I hate how my thighs touch. And how curvy I am. I hate the way my hair falls, parted down the middle-not special at all. I hate that I’m blind without glasses or contacts. I hate the way my eyes crinkle shut when I smile or laugh. I hate my tiny feet. I hate that I’m five feet and two inches tall. I hate that I weigh 132 lbs. I hate that there are scars all over my body. I hate the way my knees have these weird indents in them. I hate my tiny hands. I hate how I can’t keep polish on my fingernails for longer than an hour without ruining it. I hate the sound of my own voice. I hate my stupid short fingers. I hate the way my legs look so fat when I sit down wearing shorts.

But the things that I hate about myself are more than skin deep.

I hate the way I’m allergic to basically every season, and the majority of lotions and perfumes. I hate the way my throat starts to hurt when I don’t get enough sleep. I hate that I never get enough sleep. I hate that I compulsively wash my hands multiple times. I hate that if I don’t follow my daily routine perfectly I have to start over. I hate that I over think every little detail of my life, and every single thing that I say. I hate the panic attacks, and the feeling that everyone is constantly judging me, talking about me, laughing at me. I hate that nobody really likes me. I hate that I always look for the best in people and get screwed over for it. I hate the way I get migraines when I overstress. I hate that I hate myself every time I take a bite of food. I hate that I weigh myself everyday, and curse myself if there’s no drop in my weight. I hate the way that I want to keep losing weight, until I’m skinny and perfect. I hate how I want to be so pretty. I hate that somedays pain is the only thing reminding me that I’m still alive.

I hate that I hurt my parents. I hate that they have to worry about me all of the time. I hate that they think they’ve failed me somehow. I hate that I have to tell them that it’s not their fault. I hate that I don’t care about anything anymore. I hate that I used to have a plan, but now I’m just drifting through my life. I hate that I have to put my friends before school work because they’re the only reason that I am able to fight the urges. I hate that I used to love school, but now it just makes me even more depressed than I already am.

I hate that I am completely dependant on anti-anxiety drugs and anti-depressants. I hate that my mom knows that the only way I function normally is pumped with chemicals. I hate that I can’t remember the last time that I really truly cared about my future. I hate that I am able to look the people who love me in the eye and tell them that nothing is wrong, that I am just fine.

I hate that I have become so good at lying that I often believe myself. I hate that everything around me turns to crap. I hate that I’m so selfish. That it’s my mom who might have cancer not me. I hate that I’m making it about me. I hate that I don’t know what I’d do without her. I hate that I always count on him. I hate that I’ve made him hate me too. I hate that he pities me and still talks to me. I hate that I believed him when he told me he loved me. I hate that I meant it when I told him I loved him too.

I hate that when I’m sad he’s the first person I think of texting. I hate that he replies when it’s serious. I hate that I keep pushing away really good guys for someone who only wants me when he can’t have me. I hate that I don’t hate him at all.

I hate that I have no sense of empathy for the things that everyone around me goes through. I hate that I want to feel bad but can’t. I hate that I know there are times when I should feel a certain way but I just can’t.

I hate that I’ve become comfortable in my depression. That I don’t have the will to fight it off.

I hate all of these things about myself. And I hate that I am able to accept other people hating me. I hate that I hate me too. I hate that that doesn’t even phase me anymore.