Today I cried because of my own deep-seated hatred of myself. But crying over this just goes to show that I love myself even a little bit, and that’s better than not at all.
I was doing my bi-monthly notes app cleanout, where I delete all my last will and testament notes. There are a lot of them. I used to see these notes as a trophy of sorts, a benchmark that defined my quality of life. The more last wills and testaments I have, the more times I’ve been so happy that I thought I was going to die. What that actually means is that I believe so fervently that I am not deserving of joy regularly that I assume only the worst is yet to come, which is not being able to look back at that happy memory for the rest of my life. It means that I impose some sort of importance upon my suffering, as if my happiness depends on that suffering. I martyr myself, and for what? For who? Because it’s sure as hell not doing me any good.
It’s a little discouraging to think that you’ve done an exorbitant amount of work trying to love yourself, just to realize you were faking it the whole time. Why do I so badly wish suffering upon myself, the only person who has ever been there for me 100% of the time, and will continue to be the only one there for me throughout the rest of my life? Is that logical in any capacity? No!! If I only have myself to depend on, why have I spent a lifetime trying to hurt myself? Not to sound like an individualist, I have just been let down at least once by everything that isn’t the rising of the sun and the pull of the tides, c’est la vie. I am the only me in the world, I am an endangered species, and I should treat myself as such. I should enrich my enclosure to my heart’s desire, I should develop some self-preservation skills, I should prepare for the future (because believe it or not, there’s gonna be a future), I should go to the dentist… things of that nature. And I’ll get there eventually. Right now, the battle between self-infatuation and an unbridled feeling of disgust towards the very mention of my existence rages on. But the depth of my wounds does not decide whether I go to heaven or hell. Unnecessary suffering is not a prerequisite to happiness.
Back to loving yourself. It’s difficult. It’s really fucking hard to look the person who hurt you the most in the eye and tell them you love them. Part of loving is forgiveness, however, and it must be done in order to heal. Or so they say. I’m not actually sure if I believe that. Different can of worms. But in this specific case, you need to forgive yourself in order to love yourself. Mistakes were made in the name of being our own harshest critic, and that’s okay. But in being our own harshest critic, we have the capacity to compliment ourselves in the way we wish to be admired by others. Just because something isn’t being given to you doesn’t mean you can’t give it to yourself, nor does it mean that it is rightfully being withheld. Something I wish I had learned sooner than 6 months ago is that I can just allow myself to feel loved; it’s okay that I didn’t feel entirely loved as a kid, I am still worthy and open to receiving love in as many forms as possible, even if it’s not in the exact way I felt that I was lacking. I’m not saying you can love yourself into pure bliss, but I am recently coming to terms with just how much the way I view myself reflects in the way I treat others. With my level of self-hatred, I tend to pedestalize others. Not so much these days as when I was a kid or a teenager, but every once in a while I do catch myself thinking my mom is god, or that Gus’ opinion is gospel. Part of self-love is viewing everyone equally, including yourself. Mom makes mistakes, Gus likes pickles. I also make mistakes and have some controversial opinions. Talking to myself like I would a friend has helped a lot in seeing my own value. I would never speak to Christian like I do myself, nor would I subject Sam to a level of suffering anywhere close to that which I inflict upon myself. I would protect Zeke’s peace at all costs. Alexia could punch me in the face, and I’d kindly ask her not to do that again, but I would also be pretty forgiving, considering she is good people, and I don’t think she would punch me for no reason. My fatal flaw is that I love others more than I love myself, when I should be loving myself just as much as I love my friends. I am not any less deserving of love than they are, just because my apartment is messy and I eat crackers in bed, resulting in crumbs everywhere. So why is it so hard to forgive myself for that time I accidentally didn’t say thank you to the waitress when she brought our drinks 4 months ago?
Thank you for reading, and thank you to my friends for sticking by me even when I hate myself. And shoutout to logic and critical thinking skills for helping me realize that my self-hatred is irrational and dumb. I am well on my way to becoming my own biggest fan, hopefully.
Phrenectomy 