I’m tired of hating myself. I’m tired of the disgust that rips through me when I see my reflection. In conversations, my contributions leave me with a sour stomach and a trail of self-recriminating thoughts. I look at what I have written, and I recoil at my own words.
I have to fight myself to continue typing. My fingers feel leaden and numb. But this is my truth. My truth is as important as that of anyone else, isn’t it? Either none of us matter, or we all do. Either way, we are all equally important. I choose to believe that we all matter, and as such I ought to believe that I matter as well. Intellectually, I do know this makes sense. Still, I struggle against a deeply ingrained belief that I am inconsequential. Worthless. Useless. A waste of space and resources. And worse: burdensome, disgusting, selfish, irritating, lazy, and stupid.
At times, the hate is an all-consuming fury. The rage wells up in my core and spills out into my limbs. It is acid burning my insides, boiling up through my skin towards the light. Rage demands expression. I desperately want to run a blade across my skin. Maybe to punish myself for being me, or maybe simply a distraction. The rage overwhelms the senses; I am blinded to the external world. My insides are on fire. I envision myself being hurled against walls until the pain triumphs over the fury.
The fury takes form in my imagination sometimes, late at night. She is a child within me, some grotesquely twisted version of my youth. Her hair is so matted and covered in grime that one would think it black. It drapes across her in greasy tangles, obscuring her from view. She is a small little thing. Perhaps nine or ten. But she engenders no warm feelings. She is cold fury, and she stands apart. If her countenance were not enough to keep people at bay, there would still be no one clambering to offer affection, as she is covered with protruding metal needles from head to toe. To touch her is to be pained. And so she remains alone inside of me, a loveless child, curled in a ball of coiled fury that unravels in sudden bursts.
I am trying to heal that child. For her sake and for mine, as she lashes out at me incessantly. She needs to know that she is loved and that she matters. So I am writing this post, despite the protests of my body. With every word, I am telling my inner child that she matters.