если боишься - не делай, а если делаешь - не бойся.
I am entering this year with a newly discovered sense of self - the self objectively not as great as the one I used to know, but one I am yet to learn how to love. I can’t think of a place more appropriate for this entry than this perishing Diary website that feels like home I no longer have.
In the last hours of 2017, a lot of you are saying thank you to those who have been with them throughout the year. I don’t have many people to thank, because at the time when I was at my lowest, I found myself alone. Worse yet, at times there were people enthusiastically ganging up against me, but no one on my side.
But I thought I was fine. I thought, as long as I have to, I can endure anything.
Until one day, I couldn’t. Suddenly, the realization hit me. “Oh,” I thought. And I stopped trying.
I have always been a little overly dramatic about my own sorrows, but it turned out the strongest feeling of self loathing takes place in silence. In a locked room you can’t find the strength to leave for days. In a public bathroom where you hide for hours to avoid curious stares. In a cold bed you simply can’t get up from.
The real self loathing is the one you can’t even find the energy to tell others about. The one you have to hide to escape the judgement. The one that makes you nauseous just from having to be in one room with your disgusting self.
I hated myself so much I wanted to die. There was no point in anything. No one to help me. No escaping the dull feeling of hopelessness and despair. There was just a lot of useless time. A life I didn’t really need anymore, but the one I was not motivated and fearless enough to end and not selfish enough to attempt to do so.
But after months of quiet self destruction, I don’t hate myself anymore. I don’t know if it’s thanks to effort, chance, or support from the few close people I still have. Maybe it’s everything together. Either way, while I am not exactly a fan of myself, I don’t actively want to isolate myself from people anymore. Compared to the burning, persistent feeling of self hatred, not caring now feels like a huge blessing. Dare I say, I even have a glimmer of hope for myself.
I have learned that I am not the person I believed myself to be. Years of carefully created facade have been ruined, and I am only starting to figure out what I really am now. I’m not great. I don’t have the qualities people like.
I’m not that funny. Not exceptionally smart. My taste isn’t anything close to extraordinary. I don’t like people. I don’t want to like peiple. I have average looks.
I’m generally very average.
But I will learn to love myself. I need to learn to love myself. Even if I don’t know who I am yet, at least I know who I’m not.
I can give myself strength. I can be better. And if I can’t - I’m already alright. I don’t have to punish myself for what I am and what I’m not.
2018 will be better.
С наступившим/наступающим.
So I kept on walking, I started talking with the devil,
And I asked them "what's a life if you live it like you're dead."
He took my soul and he washed it in a whiskey river.
I took his hand, we stood back, and watched the banks turn red.
'Cause I was born to be a sinner, I was born to be free.
I was born to dance on two left feet.
And raised up to be the rebel, I was made with a little bit of fire, you see.
I guess it's always been the devil and me.
In the last hours of 2017, a lot of you are saying thank you to those who have been with them throughout the year. I don’t have many people to thank, because at the time when I was at my lowest, I found myself alone. Worse yet, at times there were people enthusiastically ganging up against me, but no one on my side.
But I thought I was fine. I thought, as long as I have to, I can endure anything.
Until one day, I couldn’t. Suddenly, the realization hit me. “Oh,” I thought. And I stopped trying.
I have always been a little overly dramatic about my own sorrows, but it turned out the strongest feeling of self loathing takes place in silence. In a locked room you can’t find the strength to leave for days. In a public bathroom where you hide for hours to avoid curious stares. In a cold bed you simply can’t get up from.
The real self loathing is the one you can’t even find the energy to tell others about. The one you have to hide to escape the judgement. The one that makes you nauseous just from having to be in one room with your disgusting self.
I hated myself so much I wanted to die. There was no point in anything. No one to help me. No escaping the dull feeling of hopelessness and despair. There was just a lot of useless time. A life I didn’t really need anymore, but the one I was not motivated and fearless enough to end and not selfish enough to attempt to do so.
But after months of quiet self destruction, I don’t hate myself anymore. I don’t know if it’s thanks to effort, chance, or support from the few close people I still have. Maybe it’s everything together. Either way, while I am not exactly a fan of myself, I don’t actively want to isolate myself from people anymore. Compared to the burning, persistent feeling of self hatred, not caring now feels like a huge blessing. Dare I say, I even have a glimmer of hope for myself.
I have learned that I am not the person I believed myself to be. Years of carefully created facade have been ruined, and I am only starting to figure out what I really am now. I’m not great. I don’t have the qualities people like.
I’m not that funny. Not exceptionally smart. My taste isn’t anything close to extraordinary. I don’t like people. I don’t want to like peiple. I have average looks.
I’m generally very average.
But I will learn to love myself. I need to learn to love myself. Even if I don’t know who I am yet, at least I know who I’m not.
I can give myself strength. I can be better. And if I can’t - I’m already alright. I don’t have to punish myself for what I am and what I’m not.
2018 will be better.
С наступившим/наступающим.
So I kept on walking, I started talking with the devil,
And I asked them "what's a life if you live it like you're dead."
He took my soul and he washed it in a whiskey river.
I took his hand, we stood back, and watched the banks turn red.
'Cause I was born to be a sinner, I was born to be free.
I was born to dance on two left feet.
And raised up to be the rebel, I was made with a little bit of fire, you see.
I guess it's always been the devil and me.