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Thinking filled my days with boredom and my nights with self-loathing…I had plucked the convictions of my own imperfection and failure and yet I could not name the ways I might have taken so as not to fail.
Wallace Stegner, All the Little Live Things (Penguin Books, December 1, 1991, first published 1967)
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his self-loathing gathered into a ball inside his stomach, like a torture device
He had the light-footed gait of a sardana dancer despite the fact that he was close to two hundred pounds, with the corpulence of a former fat kid, toned to the point where he was thick-chested, full-bodied, without any visible excrescences— no flab or lumps, in other words— a body that was just a little fleshy, enveloped in a layer of fat of equal compactness, thinning toward the extremities of his limbs, toward his very beautiful hands. Although transformed into this seductive and charismatic colossus— with a stature that matched the eloquence of his warm voice, his enthusiastic if occasionally excessive moods, his bulimic appetite for knowledge, his extraordinary capacity for hard work— his body was prey to painful fluctuations, an elasticity that haunted him with feelings of shame and fear (the trauma of having been mocked as pudgy, chubby, plump, or simply fat; the anger at having been looked down on for that, for the sexual difficulties it caused him; all kinds of apprehensions), his self-loathing gathered into a ball inside his stomach, like a torture device.
~ Maylis de Kerangal, The Heart: A Novel (Farrar, Straus and Giroux. 2016)
September 26
I told myself I won’t be a woman who cannot be, without a man But I fear that when someone asks for my name, I’ll hand your calling card with lipstick stains, ‘cause I know they won’t find me any soon unless they make a call in search of you I fear that I can never be naked with your careless fingerprints scattered and your sloppy kiss marks blood-inked on my body like a victimless crime scene I fear that you’ve become a part of me, that when you’re on your way and I’m on my knees I’ll get over losing my home in your warmth, but not how without you, I don’t know who I am and how without me, you’re still who you are– because I’m a woman who can only be, inside your arms
I recognize my worst enemy every time I look in the mirror
Ahh...But I hate myself. How could I not?
When I just can’t recognise the person I've become, what is there left for me but hate?
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I wish I were anyone but me.
Loving yourself isn’t easy. Other people who do love themselves don’t understand what it is like for the ones who can’t. We self-loath, hate, envy, destroy, and cast ourselves aside because we think there are people who are better deserving. But there is one thing that we have- we can learn to love other people so much more, even if we can’t come to love ourselves any better. That makes us beautiful people in our own way.
