I dreamt a lot last night. It wasn’t pleasant (it rarely is.) I dreamt of doing terrible things. Or wanting to do them. Of being on the verge of doing them.
And I dreamt of figures from my past, in new contexts. But I felt their disdain for me, and knew it was well earned. That they despised me, and were not wrong to do so. I had pretended to be someone else, and my true worthlessness had been revealed.
I don’t know at what point I became worthy of such disdain. I feel it was long before my worst acts. Maybe my personality was always shameful. I was always shy, quiet, held myself apart from others. Perhaps I gave the sense that I thought I was superior. Perhaps I did think that.
I couldn’t take a joke, or teasing – I was hypersensitive. I didn’t understand what was going on. I remember being very scared, and that feeling never left. I felt out of place, and I didn’t know how to adapt to my new environment. And rather than looking outward and learning, I turned inwards and hid. I don’t know how much responsibility you can put on a 9 year old’s shoulders for that. But I chose cowardice, and every year that followed I doubled down on that choice. So I can’t blame others for identifying that, and not liking it. I don’t think hitting or spitting is acceptable regardless, but I can’t claim that they were wrong to despise me.
But still, I carry the anger from that, the hatred. 25 years on. Emotionally, I’m still that cowardly child. Possibly it’s some kind of wounded narcissism. I hate people for revealing my own weakness. I hate others, and I hate myself.
Sometimes I wish I’d stuck with therapy, and found some way to transcend the injured infant inside. But I couldn’t let go of my addictions. I didn’t have enough hope of anything better to see me through. I need my sickness – it’s all I have.
I want the pain of this to stop, but simultaneously I can’t stop inflicting it on myself. I don’t know how to stop hating myself, because there is no future version of myself that I don’t hate.