I am a hated person. That’s right, I can name several people who absolutely despise me, and I’m sure there are many more out there who wish I’d be hit by a bus or a car or a toilet seat cover from a space station. How do I know these people hate me, Reader I may or may not know? Sadly, they hate me so much they’ve become quite vocal about their feelings. Sometimes I’ll run into a mutual acquaintance, and they’ll do me the favor of sharing what my hater has said about me (the one that takes the cake is that I was “offended” by the passing of a good friend’s mother. Yikes. Talk about believing I’m that cold-hearted of a bitch). Others have taken to the Internet via social media channels like blogs and Twitter. My boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend likes to post about me on one channel or another almost weekly, from proclaiming I’m welcome to her “leftovers” to describing me as one of the women who fall under the category of “every other vagina” in my boyfriend’s place of employment he has chosen to date.
I’m going to admit right now I have always had incredibly thin skin. I grew up with the erroneous belief that if I was nice to everyone around me, they would be just as nice to me. Seemed like faultless logic to me, and I stuck by that belief all the way through college until I finally landed in the therapist’s office. Not really where I pictured myself in my early twenties.
Now in my late twenties, I feel I’ve been on a pretty good streak of confidence and emotional control. But sometimes, just sometimes, so much of the world’s negative flotsam manages to circle in on me that I find myself beginning to drown in all of the heavy emotion. It weighs in on me, and soon I feel like I can’t breathe, trapped in this vacuum of hatred. Unable to fight my way out, I find myself relinquishing bits and pieces of myself until I’m not sure who’s looking back at me in the mirror. I’ve clammed up on my blog, afraid to speak my mind. I’ve questioned the first happiness I’ve ever felt in a relationship. I’ve become anti-social. And, finally, this morning, I cried.
As I sat in the shower having my first really good cry in months, I started to feel like all of that negativity was beginning to slough off of me. So I cried harder. I cried to push it out of me, to physically feel it leave my system and flow down a tangible drain. I let myself feel hurt. I let myself feel angry. I challenged God, asking why there was always someone out there begrudging any ounce of happiness I may have finally found.
And that’s when it dawned on me: there will always be someone out there who hates me. There will always be someone out there who will wish to take away my happiness. There will always be someone who thinks I’m a bitch, who thinks I’m undeserving, who thinks I’m just flat out a bad person.
So that begs the question: When my haters get up on their soap boxes and start screaming untruths about me to the masses, why do I give them any power by listening to what they have to say? I used to think I’d have the power to fight it, to correct what they were saying about me, but the real truth is that I lost my power in a cycle that can only be described as vicious and endless. It made me question my value as an individual and, thus, lose so much of my individuality that I couldn’t remember what I stood for anymore.
That all ends today. Today I reclaim my self-worth. I’m going to write about what I want, haters be damned. I’m going to let myself be happy — with my relationships, with the life I’m living, and with the person I see when I look in the mirror.
To anyone who has a problem with that: Let’s just say I’ve wasted enough words on you already.
Love and Internal Battles,
The Slasher Chick