I hate myself.
Actually, I’m not sure that’s 100% accurate. It’s not like I spend my time staring into the mirror and spitting at my reflection. I don’t wallow in guilt. I do tend to indulge in a bit of regret (guilt’s introverted twin sister) from time-to-time, but it’s not all-consuming. If pressed, I could probably even rattle off ten or so things about me that I think are worthwhile, and a couple more that I truly, sincerely like. When viewed from a certain angle, one could easily conclude that my self-esteem is under-developed, but not necessarily broken… kind of a Thalidomide baby arm of the soul.
And yet.
I can feel the disdain. From everyone, everywhere. They think I’m ugly. My words aren’t clever enough. My thoughts aren’t deep enough. I can’t be kind enough. I can’t be sufficiently cutting. My opinions are pointless. My contributions useless. My value is minimal, and that’s being generous. I’m the never-was has-been whose best was just good enough to be disappointing.
And yet.
That’s absurd. First of all, I don’t matter enough to merit that sort of harsh analysis from the entire human race. Second, there are a handful of people close to me, people I know don’t view me quite so derisively. Although that brings in its own set of problems, now that I mention it. After all, there’s a lesson to be learned in watching some deluded teenager show up at an American Idol audition with a dozen devoted family members and years of music lessons in tow, only to discover to his horror that he can’t sing a note. Love is blinding, and you therefore can’t trust the perspective of those so blinded… especially when they’re telling you what you desperately need to hear.
And so.
Maybe the truth is, I hate you. All of you, everywhere. Why else would I put such hateful words in your mouths and thoughts in your skulls? Why would I doubt your ability to appreciate me on any level? Why else would every minor cut you give me feel like an amputation?
Unless I love you.
And I hate myself.