Rage and Hate... I
Monologue/Diatribe on Self Hate
5/20/09
For many years, I denied the fact that I hated myself to the point where I believed the lie. In recent times, though, I have been doing my best to quash my own self-deceptions and delusions… though not that I am a sweet innocent little angel, because I am! :P
Healthy relationships, whether they be friendships or more intimate relationships between people, are built on trust. Trust requires honesty from all parties involved. If I am unable to be honest with myself, truly honest, how can I be honest with my friends, family, and above all: Significant Others? I need to have a healthier relationship with myself in order to have an even better and healthier relationship with everyone else.
So, let’s get dirty:
I hate myself.
I have hated myself for years. It builds up on itself, even as it eats away at one’s sense of self. It eats a hole inside that gets deeper and deeper. The guilt and loathing seep in on top of the hate as it keeps sinking and eating, feeding on everything and leaving nothing but horror behind; the most corrosive of acids.
I have hated myself since I was a little girl. That hate has had a lot of time to dig a deep, dark hole. I don’t know exactly how deep it is. I try not to look at it too terribly close.
When I look into the abyss, does it look back?
Yes. Sometimes it even has cookies to stuff in my face, complete with a frosting of guilt.
But the food loves me. I will always need the food. But the food is bad.
I get bigger… bigger… and not in that Tom Hanks movie way.
When I look the abyss, what do I see? I see memories. They drag me in with chains and hooks, much like in Hellraiser, but it isn’t that hottie, Pinhead, that I see.
I’m a little girl again. I take in every word spoken from a concerned parent. Dad had only recently been diagnosed with diabetes at this point in time. He had to go on insulin. He was lecturing about how he didn’t want me to ever have to go through what he was going through. In the same breath, though, he points out the inevitability of it via my genetics.
So, I need to work hard to avoid it, when it didn’t really matter? No matter what I was going to do, I was going to fail. I have to eat shit and like it to avoid coming down with a condition I will get anyway? I have to sneak tasty comfort. The food always tastes the same when tears are streaming down my cheeks. Now, it all tastes like ash.
Daddy tells me, in essence, that all I can look forward to in life, is misery. I have to be thin. I have to try to be what he wasn’t.
I just want a little bit of cheese.
Starved for calories, since everything I have been eating has none, I eat the entire block…
When I look in the abyss, what do I see? I see the children mocking me. I don’t know why. I get bigger and bigger… I was always bigger than them… The little bastards love to see me cry.
I learn to hate…
So, no, I do my best not to look into the pit carved of self-hatred, lined with guilt and self-loathing (which *is* quite different, by the way), with a fine misting of rage on top. In fact, I usually have it capped off. I siphon it off to other endeavors. I channel it and create with it… or at least, I try to.
Circumstances, though, have a way of cracking the seal on the siphoning lid I put on it. Sometimes it was job related, and sometimes it was personal. Recently, it was a little bit of everything:
Quitting smoking.
Job upheaval.
Buying a house.
Being the bread winner.
Uncontrolled weight-gain.
Holy fuck, am I pregnant?
Hormones out of whack do to said weight gain.
Holy fuck! Am I PREGNANT!?
All at once, hitting me… The mist of rage escaped for a while, pitting everything with its corrosiveness, even as I embraced it as an extra energy source. In the end I felt like I was getting an ulcer or something, so I had to break down (literally) and put it back in it’s hole.
This has happened several times. I’m not pleasant to be around when this is going on. I can’t stand myself. I don’t know how my men can stand me.
To think… I ran on nearly nothing other than the Rage and Hate as a teenager…
5/20/09
For many years, I denied the fact that I hated myself to the point where I believed the lie. In recent times, though, I have been doing my best to quash my own self-deceptions and delusions… though not that I am a sweet innocent little angel, because I am! :P
Healthy relationships, whether they be friendships or more intimate relationships between people, are built on trust. Trust requires honesty from all parties involved. If I am unable to be honest with myself, truly honest, how can I be honest with my friends, family, and above all: Significant Others? I need to have a healthier relationship with myself in order to have an even better and healthier relationship with everyone else.
So, let’s get dirty:
I hate myself.
I have hated myself for years. It builds up on itself, even as it eats away at one’s sense of self. It eats a hole inside that gets deeper and deeper. The guilt and loathing seep in on top of the hate as it keeps sinking and eating, feeding on everything and leaving nothing but horror behind; the most corrosive of acids.
I have hated myself since I was a little girl. That hate has had a lot of time to dig a deep, dark hole. I don’t know exactly how deep it is. I try not to look at it too terribly close.
When I look into the abyss, does it look back?
Yes. Sometimes it even has cookies to stuff in my face, complete with a frosting of guilt.
But the food loves me. I will always need the food. But the food is bad.
I get bigger… bigger… and not in that Tom Hanks movie way.
When I look the abyss, what do I see? I see memories. They drag me in with chains and hooks, much like in Hellraiser, but it isn’t that hottie, Pinhead, that I see.
I’m a little girl again. I take in every word spoken from a concerned parent. Dad had only recently been diagnosed with diabetes at this point in time. He had to go on insulin. He was lecturing about how he didn’t want me to ever have to go through what he was going through. In the same breath, though, he points out the inevitability of it via my genetics.
So, I need to work hard to avoid it, when it didn’t really matter? No matter what I was going to do, I was going to fail. I have to eat shit and like it to avoid coming down with a condition I will get anyway? I have to sneak tasty comfort. The food always tastes the same when tears are streaming down my cheeks. Now, it all tastes like ash.
Daddy tells me, in essence, that all I can look forward to in life, is misery. I have to be thin. I have to try to be what he wasn’t.
I just want a little bit of cheese.
Starved for calories, since everything I have been eating has none, I eat the entire block…
When I look in the abyss, what do I see? I see the children mocking me. I don’t know why. I get bigger and bigger… I was always bigger than them… The little bastards love to see me cry.
I learn to hate…
So, no, I do my best not to look into the pit carved of self-hatred, lined with guilt and self-loathing (which *is* quite different, by the way), with a fine misting of rage on top. In fact, I usually have it capped off. I siphon it off to other endeavors. I channel it and create with it… or at least, I try to.
Circumstances, though, have a way of cracking the seal on the siphoning lid I put on it. Sometimes it was job related, and sometimes it was personal. Recently, it was a little bit of everything:
Quitting smoking.
Job upheaval.
Buying a house.
Being the bread winner.
Uncontrolled weight-gain.
Holy fuck, am I pregnant?
Hormones out of whack do to said weight gain.
Holy fuck! Am I PREGNANT!?
All at once, hitting me… The mist of rage escaped for a while, pitting everything with its corrosiveness, even as I embraced it as an extra energy source. In the end I felt like I was getting an ulcer or something, so I had to break down (literally) and put it back in it’s hole.
This has happened several times. I’m not pleasant to be around when this is going on. I can’t stand myself. I don’t know how my men can stand me.
To think… I ran on nearly nothing other than the Rage and Hate as a teenager…