I once went to a mindfulness class where we were told that objects and other people cannot make you totally happy. At the end of the day, materials and people are gone, and we are simply left with our selves.
The idea – or so I was told on the way home with my McFlurry – was that we have to love ourselves in order to be truly happy, rather than relying on things around us.
I’ve been known to be particularly dependent on others for my happiness, and being left alone isn’t necessarily the most productive situation to put me in. Self-loving is more self-loathing and my mind runs wild until Ive thought myself into total hatred. I suppose that’s why I’ve always been happier around other people.
On my last week before I started work, the hatred was a bit too much, and I guess I realised it’s something I’ve always carried around with me. It’s always there and with three months of overthinking, I’ve reached the lowest point.
I truly detest myself. And it’s not a case of hating a small part of my life, or hating how I look in a morning. It’s everything. And knowing that is actually really distressing. – It’s like this confession to yourself that you didn’t necessarily know you were going to make.
I hate things like my lack of motivation, or my inability to keep a consistent routine. I hate that sometimes I can’t think of anything I want to do, or how I choose to do nothing when there’s so much I could be doing.
And then it’s on to the nitty gritty parts: I hate my skin tone and how I’m incapable of having an even colour without blotches of red and purple everywhere. I hate how the lines on my face make me feel masculine and nobody else sees it. I hate how my hair lays on top of the hood on my coat, rather than falling nicely down my neck. I hate wearing anything that doesn’t show my real body size because I feel fat and frumpy and giant.
I hate that in school all my friends were shorter than me and now I feel overly tall. I feel like my head is bigger than everyone else’s and I look like a troll when I smile or laugh.
I hate that I missed out on partying and dancing, and I feel like I haven’t lived my youth. Instead I was the girl swapping shoes with people when their ankles hurt, or holding their hair whilst they threw up.
I hate that I didn’t wear make up and now can’t stand the idea of looking different and people noticing. I hate that I feel like I’ve missed out on so much. I hate that it feels like it’s too late.
I hate my teeth. I hate my feet. I hate my shoulders. I hate my hands and how they always seem to be a different colour. I hate how my hair frizzes and gets greasy super fast. I hate how I look when I sleep, or eat, or pout or pose for a photo.
I hate that I can’t even keep up to the things I want to keep up to. Or how I can’t enjoy things properly.
I hate how I think my life into a tiny meaningless thing to the point of quarter life crisis (though jamie thinks ‘quarter’ is hopeful) where I re-think my entire life and it’s successes.
I hate every inch of my being. And I even hate that fact.
And it’s weird, because people never understand another person’s hatred for themselves. I don’t think anyone could look at me and agree with my self hate, just like I can’t understand how people hate themselves. What is there to hate?! You’re amazing!
I think my self hate is a lot more apparent at the moment, and I don’t really feel like myself at all. Three months in the same four walls has sort of made me crumble and think far too much.
Don’t get me wrong, at times I love being alone: Sometimes that’s all I want. There’s nothing quite like a night in with crosswords and snacks to really get my party mood started. But even then I hate wasting my evenings, or get angry that I’m eating. I hate that I can’t entertain myself and think to myself is this it?
I think the point of mindfulness is to be aware of people around you without belittling yourself. Ive figured this from my CBT. We’re supposed to practise self love so that we can remember our importance and how we matter. We’re meant to do the things we enjoy and love, and learn to not compare ourselves or focus too much on other people’s happiness.
But I feel to practise self love you have to love a little to begin with. And that’s the difficult bit. The idea of self love makes me feel sick. And that’s probably the biggest problem.
It’s been almost a year since I started Pretty Empty Pockets. And like other ventures it’s been another project disowned for months at a time. I thought people reading would make me feel more confident and motivate me to write. But if anything it’s made me feel worse.
I feel cautious about how I write and what I say and when. Fashion posts make me feel stupid for taking photos of myself. And yet, I still look at the millions of instagrams and wish I was like them.
I wish I was cool and confident enough to write and pose for fashion blogs, or Instagram the shit out of my face and perfect complexion.
I want to feel confident and alive and proud. And my deepest want is to feel sexy. But that would take a whole upheaval of my entire life and I’ve really not got such resources.
I want to learn French or finish my marketing qualification or pass my driving test. I want to fall in love with exercise and finally learn to play guitar. I want to do interesting things.
I’d hoped to write a positive post about self worth and independency. But really, I’m in no state.
Im still waiting to get out of my ‘funk’ that’s built up for months. Or to pass through my life crisis and see a better day on the other side. But for now, I’m just sat with my duvet and my crosswords. Hoping to one day complete a whole one from start to finish. Perhaps then I’ll be ready to start all the other things I’ve never finished.