I spent the first four or five hours of my day at my house, sat on a chair, unsure of what to do.
I tried reading.
I tried writing.
I tried video games.
I tried coffee.
My heart pounded, plagued by anxiety – and I didn’t know how to get over it.
I didn’t feel good until I left – and I’m even a homebody.
I had a spat with a friend last night – and in the process of having that spat, I lost the chance to have a phone call with a friend who would have calmed my nerves a little bit (because in order to resolve said spat, I had to have my phone available, because I’m 24, mature, and I text.)
My roommate came home to give me some news that made me jealous, and I went to bed really sad and angry.
I woke up sad and angry.
And I realized, quite suddenly that I rush to hate myself for feeling anything, because usually it’s pretty extreme.
I hate myself (and, for definition’s sake, I mean I get very angry – I’m not saying it’s necessarily a permanent state) when I get angry.
When I miss chances.
When I get sad.
When I get too excited and loud.
When I put carts in front of horses.
When I get bored.
When I overwork.
When I waste time.
When I don’t give myself time to relax.
Basically, it seems like I don’t know how to be in certain circumstances. I don’t always know how to adjust. And in my own anger toward myself, I act angrily towards others, and ruin things even more.
I think there’s something to the idea that you treat others the way you treat yourself. I try my best to treat others with as much kindness as possible, but I forget to remember that I’m loved, and in being loved, love flows naturally.
Here’s a crazy idea: try not hating yourself, and maybe life will go a little more smoothly sometimes.