My relationship with myself is a passionate, flawed one. By that, I mean I hate myself. Not all the time, but often enough.
Here are some things that set off my self-hate:
- When I fail at something
- When I go for a hug, but the other person wants a handshake
- When I go for a handshake, but the other person wants a hug
- When I get socially anxious and say anything that’s mean, dumb, or actually fine — but I’m convinced that it was mean and dumb
- When I can’t sleep
- When I sleep too much
- When I eat too much
- When I eat too little
- When my room is messy (my room is always messy)
Self-hate and self-love fight all the time, like this:
Me: You left the heater on when you left the house because you’re incapable of living a good life.
Me: I think I turned it off.
Me: The house will burn down now, but that doesn’t matter anyway. It’s a bad house you live in with two other adults, because you’re an actual loser.
Me: What? No, the heater isn’t on, and that’s rude.
Me: Let me assure you that the heater is on, and you are fat.
Here come the positive affirmations I learned in therapy: Come on now, you two. You’re both beautiful, strong—
Us: SHUT THE FUCK UP.
I really hate myself when I’m in a creative slump. I hate myself for having to pee at the wrong time or ordering the wrong thing at a restaurant. I hate myself for not being able to spell “restaurant” without spell check.
We all throw our shame into the fire, but it doesn’t burn; it just melts down into a sharp blade that we pick back up and store under our skin so we never forget the pain.
I hate myself when I’m tired. I’m convinced that I get tired before other people. When I’m run-down, I want to sleep and hide, which makes sense to me. Other people are like, “Yeah, I got an hour of sleep, and I eat only one yogurt a day, but hey, that’s life, right?” And I’m like, “What? No. I ate pancakes, and that was my only activity today, so I’m pretty exhausted. I’m gonna go sleep some more.” Then they’re like, “Cool, I’m gonna head to the gym, then pick up a third career for the hell of it. More work actually gives me more energy.” Of course, I’ve already dozed off.
This comparison, this desire to be the best instead of my best, is where the poison lies, because we are all just people. We don’t need to climb over each other to the top of a people mountain until we feel like we’re the best person at the people summit.
Self-hatred is common and relatable. I’ve never met someone who fully loves themselves, and in fact, I bond with people over it. “I’m so out of shape.” “I’m so lazy.” “I spent so much money on crap yesterday.” We all throw our shame into the fire, but it doesn’t burn; it just melts down into a sharp blade that we pick back up and store under our skin so we never forget the pain. Or use it to cut into a cake and eat the entire thing.
Me: I wanna write a play abou—
Me: No.
Me: But maybe I could—
Me: No.
Me: If I worked really hard, I do think I could—
Me: Your stomach gets rolls when you sit down.
Me: Oh.
Self-hatred feels like I’m grossed out. Like my skin is made of raw chicken, and I’m squirming to get away from it.
My favorite self-hatred breakdowns are the ones that happen after I socialize. I convince myself that when I had engaged with an acquaintance by the bar, I was the worst person they had ever spoken to — and even funnier, I convince myself that it matters.
It usually plays out like this:
I ask someone how they’re doing, then tell them how I’m doing, and upon reflection, I decide that somewhere within that interaction, I ruined their life and humiliated myself. I assign myself all this power and am not at all empowered. The more power I believe I have, the weaker I feel.
It’s endlessly fascinating to compare our perception to reality. Our perception is our reality, but if you can split the two, it’s really something. If you compare facts about your life with your self-hatred, you’ll probably see that this anger does not come from something accurate.
Self-hatred: I’m lazy, and that’s why I’m a failure.
Facts: I feel like we’re just taking a nap.
Self-hatred feels like I’m grossed out. Like my skin is made of raw chicken, and I’m squirming to get away from it.
Self-hatred seems to be self-awareness run amok to the point where it’s unawareness again. It’s good to edit ourselves and make sure we’re not being horrible pieces of shit, but when we think we are pieces of shit for making tea that’s too hot, well, this is the limit.
“I don’t look good in spandex!” But it’s not like I’m really supposed to look good in spandex. I don’t even wear spandex. Who does? I just decided that it’s my duty to be spandex-able.
I would never hate anyone else for napping all day or eating too much at dinner or accidentally saying “her-b” instead of “erb.” I mean, I hate lots of people, but not for things like that. Yet for some reason I give myself hell for all of it.
I still do those things, though. That’s the thing. I don’t stop doing things that make me hate myself. I scold myself for smoking, then do it more. I go through bouts of yoga and not eating candy, then to a tidal wave of cigarettes and late nights. I am authoritative, and I am a rebellious kid — all at the same time. Bouncing back and forth from military-grade discipline to a “Drunk Girls Gone Wild” star. It plays out in too much punishment or too much reward.
Maybe it comes from parents who taught me that I’m easily abandoned. Maybe it’s deep childhood wounds. There are some ties there, I’d imagine. The way our parents raise us might affect us as adults. But what do I know? I’m just some easily abandoned loser.
Mostly, I think self-hate comes from trying to be something I’m not. I get caught up in the, “Oh my God, I didn’t write that very well” and “I don’t look good in spandex!” But it’s not like I’m really supposed to look good in spandex. I don’t even wear spandex. Who does? I just decided that it’s my duty to be spandex-able.
I invite this self-critic back time and time again to yell at me. I really don’t like her. But if I’m not getting something from my inner enemy, why do I open the door for her? There must be something about her that I at least feel comfortable with. So she’s kind of like a friend I hate. She’s my frenemy.
Me: Hey, critic?
Critic: Yeah?
Me: How’d I do?
Critic: Bad. Because you’re bad.
Me: Thanks! See you soon!
Critic: Later!
What hurts is when I try to be the winner, reigning supreme above all other people. Trying to be the best is combative. It’s fighting and separating from others and taking on power that I don’t have. If someone else is better at something than I am, I can’t control that. I can control only the best that I can be. Which is pretty good when I don’t compare! I’m the best pancake eater I’ve ever known!
If someone else’s best is enough, then maybe so is yours.
I never thought I was bad until I saw someone whom I decided was better. A B grade is really good if no one else gets an A. In case your mom never told you, your best is all you can ask for, and it’s really, really good.
It’s fascinating how we see other’s mistakes in a different light. Oh man, it’s so cute when they do the following:
- Fail at something
- Go for a hug, but the other person just wants to shake their hand
- Go for a handshake, but the other person wants a hug
- Get socially anxious and say anything that’s mean, dumb, or actually fine, but they’re convinced it was mean and dumb
- Can’t sleep
- Sleep too much
- Eat too much
- Eat too little
- When their room is messy (and maybe it’s always messy)
If someone else’s best is enough, then maybe so is yours. If you can listen to someone else’s inner critic and think, “Wow, that’s pretty harsh,” then maybe you can do the same for your own. Then again, what do I know? I’m just a socially anxious, messy, self-hating writer. But I’m doing my best.
