When I Fantasize About Being Hated, Is It Because I Hate Myself?
There’s a part of me that gets off on being hated—not in a bratty way, but in the kind of way where someone looks at me like I’m disgusting and still uses me anyway. Where they say the thing I’m already scared they secretly think. And sometimes I wonder if that’s about the kink, or if it’s just about me.
Because when I really sit with it, I don’t think it’s just a game. I think it’s a way to make the shame feel controlled. If I choose it, maybe it can’t hurt me. If I eroticize the hate, maybe I don’t have to deal with the parts of me that already believe I deserve it.
It’s not always like that. But sometimes, when the scene ends, I’m left asking myself whether I wanted to be hated or if I just needed to feel seen—even in the worst possible way. And that’s where it gets blurry. Because when someone calls me names I’ve already used on myself, it doesn’t feel like play. It feels like truth I’m not supposed to admit out loud.
I don’t know if it’s self-hatred or if it’s just a survival strategy that got tangled up with sex. Maybe both. I just know that sometimes, I crave degradation because it matches the way I already talk to myself. And other times, I crave someone who will fuck me like I’m filthy—but remind me afterward that I’m not.