I turn good things into dust, eradicate their grandeur and rebuild them into turrets of self doubt and loathing. When something good happens, something I should be proud of, I tarnish it with thoughts that it was a fluke, something that will never happen again. Whatever it is, it isn’t good enough. It will never be good enough. I will never be good enough. I am blank. I am afraid to write, afraid that what I believed to be in my blood is only vapor, opaque and insubstantial. Afraid that I am insubstantial.
The affliction of self loathing, like blindness, feels like an unwelcome guest that creeps endlessly across the landscape of my life. But, do I invite self loathing? Is it a habit? Some clichés are true; old habits die hard. Or perhaps it is a stirring in my blood, adhered to my bones? Have I learned to loathe myself, or was I born with self loathing in my heart? No matter what I do, what I write, I am still the ugly girl, the child that shouldn’t have been born, the one who failed to do what she was meant to do, who failed to fix what was broken, and then broke apart from the weight of failure.
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