The Fickleness of Human Heart

Last semester was one of the hardest so far. I felt like I’d been (academically) bullied. So much that not only was i demotivated in doing anything academic, I’d also traipsed back down into the same depressive lane all over again. And for someone with depression and anxiety issue, it’s kinda hard to get back up in situation like that. (No, I wouldn’t bore you with all the detail of my mental problem right now. That’s not the point of this writing, anyway.)

For every ‘perceived’ failure, I would really really hate myself. And I hate to hate myself. So I counted all the ways he had broken me over and over and I said to myself that it was okay to hate him for that, instead. And I did that, hating him. Hatred is not the answer to anything, I know, but I needed to build that first mental defense mechanism, right?

For sometimes, it worked. It desensitized me, it dulled my sensitivity to every ‘attack’ and the feeling of being never good enough, never adequate, never belong.

I counted all the ways that made him a bad person. and I could breath easy.

THAT, until a friend shared a story of how he is currently living with a (hotheaded) wife he couldn’t really talk to, his two children are thousand miles away, he’s nearing a retirement age and is having all the symptoms of post-power syndrome, how he was so happy with a childlike excitement, joyful to have a get together with us at the end of the semester, how… how seemed to be very lonely he was.

That made him almost… human to me.

I can’t hate a person like that. No.

And I hate that.

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