God, I hate her guts!

On self-hatred and teenage rage

To set the scene,

I am a teenager. There are pivotal moments throughout my life that I remember for their particular and horrifying nature. Which I will not display in this piece, but it is important to set the tone. My room had purple-grey ish walls, like the colour underneath eye sockets, like bruises and death. I remember wanting this room more than anything, and my parents worked their asses off to put this purple wallpaper on the walls with decor and furniture to match. Walking in there for the first time was like walking into a movie set, it was beautiful. Everything went in tones of purple, grey and black. A cool girl’s room, I thought. I had never felt cool in my entire life.

Walking into this room felt like getting to taste of what I could have become if I was to do somethingright. Here, cool girlAmanda with her black faux leather couch, a gaming set-up underneath the bed (it was a loft!), pillows with skulls and purple textiles all around. Silver details to showcase that I do not need gold, gold is overrated, silver is where true coolness lies. God, this room was amazing. And the life I was so excited to live dangled infront of me like a carrot, and I was oh so eager to obtain the essence this room gave off. Cool without trying to. It is just what I am.

Fast forward a few years; the beautiful room my mom had cultivated had been ripped off of its charm, only a skeleton remaining. The cool, unique items are now in messes all around the place. The bed is on the floor. My desk only a sad attempt to mimic what I had, but lost. I do not think I have hated myself more than what I did then. Not only had I given up on the vision, I was also in no shape to align myself with what I used to love as a child. Or as a child-soon to be teen. I know exactly what happened to make me want to rip out my guts and let them get lost in the mess, never to be found again. I remember the day like it happened two sentences ago. I did not know at the time though — how damaging this certain event was. I see it as clear as a slow running river now as an adult.

To teenager-me: I hate your guts. How you let everyone walk all over you, how it does not stop there! With a loving family and a glorious childhood, how did you end up this way? You grew into a teen with a vicious need to be tolerated. Not loved and barely liked — tolerated. That teen had noticed the patterns all around her and she held that pattern in her hands until it suffocated her. There was only so much you could do, and I hate what you did to obtain the approval of the undeserving. I know you were lonely, though. I can feel it even now a good twelve years later. A wound that has healed, but the scar tissue is thick and holds the remnants of the hand that held the knife. I know your days were coated in self-hatred and doing well in school. So much so, that you never learned how to form proper relationships. All of them were built on loose bricks and muddy grounds, and you never understood why the foundation would crack. Why the castles you had built would crumble before you could put the flowers in vases. I feel bad for hating you so, so much. I know you hate yourself even more.

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I fear that I am the worst. I rarely make the bed. I ignore my responsibilities. I gloat in the honour of going to university and getting a degree, but I do not work hard or smart or well. I just complain all the time. I complain of the time that I have and the time that I do not have. I forget to text my friends, even my very very best friend. I disappear for months, and then reappear as if God had given me orders. I cancel plans. All the time. I look forward to be seen and to talk and to listen, but then when the day comes I want to die. I do not want to leave my house, even though I cannot stand being alone in here. My partner works all the time, but still manages to cook amazing meals for his horrible horriblegirlfriend. He still manages to oversee my god awful laziness and kisses me goodnight anyway. Every day is a test from above if I really can keep the goodness, the paradise I have found in my partner. Every day is an opportunity to become better for myself and for the people around me. And every day I feel like I am failing at something. I can not wake up in time, and if I do then I have done my part for the day. I can not have certain apps on my phone otherwise I will spend hours watching short videos that does nothing for my intellect. I have a bookcase filled to the very brim with amazing literature, but all I do is stare at it. Not even that! I give it a short glance and then I proceed with ruining my day with other things. When I say that I am going to the university library to study, I just want to feel good about myself. I have never been able to study, for it forces me to act on my words. And I love to run away from things, my word included. I talk about nature and how I love the forest, but I am terrified of ants. I can not rest, but I also can not do what I am supposed to do. I can not brush my hair, let alone clean it without making it everybody’s problem. I cannot tidy the apartment without expecting medals, presents and treats. I cannot eat because feeling full gives me anxiety, but I cannot study or work or do anything if I am hungry. I hate that my partner has to check in on me on his break “Have you eaten yet?” and if I have, I feel like I have accomplished something huge. If I have not, I know breaking the news to him will weaken my image. It will showcase what a vile, horrible and dependant creature I am, and what he has to come home to. The guilt is eating me alive, yet I cannot stand up and just do it. Whatever it means. For me, it means everything. I cannot stand up straight and I cannot wear jeans. I cannot eat lunch and I also cannot eat cheese. I cannot go to places with big crowds but I also live in Stockholm. I cannot go to bars and I cannot socialise. I cannot work in customer service because it drains me, but I also let everything else drain me too. I cannot go to the doctor if I feel unwell, I cannot talk to a therapist if I feel like I am dying, I cannot seek help for it means that I am finally accepting that something is wrong. And that I need help. I will say that I am working tirelessly to keep up with my emotions and my mental health, but I am just letting it sit in my chest. Like a leaf that has began to rot, and if I do not remove it it will kill the entire plant. I am painfully aware of it, yet I sit here. Paralysed. I do not know what to begin with and then I get overwhelmed and crumble down to a worm. I tidy the apartment once, and get angry if mess appears. My emotions brew in me and I never know what will set it off, until it does. And then I fly off the handle. I say that I hate the teenager I used to be, as if we are not the same. As if I have grown. I know I have changed, it is inevitable when you enter your almost mid-twenties, but the really bad parts of myself remain as untamed and hostile as before. And I hate it.

What do I want to achieve with this? Well. I have an exam in just a few moments. I have not left the apartment yet. I know I have not studied as much as I would have liked, and I enter this exam with little to no self-confidence. I felt this topic boiling though, haunting my mind. And it needed to take shape before going into that room with nothing but me, the uni-computer and my head. That hopefully holds some information if I have not burned it off being angry and stressed.

This is the first point that I have looked up from this piece. I did not notice the time and almost missed the last bus into the city. Missing that would have meant total destruction of everything, so I am glad that I managed scramble everything I needed in time.

In true me-order; I did not have time to eat lunch. These four hours will destroy me.

Loveloveloveloveee,

Amanda