haa okay this is really fucking visceral. it's... not exactly poetry, but I would call it that. I've been really debating whether or not to put it here so im putting it under the cut. one of the people who knew the most about this was lying about literally everything so hello to tumblr, where im going to say it before they can. someone wrote this this morning, but it wasn't me... i dont think? seemingly someone new, with much help from our host so yk.
People don't seem to agree with my flaws, like they're somehow something that can be argued with and puzzled over, like a book you'd read in English class that's analyzed to the fullest extent it can be.
But people don't know me, not really, they know the nice version of me.
The good little golden boy, the one I was trained to be, the one who loves everyone unconditionally because they never felt they could be loved like that.
The one who's easy to rely on but will never be the person anyone cares about the most.
Why do I hate me?
People don't like the version of me which is most likely accurate, the girl who pushes away everyone she loves because she's scared that if she cares too much then they'll leave her, the child who helped other kids on the playground, the person the teachers would send the hurt kids to, just so they could feel accepted because even then, they knew the kids would get along, or the boy who decided he wasn't worth it anymore at the age of 12... and 13... and 14... and 15... and 16... and 17... and now I don't know.
People don't know the version of me who gets angry, who lashes out at the people who are supposed to care because he feels hurt, or who is terrified to take up space because every time she has it's been used against them.
Why do I hate me?
The problem was never neglect, at least I never saw it that way. I was always taken care of, at least until I looked at other peoples' families, and learned there was something else missing. Well, a lot of things really but the true tragedy is one I didn't realize until far too late.
I grew up around a lot of love. Entirely unconditional, and self-sacrificing. The i-can-never-give-you-enough type of love. The you-are-my-everything type of love. The i-will-help-you-before-myself-because-i-care kind of love. The kind of love that makes you feel whole and enough and genuinely feel like a person.
That's the kind of love I can give to others because it's what I knew growing up, but that love was never reserved for me.
I was taught that love for myself is painful, sinful, unkind, uncaring, unfeeling, taken for granted, a thing to be grateful for when given but never a thing to be asked for, and Dear God Above, please forgive us for thinking otherwise.
Why do I hate me?
I can love a person and see everything about them they don't like as the most pure and kind true version of themself, I can do this with just about everyone I meet who I genuinely connect with. It's not a difficult thing, it's just how I show love, I learn everything I can about a person, not fault them for the things they hate about themself, and show them how to love themself better than I can for them.
And even though it doesn't always work, even though every single person I've ever loved has died or left me in some devastating, horrific, stupid, insane way, it will always be worth it to me to make sure that they are okay.
Why do I hate me?
I guess the reason, as usual is my childhood, but it's more complicated than that.
I hate me for my face, for my voice, for my life, for my existence, for the fact that I breathe the same air as people who are beautiful souls, while mine is completely and totally evil.
I hate me for my bones, that ache with every step I take, for my family who told me through their actions that I would never be good enough to deserve the love that they so willingly and unsparingly gave to everyone else I knew.
I hate me for my size and my shape, for the fact that I let people walk all over me, for the adult who broke down every single piece of me over the course of a year just to feel like a normal person again, leaving me completely and totally broken.
I hate me for my trauma, for the feelings and pain I hold and have to live with for years without any explanation as to why. I know why now, but nothing changed. Not really. An explanation of brokenness isn't helpful, it only serves to justify the pain.
Were that not true, I would still hate me for my love. The love that I can give to everyone else
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