An Open Book
Core,
I'm gay, but that's not really my secret.
I have a girlfriend, but that's not really my secret either.
I mean, it's pretty obvious. Apparently I have that look. The Drug Addict Look. The Stoner Look. The Gay Look. The Emo Look. I have too many looks. I don't really care about the labels. I care about the way I look to myself. Too fat. Too pale. Disgusting. I hate my face. I hate the way I look. I haven't eaten anything more than half a meal, once a day. My girlfriend's worried about me, my mom's worried about me. I'm not so worried. But that's not my secret either.
January 27th, I cheated on my girlfriend - for the 4th time.
The other three she doesn't know about, but the 4th one I told her. I told her because I tried to get pregnant. I tried to get pregnant, and I thought I did. I missed my period. But it came two weeks too late.
She was devastated, and I had only myself to blame. I told her I was sorry, I told her it didn't mean anything. I just wanted a baby. It didn't change the fact that I did it. It didn't change the fact that I'm selfish. It didn't change anything. I didn't get pregnant, and now I'm glad I didn't. I would have had the baby. I would have kept the baby. But now that I stop and think, I’m glad I didn’t get pregnant because every time I looked at the baby I would see how badly I had hurt her, I would see how perfect that little lump of flesh was, and I would see my mistakes. And I would hate myself all the more for what I’ve done.
I don’t sleep much, I don’t eat much, I don’t talk much.
There is a lot of things I don’t do “much”.
But lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the sun to rise: it leaves a lot of time to think, to hate, to make mistakes. The nights get longer and longer every night I’m awake. I haven’t slept a full night with no nightmares - with only good dreams to hold onto in the morning as they try to fade away - in God only knows how long.
Every morning I get up and she’s waiting for me. Every morning I text her: “Good morning”. I’m too afraid to call her. I’m too afraid she won’t want to talk to me. I’m too afraid that she’s angry with me. I’m too afraid that I’m not good enough for her. I’m too afraid that I’ll be bothering her. So I text her.
And every morning she asks: “How was your night? Did you get any sleep?”
And every morning I say: “It was fine. I watched the sunrise. It’s pretty. I slept for a little bit.” And I put a little smiley face at the end so she doesn’t worry.
But she still does.
I try to act fine - “better, good” those are the words we use when we’re okay. I try not to cut, not to be “bad”. I promised her I wouldn’t be “bad” anymore. But even when I’m okay - even when I’m “good” - I’m not, because I’ve always been “bad”.
If you put my soul, or my core, or whatever makes me, me on a table under a microscope, you’ll see what I am. The first layer is all superficial – deep enough to fool those around me that I’m okay. But after that first layer you’ll see the layers upon layers of self-hatred, of self-loathing, of guilt, of depression, of “bad”.
I’d fix it if I could, if I knew how. Just to be better for her, but I don’t know how. And if you looked at all the layers, you would see that every single one of them is coated in guilt.
And that is my secret. Not just one, but many.
And at the very core of all those secrets is this: I hate myself.
I have a girlfriend, but that's not really my secret either.
I mean, it's pretty obvious. Apparently I have that look. The Drug Addict Look. The Stoner Look. The Gay Look. The Emo Look. I have too many looks. I don't really care about the labels. I care about the way I look to myself. Too fat. Too pale. Disgusting. I hate my face. I hate the way I look. I haven't eaten anything more than half a meal, once a day. My girlfriend's worried about me, my mom's worried about me. I'm not so worried. But that's not my secret either.
January 27th, I cheated on my girlfriend - for the 4th time.
The other three she doesn't know about, but the 4th one I told her. I told her because I tried to get pregnant. I tried to get pregnant, and I thought I did. I missed my period. But it came two weeks too late.
She was devastated, and I had only myself to blame. I told her I was sorry, I told her it didn't mean anything. I just wanted a baby. It didn't change the fact that I did it. It didn't change the fact that I'm selfish. It didn't change anything. I didn't get pregnant, and now I'm glad I didn't. I would have had the baby. I would have kept the baby. But now that I stop and think, I’m glad I didn’t get pregnant because every time I looked at the baby I would see how badly I had hurt her, I would see how perfect that little lump of flesh was, and I would see my mistakes. And I would hate myself all the more for what I’ve done.
I don’t sleep much, I don’t eat much, I don’t talk much.
There is a lot of things I don’t do “much”.
But lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the sun to rise: it leaves a lot of time to think, to hate, to make mistakes. The nights get longer and longer every night I’m awake. I haven’t slept a full night with no nightmares - with only good dreams to hold onto in the morning as they try to fade away - in God only knows how long.
Every morning I get up and she’s waiting for me. Every morning I text her: “Good morning”. I’m too afraid to call her. I’m too afraid she won’t want to talk to me. I’m too afraid that she’s angry with me. I’m too afraid that I’m not good enough for her. I’m too afraid that I’ll be bothering her. So I text her.
And every morning she asks: “How was your night? Did you get any sleep?”
And every morning I say: “It was fine. I watched the sunrise. It’s pretty. I slept for a little bit.” And I put a little smiley face at the end so she doesn’t worry.
But she still does.
I try to act fine - “better, good” those are the words we use when we’re okay. I try not to cut, not to be “bad”. I promised her I wouldn’t be “bad” anymore. But even when I’m okay - even when I’m “good” - I’m not, because I’ve always been “bad”.
If you put my soul, or my core, or whatever makes me, me on a table under a microscope, you’ll see what I am. The first layer is all superficial – deep enough to fool those around me that I’m okay. But after that first layer you’ll see the layers upon layers of self-hatred, of self-loathing, of guilt, of depression, of “bad”.
I’d fix it if I could, if I knew how. Just to be better for her, but I don’t know how. And if you looked at all the layers, you would see that every single one of them is coated in guilt.
And that is my secret. Not just one, but many.
And at the very core of all those secrets is this: I hate myself.