If you told my 14 year old self that 20 years later I wouldn’t hate myself anymore, I would have laughed and then hated myself for laughing.
I’m not sure when it happened but I don’t hate myself. I don’t even dislike myself really. In fat I think I like myself. A lot even maybe. So much so that when I recently read about someone hating themselves, the concept felt foreign.
When I was 14, I absolutely hated myself but I thought life in general was not so bad .
Now I think I’m pretty awesome but I hate my life. Hating it more and more everyday.
I can’t say there aren’t great things. There are! I love my kids. My kids are the best fucking thing that ever happened to me. My life would be nothing without them.
And I made cookies today. Chocolate ones. And I’d be an ungrateful sack of shit not to acknowledge that chocolate cookies are amazing.
But the rest is just shit.
I’m always the one with the plan. I’ve always known where I was headed and what I was working toward. I’ve been 10 steps ahead my whole life. But I have no fucking clue what I’m doing, what I can do or what I will do. So the hate isn’t even motivating. I’m fucking impotent.
Today this is weighing on me. Tomorrow I will buck the fuck up and keep going till I find the plan. The plan that will stop me from hating my life.
And it won’t be so bad cuz I kinda like myself now. And that remains awesome.