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?”