cause i rather be alone as me, than surrounded as someone entirely different. i found people along the way who can love me without me performing, i wont lie it still confuses me, but its okay, i don’t need to understand it, just embrace it.

i ask why too many times, why do you love me? why do you think im a good friend? why don’t you just pick someone else? why are you here? i know how patient the people around me are, for taking the time to tell me how they see me. my vision is usually clouded by all the negative things i went through that changed my own perception completely, but the fog its slowly starting to dissipate, and its all because i allowed people in.

hardest thing i've ever done, cause its also telling my own belief system i've been wrong all along, i’m not unlovable, so i cant keep thinking the same way, something has to change, and that awful voice inside of me doesn't want to change, my ego keeps holding on to what makes me feel worse and worse every day, and subconsciously i've been always waiting for things to go wrong, people to drift apart, partners to break my heart, to prove myself i’m right.

but i dont want to be right about my self hate, i want to be proven that i’m wrong, over and over again till the thought of me being lovable is the default one, i’m not there, but i will, soon.

do more, be more, produce more, write more, create more. more, more, more, i’m so sick of it all…

the world keeps getting more complicated as the years go by, the sense of survival feels more present, and not feeling enough, i fear, has turned into a collective emotion. art was, in a way, pure, made with awareness by whoever really felt it. in the last couple of years i’ve felt this greed growing on me, my brain screams at me: “more, more, more” i’m writing this already planning my next 10 articles, the sad part is that the reason is not enthusiasm, is not creativity peaking, it’s fear. fear of having nothing else to say, fear of not being part of something.

attention is the worst drug, it’s not easy to be calm around it, once you feel it you want to keep it, and it’s not entirely your fault cause attention span made us all crazy. we forget people and pieces of art so quickly that the authors of such pieces become desperate to find us back.

art is not made to satisfy other people, in my opinion it never should be, it’s a personal calling that you simply hear inside of you. i write for myself, but what’s the point in creating without sharing? i do what i do also for others, to reach them, to maybe help someone, or to simply connect and let others see that they’re not alone with their thoughts.

when has that become transactional? art is seen as a product even by us, the people making it. how many articles, poems, books or songs do i need to write? how many paints do i need to paint? how many sculptures do i need to sculpt? how much dancing, how much acting?

experience is important, doing something many times makes us grow and be better at things, but we dismiss the effort put into those moments so much, you wrote a couple things? that’s nothing you need to write 100 pieces more to even be acknowledged… and the anxiety of not doing it? keeps eating us alive.

i think consistency as a writer is a trap, we’re so used to overconsumption that as writers we force ourselves to overproduce calling it “consistency”. you don’t need to write every day just for a few likes, or to “not be forgotten” by people who forget so fast to begin with.

can y’all imagine tolstoy, dostoyevsky, nietzsche, camus and many others forcing themselves to write 5 books a year just for people not to “forget” about them? a couple of books in a lifetime was enough. why do we keep falling into the overproduction of art? we’re just finding new ways to dilute our ideas to be more reachable… and knowing this doesn’t save me from it.

i find myself writing this cause this morning i woke up thinking, it’s been a week since my last article, how do i expect anything to happen if i don’t produce more? and it felt wrong to think that way, this week my soul was not able to step out and share itself, this week i decided to keep my feelings to myself, but in the anxiety of producing i found a bigger calling to maybe share this with someone who might be feeling the same way.

so if you are, be at peace with your writing times, be gentle with yourself. after all, you’re pouring pieces of your soul out there and there’s nothing more noble to do.

i was sitting at a cafe a couple weeks ago and next to me there where two friends talking, and one of them was asking the other: does someone wonder how im doing? what my day was like? and it got me wondering the same thing.

how many people think of me and my ordinary life? if i keep smiling at dogs walking by? what i do when something at my house breaks? who are we without someone to witness our existence? without someone acknowledging our fears and moods?

i find myself wondering a lot, about myself mostly but also a lot about other people. i wonder if my friends are well on a random tuesday, but also i think of the all the small things they might not share, the intrusive thoughts that keeps them awake at night, the family problem they never talked about. i also wonder how do they feel when they have dinner alone, when something funny happened to them like, they might’ve seen a weird bird, or someone yelling in the streets.

wondering is natural, we all do it, some more than others. im part of the ones who wonder a little too much, but it also takes me to explore, even tho sometimes wondering too much can confuse my mind. in the middle of all this wondering i wonder if someone thinks of me in that way… if they are curious about what i ate today, what scares me at night, what i said to the lady who said i had a nice smile, the song i overplayed when i was overwhelmed.

i think our existence by itself is worthy and highly valuable, even if there’s no one to witness it. but in these modern times i strongly believe that we’re driven towards connection, as the world turn more and more into individuality, our need to be witnessed grows.

life to me is about sharing, growing as a person is very important to me, having my own self and being successful is important as well, but what’s the point if there’s no one to share it with? the beauty of life is trying to find people along the way with who you can experience life, to witness other peoples archievements and to share yours with them as well.

i don’t do things for other people, i don’t do what i do for other people to validate me or to demonstrate something, i do it for me, but sharing with other what im doing for myself makes it all a lot less lonely, and we all deserve to have that one person.

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as a perfectionist and controlling person i’ve always struggled with beginnings. the moment never feels right, but is there a right time for anything?

in my mind there’s always a certain “order” to follow for doing things correctly, and lately i’ve come to realize its always limiting me. we’re taught from a very young age that being organized is the priority, so where does creativity fit?

beginnings show up in small moments just as much as big ones, like an idea that hits in the shower and fades before you get the chance to sit down and build it. it’s easier to let it go, cause there’s always something else to do, a better idea, someone who could do it better, and the worst of them all, not knowing where or how to start.

i’ve spent so much time waiting for the right moment to do something, to write something, to love someone. but the right time is never there, and i’m never fully ready either. the circumstances will never be perfect, but it’s an active choice to start no matter how lost you feel, letting go of the idea that it’ll make sense, that you’ll find the way to do it perfectly the second you start doing it.

it WILL be messy but that’s the beauty of creating something, being able to put down all that’s inside of your head into something others can see, read, feel or even touch.

it’s never too late to start, you’re never too old to change the course of your life. it takes courage to feel like a beginner later on in life, but the starting line is never the same, it’s not going back, it’s beginning a new journey. it’s finding a new version of yourself in new horizons, allowing yourself to leave your comfort zone for something greater.

beginnings are not easy, nor comfortable, it takes a lot of willingness to do it either way and learn. so start messy, start confused and afraid, unsure if it’s gonna work, if it’s what you really want. there’s always time to stop and recalculate the route, but time isn’t forgiving with the things we don’t do, time doesn’t give back, so try, try either way but never stay wondering what if.

how can you love me when i can’t fully love myself? i’ve read so many times that you cannot love someone if you don’t love yourself, and i disagree with that statement in so many ways. firstly, because not loving myself doesn’t mean i don’t have love inside me to give. it means that, because of certain experiences in my life, my brain learned that all the love i have must never be directed at me. the reasons are vast: i don’t deserve it, i’m a bad person, there’s nothing about me worth loving, so why would i? the list goes on.

so yes, i can love you with everything i am, even if i hate myself.

but that’s not what i want to talk about, because the problem isn’t giving, it’s receiving. sometimes love finds us in very difficult times, when we feel like we don’t deserve it at all, or like nothing we do is ever enough. so why does it come? i still don’t know, but i like to believe it’s the universe’s way of showing us who we are from a different perspective. sometimes someone needs to see us and show us what that looks like, what WE look like through someone else’s eyes. it’s a completely different view, let me tell you, even if you’ve been around people who made your image of yourself even worse, like i have.

my mental health struggles have been with me for a long time. i haven’t been able to fully say goodbye to them, but that’s alright, healing takes time. something very interesting happens when you let other people in, though. in my experience, i’ve been around people who destroyed the little self esteem i had, treated me poorly, and left me feeling like i shouldn’t be loved, or that if i was, it was for an idea of me, not really for who i am. strangely, when you have low self esteem and surround yourself with people who reaffirm those thoughts, it almost feels relieving. i know that sounds crazy, but to my brain, having someone validate my negative thoughts felt normal. it made sense in a twisted way, so even though i was suffering, i thought that’s what i deserved.

luckily, with therapy and a lot of outside help, i got out of there. i left all those people behind, because my sadness was eating me alive, and being alone was better than feeling alone while surrounded by people. after that, something in me was deeply afraid i would go back to it, one way or another, with the same person or someone just like them. but something different happened. i found real love.

i met someone who saw me in a way i don’t think i could ever see myself, and it took me a while to even accept that this person could actually love me for who i am. i won’t lie, i’m still waiting for some familiar reaction, some old attitude i recognize. but so far i’ve been nothing but surprised by what honest love and appreciation actually looks like. and here comes the real problem: the shame of being loved. it feels like a personal betrayal to let someone love THIS.

it’s a challenge to accept a good love when you feel like the least deserving person in the world. and it’s one of the ways i know it’s a good love, because i feel like i don’t deserve it, because it’s so pure and gentle that it makes me ashamed of all the dark thoughts that cross my mind. i feel guilty that, even though i know it isn’t true, i’m making someone love me with all my issues. how much i would love to be free of all my torments, just to make loving me a little easier. and it’s the way he makes loving me look so easy that makes me wonder if it’s real. i wonder so much it drives me a little crazy, because sometimes i just want to accept it, and let it wash over me with no shame at all.

i’m not there yet. i don’t know when i will be. but i do believe we can be loved no matter how broken and incomplete we feel, because it’s not about the way we see ourselves. it’s about what others find in us, and everything about us can be loved by the people who need someone exactly like us in their lives, as strange as that might feel. when love comes for you in your worst times, embrace it. make it your fuel to learn how to see yourself in a completely new and beautiful way. it’s remarkable what being loved right can do to you, quietly, without you even noticing.

-Avril

since i was a kid, i’ve been told i have great potential, as most of us have, at least once. as children, we don’t see the harm in it; it feels like just another compliment. but with it comes an illusion. i remember thinking, “wow, i have potential. i can do great things.” the older i get, though, the more those words haunt me. no matter what i do, or how i do it, i’m constantly left feeling like i’m wasting my potential because i’m not “doing something great.” and greatness is so subjective. generally, no one thinks of a gardener as “doing something great,” but maybe they are, because it’s all they want to do. i believe quiet, simple lives can be great too.

depression rarely helps with these feelings. most days i’m so exhausted i can’t give my all, even if i wanted to. i do things mediocrely because that’s all my mind and heart can offer, and again, i’m haunted by the same thought: i’m wasting my potential. i wonder if i’ll ever be free from it. i tell myself i’m doing well, that this is just my path, but i don’t want to disappoint the people who saw that so-called potential in me. what would they say? i feel like i have to show them how great i’m doing.

to be fair, i don’t think this is something older people say to limit us. from what i’ve heard, it’s quite the opposite, they believe that by saying it, they’re giving us perspective: that we COULD, if we WANTED to, do amazing things. it’s meant as a way to build confidence, to help us see worth in what we do. so why, as we grow up, do we interpret it as something we SHOULD live up to? probably because all humans want is to make someone proud, and somewhere along the way we’re taught the only way to do that is through what we achieve, not through who we are, or who we choose to become.

i’m still tormented by these thoughts. truly. but i do have one piece of advice i’d like to share: only you can control your “enough” scale. what you do should only need to be enough for YOU. i know our scales are a little broken, warped by negative beliefs we’ve carried for years, but it’s a constant exercise in discipline, a practice of forcing ourselves to be kind to our own paths.

if you were completely alone, no one to share your updates with, no one measuring your success, no one expecting anything from you, what would bring you the most peace? i believe somewhere near that answer lies your true desires, the things that would genuinely make you happy. most of this comes down to finding peace. maybe you can’t do what you truly want right now, bills need to be paid, life is tough, and it doesn’t wait for us to “find ourselves” before pulling us back to our responsibilities. but finding that answer is the biggest step. hold it close to your heart and never let it go. knowing yourself brings more peace than anything else ever could, even if who you are can’t be fully expressed right now.

maybe i won’t do big things. maybe i will. but it won’t depend on my potential, on what i COULD do. it depends on what i WANT to do, what i CHOSE to do. and it should be the same for you.

-Avril 🦢

I was raised in a house full of women, where the absence of a man felt very loud. But this isn’t about the lack of a father figure. It’s about how the world taught me to hate women while being one.

I would say it started with the “princess” stereotype – which was just adults forbidding normal activities, disguised as “manners”. Everything feels so free until someone points out i shouldn’t sit a certain way, or spread my leg, or speak too loud. And suddenly that frown in my face means more than the words. It’s not a simple comment anymore. It’s a warning.

What hurt in a way I can’t describe was watching the women around me already living by those rules – carrying them, enforcing them, shrinking themselves. And somewhere along the way, it started to feel like my responsibility to break a cycle of pain I didn’t choose, but still inherited.

Little by little, all i do starts to feel questionable: my facial expressions, the words i choose, the clothes i cover my body with. Without noticing, every decision i want to make becomes conditioned by someone else’s gaze.

One day i’m dressing as a princess, or even as a firefighter. The next day i’m wondering if my clothes are too revealing. I laugh out loud at something my friend says, only to regret being “too loud” moments later. I became so aware of myself that i started forgetting how to be... me.

And that self-awareness doesn’t stay internal. It leaks outward. Without realizing it, i catch myself judging other littles girls who allow themselves to be unapologetically themselves – as if their freedom is something they should earn, maybe apologize for, or even outgrow.

Maybe the need to be liked grew in me so much that i forgot how to live. Because no one likes a loud, sentimental, loving woman... or that’s what we’re taught. So i never stopped to ask the most important question: do I like myself this way?

But this questions don’t surface neatly while growing up. They don’t appear the first time a man yells at you on the streets. They don’t appear when your first boyfriend treats you poorly. They don’t even appear when you snap at your girlfriends and insist, “This is who i am, i don’t know what you mean! I’m not an extrovert i’m quiet and submissive.”

If only she knew how desperate her true voice was to come out, she would cry herself to sleep.

At 23, these questions have matured in me. And only now are some of them finding answers. Only now do i wear my favorite outfits around the house just for the excitement of wearing something i love. Only now do i sing my heart out while walking down the street with my friends. Only now do i raise my voice when my rights are questioned.

And as i do, i find myself thinking about the women before me, how strong they had to be to accomplish such great things. Because fear is the biggest barrier to action. And i’ve been terrorized for so long. Being a woman – a real woman, not the version someone else trained me to perform, felt impossible. And even when i tried, i felt performative, like if i chose womanhood on my own terms, it would still somehow be for them. Never for me.

That fear stood in front of me, hiding the door i desperately wanted to open. But a collections of moments released my heart from its cage: the evening another girl braided my hair with such gentle tenderness; the nights getting ready to go out, laughing and sharing make up; the painting dates; dancing in circles to the music we love.

Every moment around girls that made me think, how i love being a woman, made me realize something devastating: I never hated women. I loved being one so deeply that the world taught me to feel ashamed of it. Because the ones who are afraid aren’t us. And being a woman is the most powerful, and most tender, thing there is to be.

I’m convinced that one day my heart will kill me.
Its only instinct is to grow bigger and bigger,
and it’s come dangerously close to exploding more times than I can count.

I feel the ache every time
it meets mean words and detached gazes.
I’ve seen it pour love into places with no address,
or into hands that only know how to hurt.

But the part of me that loves deeply
knows no boundaries.
It gives, no matter how little it receives.
It carries, no matter how abandoned it feels.
It loves, no matter how much pain it endures.

Rebellious by nature, I’ve tried to tame it...
but it refuses to be small,
refuses to be insignificant.
Its need to grow, to feel even more deeply,
makes me certain that one day
my heart will kill me.

-Ril 🦢

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