I could be a really great person if I wasn’t always standing in my own way.

Poke it enough and maybe it will come alive. Emanate something resembling empathy and warmth. When really, all I can think about is myself. I don’t really give a damn about you or you or you. Let me obsess over my hatred for self. It is all I have. If I didn’t hate myself, well good Lord, what else would I do? How else would I waste my time? What would I ponder late into the night? I would be so bored without this hatred. It fuels me. I don’t know how to live happy or content. My body flounders as if it is missing something crucial, muscle contractions or blood. If I have nothing else, there is always the hatred and the crushing hopelessness.

I wish for real tragedy. A real reason for pain. Something concrete to point at and say, ‘yes, this is what is causing me to feel bad, this is what needs to be fixed.’ A cut or a burn on skin is a collection of the hatred and the bad thoughts. A real something I can see and touch. Self harm is all about tangibility and distraction. Cutting, burning, starving, purging, pills, drugs, alcohol, sex, violence. It’s a distraction from self. Something to adjust the focus. A relief from the obsessing and the cycling of thoughts. For that small amount of time, there is something else in this world besides the self loathing.