It didn’t stop with my heart though. My self-hatred decided to manifest itself within everything I did. In the sixth grade, I started wrestling. This decision to join the team seemed like some kind of divine calling I had or something, when I thought about it; you get a kid who hardly knew that the sport existed and who didn’t even know what it was, and he wants to wrestle. Huh. The sport was good for me; it got me into shape and it was something new I was trying out. I really liked it. My self-hatred didn’t have much of a voice when I wrestled, either. Until high school came around that is, where my hatred then bled into what I loved to do. I ended up feeling worthless in one of the things I felt like I was best at. Horrible didn’t describe the feeling.
Sophomore year, my self-esteem was probably at one of its lowest points since the fifth grade. I was shamed by my defeats at the hands of teammates who took the varsity spot from me. The worst part was when people asked me how I did in league and in North Coast Section. “How come you’re not on the wall?” they would ask. The wall was the place for our league champs, where they’d have their picture join the legacy of the Albany High wrestling program. Every time the question was popped, my hatred thrived. The hatred was king, reigning over my mind and heart, where it gripped all of my ambitions with an iron fist. It loved to control me, placing doubts when it can so that I would never stage a coup. So how did I stage my coup, if this self-hatred was so strong? Why, I got some help. I only had to look.