What it's Like

This is how I would define what it’s like to hate yourself.

It starts out as a thought. White, innocent. Maybe something like “My legs look bad.” But then that thought comes back again every time you look at your legs, each time getting darker and darker, until there is no innocence left in that thought and there is only pure hatred. Black, evil. It’s like black sludge slowly filling up your lungs and then your heart, then it begins to course through your veins until your completely filled up. So filled up, your on the edge of overflowing. You’ve become so broken and hollow that your surprised that the wind doesn’t just shatter you. The wind is life. Constantly there, no escaping it. Pounding into your back, whipping your hair into your eyes, so you can’t even see clearly anymore. And sometimes you get so caught up in the moment, with others emitting such joy and happiness, that you forget for a little bit. You forget to hate yourself. But it will always come back in the end. You’ll look in a mirror, or be alone in bed at night, and all that sludge will refill your lungs. It will hurt so bad to breath that you consider stopping. Stop breathing for a bit. Maybe it would all be easier that way. Don’t get me wrong, people won’t just stand by. Sure their smiles and kind words are reassuring. But reassurance is a temporary thing. Gradually their words and grins will begin to wear you down until your back to the hurt and darkness that lingers at your core. It thrives there, because no one can touch it. It’s so close to your heart, the heart you won’t let anyone enter, that it’s safe for your hate breed. It breeds and broods until your all full up again and there is no person left to comfort. Only your shell. Only a small trace of who you used to be.

But sometimes I wonder, is it like this for everyone? Or am I just a freak?
But mostly, I wonder, is this my future? Is this really what it’s going to be like for the rest of my dismal existence?