Self-hatred doesn’t have an outward signaling. I am thin, white, female, neither very butch or very femme, and my illness are likely to be are hidden under strategic gashes and closed-toe shoes. Privilege wrapping around me like the skin of an onion, perfect for social camouflage. I am simultaneously very healthy for normal people and too easy to blend in for the rest of us.
” I hear you ,” I say, but I can tell nobody believes me. How could I understand when I appear so well?
While I’m young, my disfavour of conventional things can be written off as a instead tame uprising or the understandable the consequences of browbeat. Either lane, I’m quiet, withdrawn, self-contained, easy to treat. Everyone seems to think I’ll grow out of it, that eventually I’ll want what everyone else requires. A gold band on my fourth thumb. A chubby little side comprehending my own. Many chances to put into practice all these gratuities in women’s magazines that predict ecstasy.
Years flow by, and I remain self-contained. What’s wrong with me? I examine so well!
The bullying did injure. You told me to let it slip off my back, to thoughts a shield between me and others, to laugh at my tormentors rather than must be combated. I know you entailed well. I know you were doing your best, too. But still, it hurt.
You wonder how I forgave you. You wonder how I can appear so well. The truth is, I learned to be blind from you.
It won’t hurt. Okay, it’ll be just a pinch. A bit of soreness, that is all. You might experience some side effects. Don’t worry if you think you wet your pants, that’s how it’s supposed to feel. Try to loosen. Try not to be considered it. Project happy wellness guess. You’re very brave.
No, I don’t believe you. Why do you ask?
Secretly, I keep on hoping that you are right. That once the right one comes along, I will be made whole. They won’t care about my disfigurements, the grossness of my form, the utter strangeness of everything there is. I’ll be as everyone else is, eventually growing into my advantage. That I will be happy. That I will be well.
I cry every time I’m confronted with the truth — I’m wrong. I’ve always been wrong.
Nice people replenish me with violence.” I hear you ,” “theyre saying”.” I understand what you’re going through. You’re so brave. You’re so strong. I genuinely admire you .”
Fuck you all. You’re never there when you’re required. Viewers offering congratulations to the victim for not screaming.” Well done. You’re lower levels of a handful. Don’t worry. You’ll grow out of the sadness .”
You don’t believe me when I say I pattern boasts or do my makeup or buy beautiful clothes for my own pleasure.
What else is new?
Still, I believe in people. I believe in love. I believe in everyone’s better nature persist And I am thus disappointed, over and over again. How have I not grow bitter yet? How am I still so well.
It’s odd. It’s alien.
Reality, as always, being stranger than fiction.