Approx. read time: < 7 minutes
So there’s one thing I know for sure… without a doubt…
I love myself, and hate myself, at the same time.
This is new territory for me. I’m not used to loving myself.
I have been living in fear that I am just a sad story. A story of potential that was never realized. I love that I have the option to be great, but I hate that I do everything in my power to resist my best abilities, and to shatter opportunities that serve themselves up to me on a platter… further disgracing all of those who weren’t so “lucky”.
My eyes swell from the fear of living the failure in this moment; that every choice is an act of detriment on a future that could be good… and I put this weight on every breathe and conscious thought and I cannot stop.
I accept the praise I receive from others… from those who have but a glimpse of my full self.
I also accept the insults… being full aware of how they have only seen small portions of the things I do and say.
Equally, I agree- with the worst and best of it all.
I deeply believe that nobody is wrong. The exceptional detail in all of this, however obvious, is what begs the question of how much of this, or what specifically, will I let effect me. This question is aimed at all of those who love me, respect me, or just simply those know who I am.
What if they had known my inner thoughts? Every single one of them.
Intimate knowledge of what I am really thinking when I’m talking to you, what I am picturing in my mind, what I am not telling you; good, bad, and otherwise. Some of which is on purpose and some of which is utterly uncontrollable.
Regardless of whether or not I’ve matured on through it all at this present moment, they wouldn’t be able to help themselves but think I was the worst human being alive.
You might think I’m being dramatic… pretend I’m not. And perhaps, this is a concept can be applied to just about anyone.
I do believe everyone is unique and alone in everything they think and say, and I do not take for granted the trends and similarities between us all. The older and more aware I get, the less unpredictable and chaotic everyone and everything seems.
The barrier between what goes on inside and what I let others see is a power that everyone has. And to break down that barrier and see a person transparently, needs a deep breath and emotional separation to even begin to accept.
The word regret is arguable. I would’ve chosen not to do some things that I’ve done; or thought some things that I have. Whether or not I gained wisdom from those shameful experiences is irrelevant unless I share that wisdom.
If I choose not to share, then they are without a doubt, considered a regret.
My good thoughts can change the world, but my bad thoughts can do the same. I am a hammer that can both build a wall, and destroy a wall. And half the time I feel like the hammer is too heavy for me, and I am swinging like a jackass.
I love and hate myself.
I love myself because the things I want to do with my life and the drive I have to make this world a better place is rare and unique. I am one of those people who is never satisfied; a constant underlying anxiety that puts a damper on every single one of my best moments and memories. 100% doesn’t exist for me. A principle I have accepted after years of fighting and asking “why me”.
The constant anxiety is a strength hidden behind a world of discomfort. If it were to go away like I used to want it to, I wouldn’t have the drive or motivation to do anything more than the bare minimum society sets for my existence.
I guess it is whatever is inside me that sets my bare minimum, but excessively high. Seemingly unachievable.
Some say I’m “too hard on myself”, but all I feel inside is how lazy I really am because I hear all of the excuses and complaints in my head.
In Afghanistan I did some outstanding acts, that I almost can’t believe I was capable of. People think I’m crazy for this, but I have no pride in any of it because I know that inside my head I didn’t want to do it. I forced it out and complained my ass off in my head the whole time. Thinking of why it was me that this burden had to fall on.
Why me why me why me. It’s extremely annoying to listen to all the time. Thank god I don’t say any of it out loud.
So every compliment, every award, any kudos I’ve ever received from others- makes me cringe inside. I feel like I’m lying to everyone. And I can’t figure out how to tell the world that I am a fraud.
I love myself because I did do those things, regardless of complaining in my head. I have always put others before myself and have been quite successful at it. That deserves love because there are people out there that do not do that as well as me. They cower and fail and not care that they failed. I feel contempt towards myself every single successful moment I’ve ever had in my life… but the successful moments keep piling up.
That brings us to now.
I miss the people who have died over the years, that I’ll never see again. I miss the people who are still alive, that I’ll never see again. And I miss the people I see every day, because they are not who they were in the past. They all look different, act different.
I look different. I act different. I miss myself.
Growing old makes you miss abstract things that can’t really be explained with words. You collect moments that will never repeat themselves, and it builds into a mountain of shit that you can’t even recognize yourself in.
I can’t believe some of the terrible things I’ve done… and thought. Some of those I will be taking to my grave. Not because I like hiding my true self, it’s for the sake of those I love. They would never understand.
That’s not a stretch. If you knew your loved ones inner thoughts and past actions good and bad, some of it would be hard to take in and accept. Without a doubt, you would change how you feel, think, or act towards that person. As you should, you have more information that you cannot un-know.
Too late. It happened. You know.
It is exactly the fact that I must hide parts of myself that causes my sadness. I hate that those closest to me will never, ever, truly know the full story.
Whether or not I learned any lessons, changed for the better, is all irrelevant to the book my life has written. I can’t shred any pages of reality.
All those private moments alone… in my worst and most vulnerable emotional states. All those actions that only a few people on Earth will ever know about- some of whom are now deceased. All of those inner thoughts I have each day… the ones I have to tame and think twice (or more) about.
Horrible, twisted visual displays in my head, while I’m having a lighthearted conversation with anyone… They are getting the impression I am funny, or easy going, or confident, or whatever.
It is the tip of the iceberg on what’s really going on. It hurts my feelings that it has to be this way.
Honestly??! My full story scares the shit out of me so much, that I’m not sure I want to know anyone else’s full story.
With that said, I often can’t help myself, like a bad craving for a drug, to seek out more and more shit about people and those I love- with every revealing, shameful piece of information further causing my inner torment.
Ignorance is bliss? Knowledge is turmoil. And I am addicted to knowing.