Self-Loathing

In my solitude, I could just focus on survival… I could hate my body and mind and suffer in silence.

But now, around others, I loathe myself in new ways, the reactions of those who love me refracting back to me feels more painful– the sense that every sentiment I communicate is tiresome, annoying, boring, or repetitive. 

I feel like all I am is my trauma, my illness, my pain ….

I hate the sound of my own voice…

I hate my compulsion to speak, I wish I could be silent the way I am in my solitude

I hate how being cared for feels like a chore for others

I wish I could disappear, I wish I felt comfort in my own invisibility, I hate how my hunger for validation is so big and encompassing and powerful suck on energy of others

I wonder if all the charisma I thought I possessed is an just an illusion of the past or simply impossible to recapture for the future

I wish I could slice myself into a million little pieces and the blood pouring out of me would slowly drain me of this impossible life

I wish I had packed my blades because I can’t handle the sensation of my emotions and all I want is my is to feel the sting of my skin broken open

I hate every story of a person who triumphs from cycling suicidal ideations, who triumphs from any hardship, that shames us whose trauma engulfs us and wears us down and never leaves

I hate how aging has destroyed whatever boost I’d get from the attention and attraction of others, and how fishing for flattery or reassurance is so gross and that it feels like I’ll never feel the rush of physical affection ever again… I hate the 20 pounds I gained that I can’t lose, I hate the greys that take over my head, I hate the sense that I feel the same, that people say I look the same, but that my age feels apparent and a repellent in ways I can’t identify.

I hate that I have no plan for how I’ll defeat the circumstances out of my control, the unpredictability of my body and mind, I hate that I know that no formula, no right medicine, no right doctor, no right wellness regime, will provide me relief and I hate that no one else realizes this. 

I hate my thin skin, I hate how my mother’s criticism still pierces through me, still haunts me as my inner critic, that I am wasteful and indulgent and unworthy of anything nice in this life.

I hate that I’m still alive, that I haven’t had the courage to take my own life, and that I just continue to hold it in my psyche. I hate how exhausting it must be for everyone in my life to feel concern every time I feel suicidal.   

I hate when I can’t sleep, and I hate how my mind evaluates my life, and organizes data and how my mania feels like torture when I don’t have the energy to do anything but listen to my racing thoughts

I hate hearing advice, I hate how much I resent it, I hate that I try try try and fail fail fail and everyone thinks they have answers but I have none

I hate fatigue, I hate headaches, I hate earaches, I hate body pain, I hate belabored breathing, I hate feeling paralyzed, I hate when it’s hard to get up in the morning, I hate when it’s hard to go the bathroom, I hate it when it’s hard to feed myself and I feel nauseous and tired and useless.  I hate that these things are me, that they are my life. 

I loathe myself, and I loathe having an audience to witness my flaws and limitations and feel a need to humor me, feel obligated to appease me.  I hate they have every right to resent me to feel frustrated to judge me, because I feel the very same way. 

I hate that this only the tip of the iceberg and I could continue on and on and on