In my youth, I had found there wasn’t much I liked. I hated loud chewers. People who asked how I was. I hated when people looked me in the eye and hated when people wore bright colors. Shirts with sayings. I hated when it was too hot out, or not hot enough, or too bright. I hated when a person’s laugh came out reserved and when a person laughed too loud. I hated being alone, and I hated crowds too. 
“There has to be something you like,” my therapist said, “something that you enjoy.” I almost felt my face reach boiling point. My heart raced, and my fingers dug into the sides of my legs. I hated when people did that. I hated when people pried. I hated to talk about myself. “You don’t have to answer right away…” she encouraged gently. “Just think for a moment.” I hated when people spoke to me in that way; why would I need time to consider? I hated to feel stupid or behind. I hated being given time. I stared down at my feet, but the weight of time passing became crushing. I hated to take too long. “I like music.” My eyes never left the floor, and her eyes never left me. “I like music, and I like to draw.” I found myself convinced of her motive. She wants to appear indifferent to my answer in an effort to elicit a response from me. I figured this would give her an opinion on me, and I hated perception, too. Being in and out of therapy had taught my young mind something: in order to overcome, you had to break open and fall apart, and the idea of it frightened me more than it angered me.
As I grew older, I found the things I loved changed very little. I still love music, and I still love art. I’ve since been to art school and have since learned many new songs and new artists’ names. What surprised me the most was this: I didn’t hate all those things when I was young. I hated me. My mother often laughed at those things I hated—not to be cruel, though. Those things I despised were all things I did as well. In my childhood, I came across people who hated the things that I loved. And in a desperate act to be something they loved, I altered myself to become more desirable. I couldn’t be too loud or too quiet. I couldn’t be flashy or too modest. You were supposed to fit in no matter what.
I didn’t realize it, but I had become a pretty good liar in the sense that I had fabricated this life that was not my own, and somehow it wasn’t even one I enjoyed. But you knew that, didn’t you? For years you were watching, lurking within my shadow; you were waiting for me to notice—or waiting for me to learn about you as much as you had learned about me. It took heartache after heartache, but I fought hard to change. How could I turn this anger—this hatred—into something bigger than myself, because it had always been bigger than me. 
I sat on my front porch one day, and my stomach was empty. It was fall. The trees were stripping themselves of their leaves, coating the ground in a dance of oranges, reds and browns. I thought about how long it takes a tree to grow—and to sprout leaves. I thought to myself, what is the point of growing if all you do is change? And then it clicked. I remembered in that moment, being a small child, not even ten years old. I sat on the porch just as I was now, and I had thought about how beautiful the trees looked. I hadn’t given it much thought past that, but every season I would sit on our creaky wooden porch and stare out at the trees that had always been there. I loved them because they could change. Something changed in me that day—I felt outside of myself. I knew what you would be for me—the have the freedom to change. 
I’m not a perfect person, but I had to let you know what you’d done for me. By knowing you, I’ve come to know myself better. My friends tell me I have a loud, teethy, wheezy laugh. It fills a room they say. Bright colors compliment me well, and my silly t-shirts tend to catch a laugh or two. By loving you, I’ve come to love myself. Without the freedom to change, I’d still be that angry child I’d been for years.
I am no longer who I was.
—Kara Gay