No one hates you as much as you do.

The following is an assignment by my current therapist. I had to sit with myself and write down every horrible thought about myself. I had to do this for 40 mins. and then was not allowed to think about anything else bad for the rest of the day. It was rough.

There is no structure…it is purely like a “free write.”

This writing is purely for me…but I decided to share anyway, since there is a limited amount of people who see this blog. Proceed with caution.

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You probably hate me, right? Don’t you? Why wouldn’t you hate me? If you don’t hate me now, you will hate me eventually. I hate me, though I am not exactly sure why. Perhaps because I am not living up to my potential. I am suppose to achieve great things, right? And what have I done? I have nothing to my name. I have nothing in my bank account. I have done nothing that will be remembered. I might as well not exist.

I talk too much, right? I talk to much and you think that I think that I am always right. That I have all the answers. That’s what you think. You think that and everyone else.

You think I’m arrogant. You do. You think I am arrogant and a “know-it-all.” Because I’m intelligent, this is what you think. You think I am a bitch…I can be one I suppose. But I hate that you think that.

I should tell you that I also feel selfish. Incredibly selfish and self-centered. I’m not a good listener. I attempt to be but I fail. And often. I whine. I can be very whiney at times…more self-centeredness.

I’m too emotional. Too vulnerable. Anyone can hurt me. I am the world’s easiest target.

I am tired. I despise this tiredness because I know it is due to all the energy I waste on emotions, on thoughts…things beyond my control. I am tired of living. I am tired of paying bills, putting gas in the car, answering phone calls, taking medication, listening to music. I am tired of putting one leg in at a time, showering and making myself look nice.

I am weak. I am tired and weak and can barely stand. I will never be able to survive any other challenge that life presents. I will melt in the face of fear, anxiety, stress sadness.

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I hate how particular I can be. About what I eat, about the things I like. I try not to make a fuss but I can tell it makes people feel bad or makes people judge me and makes me feel horrible.

Sometimes I hate the sound of my own voice. I can hear it through the middle of my head…its whiny and nasally and not always the grounded, resonate, alto voice that I know is in there. It sounds like I am speaking from my throat, that someone is choking me. I am a voice teacher and I cannot even speak correctly.

I hate that I take medication. That I have to depend on something to bring me to a state of neutrality, to help me function, to help me keep going. My body is flawed. It is sick and tired. I have to take medication to ride in a car, on a plane or a train. I have to take medication to eat the foods I crave, to get up in the morning at wash my face, to go to sleep at night. I have to take medication to calm my nerves, settle my stomach and boost my system. I have to take medication. Medication like that which kept my mother in dark rooms, made her cry and sink into grief. I hate that I take medication.

I wish I didn’t stop my piano lessons. I could have been so good and now my technique is crap. We moved, we couldn’t find a teacher…its not my fault but I feel so embarrassed whenever I play.

I have bits of fat, hugging around my center. Sometimes you see it, sometimes you pinch it. I pinch it too, wishing it wasn’t there. I also wish I had no breasts, none at all. None to be starred at and gawked at and fondled and none to get in the way. They do get in the way…you probably don’t think that. Its difficult to find shirts that button, that fit all over and still button at the chest without gapping open. I was teased for not having breasts in middle school, I got them and now I wish them away. My skin is falling off. It is. I hate my skin. Its thin, burns so easily and flakes into everything. My hair knots up. Badly. Sometimes I can barely get a comb through it. I end up looking like a dirty hippie, like a drown rat. My hair breaks easily too. It is fail and sick. I sweat…more than most girls. I swear I sweat more than most buys. I get hot and pink and sweat, leaving wet makes on my nicest shirts.

I wish I wouldn’t have married that man. It was the most foolish thing I have ever done. To waste that on someone who was so horrible. I couldn’t see the monster in the man. I lacked judgment, I was blind, foolish and young. Too young.

You stopped talking to me because I am not pretty enough, right? Because I am too fat? Too pale? Because I have “issues.” Because I have been beaten and bruised. Because I am damaged, used goods. I’ve been wasted on someone not worth it. Because I’ve failed too many times at this. You stopped wanting anything to do with me because I am too emotional, too sensitive and unstable.

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One thought on “No one hates you as much as you do.

  1. I find this cadence of misery beautiful. It’s the dark mirror we all carry inside, the shadow that reaches out of the pond and caresses our face with easy pity before pulling us down into endless doubt, drowning our forevers into nothings. Could say a bunch of comforts, but you’re too self-aware and don’t need them, because you just as easily could turn this exercise into 40 minutes of personal exultations, a resume of merits & achievements that shine like the gold you are. We are shadows and we are lights … and the voice that kills wears our smiling face.

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