Self-hate book

Do you know what it means to hate yourself?  Like, truly hate yourself.  I do because I can honestly say, I hate myself.  You can call me depressed if you want because I guess I am but not in the clinical sense.  I understand the notion of trying to keep my head above the water.  If I can do that, for whatever extended amount of time, I feel wonderful.  This picture is exactly how I feel:  Treading water but only enough that your face is peaking out, almost level with the water, looking up to the sky.  You can hear yourself breathing really loudly because your ears are still under the water.  This is how close to going under you are but you feel OK because you’re breathing and everything is actually really good.  But then, a boat goes by making waves, you get an itch on your face and need your hand, something is tickling your legs, a bee comes along.  These are all things that will make me sink, make me lose it, hypothetically of course. 

Being above the water feels like a facade – zest for life, happiness, confidence – muting what’s underneath the waters.  If I stop treading water, I will begin to panic, go under and then swim as hard as I can to get my head peaking out of the water again.  What is this panic in a non-hypothetical sense?  Panic mode begins a onslaught of self-hate internalization which could consist of the following questions/comments:  Why did you say that?  Dumbest joke ever.  You looked fat in that outfit.  You are fat.  It’s probably because you’re freakishly short.  Pretty?  You’re pretty average looking, maybe even odd looking.  It’s because you’re too senstitive and needy and scared them away.  You’re not cool/hip/nerdy/smart/cute/witty – not into music/art/movies/books/current events enough.  If only you weren’t so shy and awkward.  If only you could speak loud enough, without stuttering or sounding like a total idiot, etc, etc, etc.

I function in life to the best of my abilities – I go to work, I have hobbies, I leave the house, you know, all these things norms do.  But what might be different from the norm is the hyper-awareness in my head.  The brain doesn’t stop spinning and spinning and spinning.  A bit of OCD?  Perhaps.  It’s tiring and usually self-depricating.  I try to divert the self-hate by hating norms.  Norms are boring, have ‘average’ hobbies and interests, enjoy small talk, these types of things.  At least I’m not a boring norm, right?  But, joke’s on me because it seems these norms are enjoying life more than I am.  They have their shit together.  Where does all that confidence come from?  Nothing fucking bothers them!  Or, if something does, they can get over it withoug plunging deep into panic mode.

Anyway, I don’t know why I’m posting this but I will.  It’s not a cry for help because that notion actually depresses me and makes me want to slit my wrists (oh, the irony).  I’ve been like this for as long as I can remember.  I just know that I will be OK but will also plunge (shallow and deep).  I guess I’m posting this because it’s good to be self-aware, to understand oneself and hopefully, accept yourself.  I can’t change this.  I’m a hard-wired, middle child.  In conversation about this very idea yesterday, my friend said: “Well, I guess we (he and his wife) will be stopping at two.”  Good idea.  Wink.


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