Self-hate has been easy today. I didn't even realize I was doing it from the moment I woke up. I didn't go to class or finish our first short essay (it's only worth ten percent of our grade), but I told myself that I did to feel okay about it. If I acknowledged my lack of responsibility, I knew I'd just ruminate on it too much and use it as ammunition against myself. It's been hard to care about school, even though I got all the way to my senior year. And even though I'm gonna owe a ton in loans either way, I just don't feel like finishing college. I know I can, and I still believe I will, but I don't want to do the work to make it all happen. It feels like this chapter of my life has already ended, but I continue rereading the paragraphs that could've been written better. It feels like vestigial time.

When I got home, I was confused about how I felt. All the self-hate caught up to me when I thought I should feel happy and relaxed. So I lay in bed for about an hour-and-a-half, just thinking and feeling a mixture of anger and disgust. Even though I know it's a consequence my parents' emotional neglect and physical abuse, I despise myself for feeling apathy toward the people I love. I feel disgusted when I desire their acceptance, or the acceptance of anyone who could make me feel valid with their love. I hate myself when I crush down that very human desire for care and reassurance. I hate thinking about all of these things around people who aren't my parents-- it reminds me of every situation where I've allowed my vulnerabilities to show and people did hurtful stuff in response, both small and big.

I cried three or four tears and got out of bed, and then I typed this.