I’ve never admitted to hating before. I love life. I believe that it’s the “haterz” that “gon’ hate”. I believe that you should “be who you are and say what you feel…”. I smile. I believe. I love.
But sometimes I’m overwhelmed by my emotions and the struggles of this Borderline Personality Disorder. Sometimes I feel so much that I want to explode from my euphoric joy, intense rage or devastating sadness. Sometimes I hate.
I hate the term ‘personality disorder’. I hate the way it makes me feel as though there’s something fundamentally wrong with me, that I’ll never fix. I hate not knowing who I am, what I stand for. I hate not knowing what is part of me and what’s just a symptom of this sickness.
I hate it when people don’t know about my illness and they mistake my clinginess and desperation for attention seeking superficiality.
I hate sometimes waking up and wanting to die, being so disgusted with myself that I want to tear off all my skin or blink my eyes and become somebody, anybody else.
I hate cutting, I hate scratching, I hate the fact that sometimes the only way I can keep from screaming is by digging my nails into my palm and biting my lip until it bleeds.
I hate waking up and falling asleep thinking about food, about weight and about the curves and bumps of my body. I hate knowing how little my appearance should matter and still letting it rule my life.
I hate having to be the best, always wanting to be the prettiest and the smartest, I hate my insane jealousy and not being O.K with just “me”.
I hate that I’m so dependent on anyone that’s close to me. I hate that I find it so hard to let anyone in, that I push people away and float from group to group, hoping no one will notice my erratic moods and eccentric behaviour.
I hate starting every sentence with “I”. I hate being obsessed with myself to the point that I can’t tell if I’m in love, or seeking approval, or just wanting to feel pretty.
I hate myself. And I hate pretending that everything is OK.