The Depression Diaries, n°60 - Hate

I think about girls in towers and dragons vigorously guarding — threatening, hovering over their aureola like the moon tries to cover the sun on an eclipse. Sometimes the dragon is yourself; sabotaging all the good thoughts you could have about who you are. That's how self hatred starts. At first, you think that, even if you hate everything about yourself, you could still do something to change your body. You try to exercise, eating healthier or sometimes not eating at all because you think you already had too much in the past days. For a while, it works; you look at your reflex on the mirror somehow, endeared. Then the breakdown comes. It's like standing on a beach watching a tsunami coming at your direction, but you don't know if you really want to manage to run away. So you're dragged down. You try loving yourself again, but something is different. There isn't the same motivation, so you start to slack off. At certain point, you give up. The thoughts that stab you right in the gut don't flinch at any compliments; you stop believing them, and not much longer you don't believe anything else. The dragon wins, you think. There's flames all over your body, the touch you provide feels like it burns the others even though they don't say so. There's a beggining of the damsel in distress complex. You start imagining that someone magically will into your life and love you unconditionally — even though you haven't left the house in four months — until you start to love yourself, and you'll be whole again because you'll realize how wrong you were. It doesn't happen, sorry. You might find someone, cultivate feelings with them with the delicateness of someone who's building something with Lego, but it's still about you. About you and your goddamn dragon. Suddenly you're seeing everyone through a thin but effective pane of glass — you can hear them laughing out of happiness, looking at you and saying something you can't hear because of the goddamn pane of glass. You try break it, reaching out, but you're still deaf to them. You can only hear the bad things your brain create about your disgusting self. So you stop trying reaching out, stop trying to convince yourself, and even all the praises in the world won't make you feel less miserable. You still seek them though, mostly as an automatic thing than a real desire. You get used to the burning. The pain that your knuckles against the wall causes somehow brings you to a peaceful moment. Adrenaline runs all over your body telling you you're still alive, mostly out of spite. Pain becomes common, the heat of the flames don't bother you anymore, yet every foreign touch feels like a bomb dropping on your body — it's because of all the shame of existing. I wish there was something poetic about that. However, there's just something very wrong about the way I'm living.