When you hate who you’ve become

The weekend I’d been dreading—the first birthday without Alex—has passed. It came and went with the heavy, overwhelming reality I expected. The familiar, crushing pain of not being able to talk to him, see his face, or just get a simple hug was, at times, more than I could bear. It was a day I simply needed to survive. But survival sometimes looks messy.

I know I’m not the first person to feel solely responsible for the happiness and comfort of those around me. Most of the time, this expectation is one I place entirely on myself, but sometimes it’s placed unknowingly on my shoulders. All weekend, I shoved my pain, my anxiety, and my grief into a box that was already straining at the seams. And then, as always happens with too much pressure, the box burst. My emotions came pouring out. It wasn’t anger or hatred—it was just raw, unfiltered feeling.
And in that moment, when my feelings were finally exposed, all I felt was a crushing wave of self-hatred.

The hardest part wasn’t the pain of the birthday; it was the pain of hating who I’d become in the process.
I hated that in expressing my genuine feelings to someone I love, I may have inadvertently caused them hurt. How do I reconcile the fundamental need to express my true self with the consequence of potentially damaging the people I cherish?

Right now, my deepest urge is to crawl into a hole. To disappear and hide away from the world until I’ve somehow “fixed” myself. I look at who I am with the way this year has been since losing Alex, I feel like I’m obviously not myself and most of the time I’m a walking rain cloud and all I do is rely on them to to help me out, to be there and listen while I complain or cry, and I feel like a drain, a burden on the very people who love me. I don’t like this version of me.

I am undeniably lucky to have the friends and family I do. They are my rock. I know I can talk to them about anything, and they will listen without judgment. But as my self-doubt spirals, I question whether I have given them anything in return lately other than my complaints and tears.
Kat, encouraged me to rejoin them tonight, reminding me of a clip I love—Simon Sinek and Trevor Noah talking about how trust is built not just by giving, but by asking for help.

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I’d trust my friends with my life. I know they can talk to me, ask for anything, and I’ll be there, no questions asked. Yet, here I sit, unable to walk through the door and ask for help myself. I struggle to share my mess. I struggle to be vulnerable and weak in front of them. If I can’t demonstrate the trust to accept their support and let them see me at my lowest, how trustworthy am I, really? Am I holding back a crucial part of the exchange that builds true intimacy and trust?

Perhaps true strength isn’t just about showing up for others, but letting others show up for you, even when you hate the broken person they are showing up for.