@mareofepiales: I hate myself a lot. Sometimes I think I’m doing this on purpose, and I hate how easily that thought turns into believing I deserve it. I know which songs will make me cry. I know where the messages are. I can feel myself reaching for something that will ruin the rest of my night, and I keep going. Sometimes I’m already crying while I’m looking for it. I think about everything that’s happened to me. Things I’ve forgiven people for come back in their exact voices. I remember where I was sitting. What I said to make it seem like they hadn’t hurt me. Then I think about the people I love who go to sleep every night without knowing how much of my day they’ve been in. You’re usually where I end up. I read our messages and remember how long it took me to write something that looked so casual. How I deleted “I miss you” and asked what you were doing instead. You told me you were tired, and I wanted to know whether you’d eaten, whether something had happened, whether I could come sit beside you while you did absolutely nothing. I think I said, “Same.” There was so much love in things you could answer with one word. I read them slowly now. I let the old date move off the screen. For a second we’re those people again, talking about our day, and I have somewhere to put all this love. You’re going to tell me something ordinary. I’m going to carry it around for hours because you thought to tell me. Then I reach the end. I know the conversation ends there. I’ve read it before. Still, I sit with the phone in my hand, feeling as though you’ve just stopped answering. Sometimes I stay in the shower long after I’ve washed everything. I hear someone’s car outside. The water changes temperature. I think about getting out, drying off, putting on clothes, and having to spend the rest of the evening with myself. So I stay until I’m uncomfortable, then get angry with myself for staying. There have been times I’ve hurt myself, and afterward I’ve felt frightened by how easily I become someone I’m cruel to. I’m already hurting. I know that. Somehow I keep deciding I need to suffer more before I’m allowed to feel sorry for myself. I wish I understood why tenderness is so hard until I’ve made myself cry. Why can’t I remember you laughing and feel happy that I heard it? Why do I have to think about never hearing it that close again? I can remember a whole afternoon with you and feel almost nothing until I get to the part where you leave. Then suddenly I remember everything. How warm it was. How I wanted to ask you to stay. How I stood there after you’d gone, still holding something I’d meant to give you. Sometimes sadness is the only feeling that lasts long enough for me to recognize it as mine. That’s the part I’m ashamed of. Sometimes I feel relieved when I finally cry. After hours of being unable to care about anything, I can feel that I wanted a life. I wanted people in it. I wanted you. All that wanting is still here, and it hurts so much I can barely swallow. Then the crying stops. I have a headache. I look at the time and think about how I have to get up in a few hours. I tell myself I’ve wasted another night. Even then, I find something else to blame myself for. I keep saying I’m my own worst enemy. Sometimes I say it like I’ve figured myself out. But I think about how long I sit there trying to feel something, and I feel sorry for me, too. I wish I knew how to reach myself gently. I wish I could believe I deserve that before I start crying.

Anastasia

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Wednesday 14 October 2026 17:37:58 GMT