On Self-Hatred

I feel off. Just…not fully a person. Not fully living anymore. I feel like my words have escaped me, like I can’t freely say anything to anyone because my brain doesn’t generate the words. I am always thinking “I’m not saying enough” and then I get more worried and it just escalates to a bad place where my insides feel shriveled, dirty, and weak, like now.

Where am I? Why am I doing the things I’m doing? Why am I playing this Bach concerto or calling That Person every night or having almost silent dinners with my family? Why am I doing calculus worksheets and worrying about what I’ll do next year and WHY DO I STILL FEEL LIKE I LIED? I told him. EVERYTHING. I flushed myself of the hidden shit and now look where I am. I’m a fucking quivering mess, afraid of every metaphorical corner of my mind and afraid of what That Person will call me next and afraid of missing something or leaving out something important.

I’m strained and impatient and I clam up. I don’t feel real, I feel imaginary, like a little wisp of cloud or skin or bone and I don’t feel anything in my mind.


Anybody in there?

I don’t know why I am still here. I feel like I’m grasping at air, trying to fix That Person’s fear, when really it’s me who needs to be fixed. Me who carried that burden by myself for nine months, me who told him to keep punching me into the ground for it, who wanted to take bricks and give them to him to bash my soul in with. Me who punched my head into his bed. Him who stopped me.

The snow looks nice on the branches outside. It fell in little triangles between each branch and now it looks like tiny white kites. They look perfect for eating.

Obviously there’s something going on in my mind, otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to write all that, or write about the reality of the snow. Right? Right.

March 19, 2013

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