Hate is a powerful word. It causes a powerful, gut-wrenching feeling of wrongness.
When its directed at someone else, it makes them feel smaller, unwanted. Unworthy.
When its directed at yourself, the gut churning wrongness becomes a part of you. You feel guilty for having exposed the world to the person you are. You constantly find ways in which you are unworthy, eventually even down to the smallest things. I cannot describe the level of guilt that comes with self-hatred.
When that hatred of yourself has lasted for twenty years, you feel empty. Hollow. Every bright point in your life is washed over by layers of guilt accompanying those moments. You don’t feel as if any good moment or any good feeling is truly yours, that you have earned it. You feel guilty for even the slightest things, things no normal person should feel guilty about.
When you are told that hatred of yourself is unnatural, and damaging, you ask yourself why you should care. Worse, you’ve come to embrace that hatred. That fire of self-disgust keeps you motivated to keep yourself from becoming a worse person than you already are.
But you can’t live that way forever. Where there is fire, something is going to burn. Self-hatred, stoked over twenty years, has caused so much damage that I don’t know what is left under the charred surface.
One day you discover you have to make a choice, because the fire has burned too much. One way or another, it has to end. The fire must be put out, and the ashes buried.
There are only two ways out. One is to release your grip on that hate, to stomp out that fire, and stare into the emptiness that lies inside. The emptiness where your sense of self, of the emotions you feel define you, has been burnt away. To gaze into the abyss.
The other way out is to throw gas on the flame and make it go out with a bang, but in doing so, burn others around you. Causing more suffering, leading to more guilt.