Sometimes, it creeps into your system. You don’t know when, but it starts with butterflies in your stomach and just grows from there. It brushes over every wound and scar you’ve been keeping inside you. Every hurtful word said to you, every time you lashed out, the moments you desperately wanted a friend, every time you wish wished you were one of them. It hurts and yet you fall into that hole every time. It’s painful but at the same time comforting because it’s your default state when you’re alone. It’s what you try so desperately to hide. It’s what you’ve felt for as long as you can remember.
You look in the mirror and tell yourself to man up, you hit yourself, slap yourself. Anything to get out of this rut. To avoid falling deeper in that hole of self-loathing you drown yourself in every time. You contemplate telling others. But they’ll see it as melodrama. They’ve got their own problems. They don’t care. They’ll make fun of you. They’ll judge you even more. They’ll never understand and you’ll never be one of them. Not that you want to anymore. You’ve lived the better part of your life just wanting that, but it doesn’t matter anymore. You’re a well-adjusted adult who looks in the mirror every morning and wishes your reflection would put a bullet through your skull. It would be a mercy really.
The rational side of your brain tells you how good you have it. It tells you that you’re better now. You’ve got actual friends, real friends. People who care about you. So why does it still hurt? Why do I have this hole in my chest that burns coldly?
You don’t cry anymore. There nothing left. You just hurt, hurt and hate, hate and hurt. Seething. Just do something. Smile. You put on your persona. Make people laugh, tease them, try to engage in flippant conversations. Pretend you’re a well-adjusted member of society. Don’t tell them how much you hate yourself. Because they wouldn’t understand and to be honest, they wouldn’t care. They’ve got their own demons to fight.
You’ve heard the theories. Why you’re damaged goods. It doesn’t fucking matter why sometimes. Not when you’re in the middle of it. Not when you’re in so much pain. Not when it presses down on you, when it permeates your every fiber. When every nerve in your body is shaking in impotent rage and fear.
You’ve never been good at anything. Never good enough at least. Always a parody of the real thing. Of things people find beautiful. A parody of a human being. That’s what you are and what you’ve always been. Fake laughs because you never learned to laugh. You know that people laugh at you for that? Yeah, they do. Among other things. They laugh because you’re a subhuman creature put on this planet for their amusement. Because you’re not one of them. They take out their own demons at you. It’s easy to feel big when you make someone feel small right?
So i’m writing this for anyone who would care to read it. It’s the words of someone who feels lost and tired. Someone who doesn’t know what to do or where he’s going. Someone who doesn’t know who he is because he’s tried to be so many things in this life, desperate to be anything else aside from the hateful broken person he is.
Self-loathing is easy. Just practice it a lot. Bleed. Look at your past and remember every damn cut and scar you carry. Open it up again and again and again. Everytime. All the time. It’s easy if you know how.