You Hate Yourself

What is the trigger?

Everything.

Down to the last minute and irrelevant detail I am able to wormhole out of comfort and safety, to connect every seemingly impossible dot, to form a line which leads me to my destination: a punch in my gut, an ache I do not know how to soothe.

How do we make better days, when the ache rises from my bones to right under my skin at the most inappropriate timings — at a party, a social event, when everybody around me is progressing with a direction? I am a body with no soul. I look at myself from a third perspective. Lackluster — that is what I see.

When will I learn? I do not deserve this. You do not deserve this. Every scenario of myself plays in my mind like a broken tape rewinding itself automatically — I am crying my guts out, perfectly aware of the disgusting, cracking wail that leaves my mouth; I close my eyes only to see images I want out of my head.

My stomach ties itself into a twisted knot and a lump forms in my throat. I want to scream and make you understand that I am a body full of inconsistencies. I am walking with no soul. I am self-doubt. 

My inconsistencies make it hard to prove my point. My mind is a whirlpool. I wish you could understand how I feel. What is a word for a sinking feeling, a drowning feeling, the struggle to pick a word out of a mental image of a pool you are unable to clearly see?

One day I hope to wake up with clear thoughts. One day I hope to realize I didn’t think about it the day before. One day I hope this falls behind and one day, I hope we get what we both deserve.

But today for the third time I thought of you and what you did, and I pictured every detail of what I asked and what you told me, in my head, over and over and over again.

And it breaks me, each time.

That is the trigger.