Self-loathing is a complicated issue

Self-loathing is a complicated issue.

It is pain; it is helplessness; it is the point where nothing matters. It is the boarish insistence that everything is fine and normal, and simultaneously, the contradictory certainty that nothing is good, right, or okay. It is the knowledge that you are broken, with conflicting ideas as to how you are broken. It is wrapped in layers of deception, a bitter onion that rots unevenly.

It is often inconsistent, and so it becomes harder for others to understand.

They assure you that everything will be okay. It annoys you, because they can’t see that nothing is okay. It stings you, because they’re telling you you’re just being silly; calling you names without saying them. It tears at you, because you’re making them worry about you, and you know you aren't worth it.

They call you names: drama queen, emo, cry baby, pathetic, soft, unreasonable. You were fine yesterday – what’s wrong with you today? You cry for any reason. You cry for no reason. They don’t even need to say it to you. You can tell how they feel just by their derision of others. Simple comments can tell you everything, and silence becomes your choking sanctuary.

They ignore you. Somehow, even strangers know you are tainted, and attempts to escape, to communicate with those outside, fall flat. It may be a call for help, it may be a smile and a hello; but you are invisible. You’re in the way. You’re just one word shy of pushing everyone to curse you away.

They inform you of some mental or emotional disorder. It banishes hope. You’re not normal. You really are broken, and only pills can fix you. You need medicine, so you can be like everyone else.

You know you are a nuisance. You know you don’t do enough for others. You know you’re a cold, cruel person; you don’t cry for what you should, only for things with no real meaning in your life. You know you’re lazy. You know you’re pathetic and useless.

You want to escape, but you don’t know how. The certainty that escape is impossible is your moldy woolen blanket; it scratches and irritates your skin, it’s dirty and suffocating, but it still keeps you warm. It still gives you something to hold. It is your only certainty, and even if it wasn't tangled about you so impossibly, you know you are too afraid to let it go.

But now, perhaps you also know you aren't alone.