Notes

I don't know when the words "I hate myself" first crossed my lips, but by the time I was old enough to express it, my self-loathing burned with a fire and passion so intense it was almost scary.
I couldn't stand to stay in my own skin, and the more I thought of myself, the sicker inside I felt. Filled with inner contempt, I wanted to hurt myself in the worst possible way or to simply end a life I believed had no value. Convinced that I was unworthy of being part of the human race, I felt it was sinful to stay alive and suck up air better reserved for a more deserving person. I rarely paused to think of myself, and I certainly never slowed down long enough to actually be with myself. In my youth, I blocked out the pain of feeling unloved by functioning on a numb autopilot. Yeah, I'm a teenager, but these early protective mechanisms no longer did the trick. The pain of knowing I was innately and hopelessly flawed from birth with no possibility of redemption was too much, so I spend my days caught up in a perpetual whirlwind of anxiety-reducing and addictive behaviors. I did whatever I could to block out the dark that cut through my heart, unable to cope with the unspeakable misery that comes from deep-rooted self-hatred.
Where do feelings of such intense antipathy come from? How does hating yourself develop to the point where you have suicidal thoughts or at the very least feel so depressed and unhappy that you don't know where to turn or how to cope? These intense feelings were brought up in a loveless home, by my parents who were incapable of treating me with respect and care. Shamed and rejected by members of their own family.
Tortured,
victims of some kind of abuse –physical, emotional, or psychological. No matter what the situation is, one thing is certain: A strong sense of "I hate myself" makes one feel like life isn't worth living at all.