Maybe I hate myself. Or maybe it’s not hate, exactly. Maybe it’s doubt dressed up as self-loathing. Maybe it’s a masquerade of all my insecurities tied up in a neat bow of Mable.
Every time something good happens to me, I start to question it. I wonder if I really deserve it, if I actually earned it. I remind myself that maybe it’s not meant for me. It’s almost like I can’t just let happiness be. I have to interrogate it, make sure it’s real and that it’s not depression wearing a different mask.
When I catch feelings for someone, I always assume they won’t feel the same. So I throw myself out of the equation before it is even solved. If they do say they feel the same, I question their intentions. Scrutinise their words and actions until I convince myself that there is no possible way they could like me. I am not even sure I like me, so why should they?
When I look at my body, I see something heavy and undeserving. I see a collection of flaws I’ve learned to catalogue better than any museum could. I call it a “den of sloth and undesirability.” I’m afraid to admit it’s mine, afraid to believe that this body that has carried me through so much could actually be worthy of love.
And then there’s the voice in my head, loud and constant. This voice keeps whispering that I’m going to fail anyway. So what’s the point of trying? If it’s all going to fall apart, why build anything at all? I look in the mirror and don’t see kindness, or strength, or potential. I just see someone waiting for everything to go wrong. I am a disciple of Murphy, and his law plays like a constant earworm in my head…everything that can go wrong will go wrong. It’s a catchy tune sometimes
So I run. Before I’m chased. I let go before I can be hurt. I prepare for the worst, always. Call me the doom prepper. I’ve stocked my shelves with every reason not to trust and every memory of being disappointed. I tell myself it’s protection, but it’s really just loneliness with better branding.
Still, there are moments. Little flickers. A spark of warmth that catches me off guard. Someone smiles and means it. A nice but crazy man on a plane, who doesn’t know me from Adam, tells me that I am really pretty, and he has no reason to. And he has no reason to lie. Something I create actually works. My words are beautiful and inspire. And those moments, for just a second, I feel life pressing gently into my hands, offering itself up. And yet, I pull away. Because I know — or I think I know — that it won’t last. That it’s safer not to hold on too tightly. Everything is like sand in your hands, it slips away.
Then I start asking myself the same questions again: Why am I like this? Why do I push away everything good? Why do I wait for things to break before they’ve even begun? Why do I always expect to fail? Why do I hate me?
I think, deep down, it’s because hating myself feels familiar. It’s predictable. If I convince myself I’m unworthy, then rejection doesn’t sting as much. If I don’t hope for too much, I can’t be disappointed when it slips away. It’s like I’d rather build a cage I understand than step into the open air and risk getting hurt again.
But there’s a tiny part of me, the quietest part, that doesn’t want to live this way anymore. The part that still reaches for light even when it burns. The part that still wonders if I could learn to stay, to trust, to believe I might be deserving after all.
Maybe that’s where healing begins, not in the perfect acceptance of myself, but in the simple act of still asking why. Because asking means I haven’t given up. It means there’s a part of me that still trying, still hoping to see myself the way others might. Maybe one day, I won’t have to ask why I hate me. Maybe one day, I’ll finally learn how to love me instead.