They say that a piece of writing is never finished, only abandoned. Until then, a writer checks their prose repeatedly, making sure that everything is up to their standards, that everything is tweaked into the right rhythm and voice. As I wait now, waiting for the time to finally abandon one of my pieces, to deliver it to my audience, I think back to the process that I went through to give up my self-hatred. The healing began way back in the eighth grade and ended with four girls who became embodiments of my faith, in the here and now.
Before we begin that story though, we must first begin the story of when my self-hatred began. In elementary school, I’ve always been a well-liked kid. Everybody around me was fairly kind to me. If there were kids that hated me, (I’m sure there were because nobody can please everybody) then I didn’t notice. Except I did notice one kid who did hate me. Me. I don’t know where it began, to be honest, or even why it began. Self-hatred is such a magnificent torture, I bet nobody could say why we put ourselves there in the first place. It’s just a kind of poisonous belief that we take in from any kind of source, like society or family. For me, it began with a voice in my head. You’re not good enough.
When this crap started happening, it was only exacerbated by having teachers who I didn’t like. The student teacher was best described as an uptight despot and the teacher herself was a psycho with the pink streak in her hair. Good stuff for a disempowered fifth grader, right? My self-hatred meanwhile spread from my mind into the rest of my system, where it took root and started to hollow my heart. That’s really what it felt like, too; it’s heavy like lead and pushes upward and bloats you with darkness. You’re not good enough. Why are you here? You don’t belong here.