Self-Hatred and Misery

How much time did I spend here? I don’t know. What time is it? I don’t know either. What day is today? Why would I even know? All those questions were pushed to the back of my mind, letting only my worries, my fears and the unbearable pain I felt to haunt me. I have spent a long time, or at least what felt like it, on the couch laying down and wallowing in my pain and self-hatred. I don’t know why I hated myself, but I did. At that moment, nothing was important and all I could feel was the pain. It was not physical, at least, at the beginning it was not but it had became so hard that instead of only being mental and psychological pain, it was also physical. I could feel it through my whole body, destroying my mind and making me want to tear my heart out of my chest. It was probably the worst pain I had ever experienced but I didn’t care because I hated myself to a point where I thought I deserved this pain. For a few days, I stayed there, laying down on that fucking couch, hoping that someone, anyone, would come and take the pain away – even if I thought I deserved it – until I realized that the only person who could stop this pain was myself. I was the one inflicting this pain to myself. It had been so long that I was laying down on that couch only hating myself that I started feeling pain for all the hateful words I directed to myself, whether I said them in my head or if I screamed them at the top of my lungs while crying my eyes out. I got up from the couch with a lot more difficulty that I thought I would have and looking back to it, I could see that the form of my curled up body was clearly imprinted in it. My legs were shaking but I didn’t care more. I just hadn’t eaten in a while, I’d become thinner, nothing more. I walked up to the bathroom and, clearly not without fear, looked at myself in the mirror. My eyes were bloodshot, my long blond hair were greasy and didn’t even look like hair anymore, I looked exhausted and weak, to sum it all up, I was horrible. A pang of pain hit me at the thought of that. I’m such a fuck-up, I can’t even care about myself.

“Look what you did to yourself! Look in that fucking mirror, Taylor! That’s you. Horrible, uh? Even worse than usual. I thought it was impossible!” A part of my mind screamed at me.

I fell on my knees, one of my hands clutching at my chest, where my heart was. A chocked up sob escaped my lips. Why did it hurt so much?

“You’re so weak that you can’t even stand your own thoughts!” My mind screamed again.

“STOP IT!” I screamed at the top of my lungs, clutching at my chest as tears rolled down my cheeks.

I didn’t know why my heart hurt so much but I thought that having a heart attack might feel like this. I was afraid. I had never really been scared of death but now, I was afraid of what I could do to myself. It took me some time to realize that the pain in my chest was not due to a heart attack but simply to the words my mind screamed at me, once again. I tried to block out the sounds and decided that listening to music would be the best thing to do; after all, it was usually what would calm me down. The pain in my chest slowly faded away as the sound of music filled my ears. I laid down on my bed, not caring if I lived or died but feeling slightly better. I definitely needed a good shower and a meal but for now, only music mattered because it had saved my life several times and this time again, it would.