I hate myself

I hate myself. 

People as me why, when, what happened?

That is of course if they are lucky enough to see the fact that I hate myself. 

I think at least perhaps to the people that know me and that don't.

I have mastered the art of hiding the fact

I hate myself. 

It's the people stuck in the middle, the ones i sort of know, who run the risk of learning the truth. 

The ones who know just enough, but i don't care about enough, to know that it would break them, if they learned, how broken I am.

They are the ones I almost tell, that

I hate myself. 

 

I hate myself. 

People ask me why, when, what happened?

And if you catch me in that kind of mood. I'll tell you "I was born".

But that of course is a lie.  

Because I was happy. I was brought up well. By a family who care for me and made sure, intentionally or not, that I did not see the things I could not do. 

It was normal for dad to dress me on the kitchen table, when I was seven.

It was normal to be carried by my mother, while my siblings ran bellow. 

It was normal, my chair was normal. She was, she is, safe. 

And now, 

I hate myself. 

 

I hate myself. 

What happened?

That's the question I struggle with, because something must of happened. I was not born hating. No one is born hating. i was not born in pain, that developed, and I coped.

And the me now, might not believe that, for the comforting embrace of pain, feels like my mothers hug. When I was seven. 

Because you see I am to big for her to hug me. 

I mean she hugs me still, of course. But not in the way she did when I was seven. And sometimes, it's so clear, that that's my fault, for growing. 

But something happened, clearly. 

So what? Why do 

I hate myself?

 

I hate myself. 

Is it because, I saw the way life should have been, 

And could have been had my brain not been starved at such a pivotal moment of my creation, of the vital source of life, of existence, that it now, so easily takes for granted. 

Is it because, I saw the way he kissed her.

Or maybe she kissed him. Pressed together so tightly against that hidden wall, smokers corner, where the teachers know exactly what is going on, and yet life was in the thrill of the hidden secret, that was not so hidden. 

A secret I was never part of, A world I could only watch. No one wanted to welcome the girl, with the teacher, obligated to stay. And by the time she could leave, friendships were cemented, and my confidence was shot. 

And then, alone. With only the people that did not fit into the mould of the playground, locked together, to momentarily ignore the pain of their existence, to then be thrown back into it. To be alone, again, when the bell rings. 

To once again hate myself. 

 

I hate myself.

Because I hate myself. I hate myself more. I shouldn't hate myself. Because I chose not to go into those friendship groups. Didn't I? Did I? I don't...........

My parents are together still, no one hit me. I was fed. I am fed and clothed. And looking back, only now, I see how hard that must have been and is. And still

I hate myself. 

 

I hate myself. 

But why?

What is there to hate? I have a family, and friends, or at least people who i thing are friends, I am warm, and clothed, and fed, and educated, and free, to write, to read, to write, oh to write. 

And yet underneath it all, the happy, the people, the words, the infinite worlds, unlocked by words, written on a page, that takes me to people who deserve to hate. And the things. The things that my parents, never even considered could exist, or that were distant hopes of a possible future, they never thought they'd be a part of. 

I have it all. And still

I hate myself.