Real Talk: The Quiet Art of Not Loathing Yourself

I used to think self-hatred was a side effect of being self-aware. A tax you paid for looking in the mirror too long. Other people seemed able to make a mistake, shrug, and continue with their afternoon. I preferred to open an investigation, interview witnesses, and bring up unrelated offenses from 2008.

Thorough work. Terrible use of an afternoon.

There’s comfort in hating yourself, which sounds ridiculous until you’ve done it long enough. You know what to expect. If someone criticizes you, you’ve probably already said something worse while brushing your teeth. If an opportunity falls through, you can tell yourself you knew it would. You get to be disappointed and correct at the same time, a combination that can keep a miserable man entertained for years.

I sat with my thoughts like they were old enemies invited to dinner. I knew their stories. They knew where to hurt me. Somehow, I kept setting the table.

Eventually, though, you get tired of your own shit. Even the familiar arguments become tedious. You’re trying to get through an ordinary day, and your brain wants to explain, again, why you’re a failure. There are dishes in the sink, bills to pay, and a paragraph that needs editing. Apparently, none of that can happen until you’ve been reminded of every bad decision you’ve ever made.

Somewhere in that exhaustion, a question starts to seem reasonable: What am I accomplishing by treating myself this way?

I used to believe I had to earn the right to like myself. Some grand event would settle the matter. I’d win an award, publish the great Mexican-American horror novel of the decade, or finally become the man I kept promising myself I would become. Then I’d look in the mirror and say, “You did it, asshole.” Affectionately, of course.

The problem was that I kept changing the requirements. One finished story became a published story. A published story needed sales. Sales needed to become enough sales. Whatever I managed to do, there was always another condition waiting behind it.

It’s difficult to satisfy a man who keeps moving the finish line and calling it discipline.

I recognize that hunger in Anonymous, the struggling writer in my horror story Ramblings of a Crazy Mind. He’s dissatisfied with himself, and a mysterious woman offers him objects carrying other people’s gifts. Talent. Confidence. Qualities he believes would make his life better. The offer is tempting because he’s already convinced that who he is amounts to a problem somebody needs to solve.

I gave him a supernatural opportunity because I write horror, and apparently ordinary insecurity wasn’t causing enough trouble. But I understand the temptation. When you’re tired of yourself, the chance to become someone else can sound wonderful. You might even forget to ask what happens to the person you already are.

That question interests me more now than the fantasy of waking up completely transformed. I still want to improve. I want to write better, make better decisions, and build a life I can respect. I also have to live through the process. Spending every unfinished day in contempt of myself makes that process harder than it needs to be.

Self-hatred is good at disguising itself as accountability. It sounds serious. Responsible, even. You made a mistake, so you should feel bad. Fair enough. But then it extends the sentence indefinitely, until feeling bad becomes the only thing you’re doing about the mistake.

There are things I’ve done that deserve an honest examination. Sometimes an apology. Sometimes a change in behavior that lasts longer than the embarrassment. Calling myself worthless contributes very little to any of that. It mostly gives me another reason to avoid the work.

I’m learning to be more specific. What did I do? What can I repair? What do I need to handle differently next time? Those questions can be uncomfortable, but at least the answers might be useful. “What the hell is wrong with me?” usually produces a lengthy response and no practical suggestions.

The inner critic still has a VIP seat in my mind, front row, with popcorn and a large Pepsi. He watches me write and says, “This is trash, Gabriel. Absolute trash.” He’s very confident for someone who has never helped me finish a manuscript.

Sometimes I agree that a paragraph is bad. Then I edit it. Other times, I keep writing until I have enough on the page to judge. Either way, I’m trying to give the work more attention than the insult. An unfinished draft has possibilities. An evening spent explaining why I shouldn’t write usually ends with an unfinished draft and an evening gone.

This is where liking yourself becomes disappointingly ordinary. I’d prefer a revelation, perhaps accompanied by excellent lighting. Most days, it means eating a decent meal, getting some sleep, answering the message I’ve been avoiding, or sitting down to do the work before I feel ready.

It also means saying no without preparing a legal defense. Saying yes to something I want without first asking whether I deserve it. Taking a break before exhaustion turns me into someone who resents every living creature within walking distance.

There’s no impressive photograph to post afterward. You washed a plate and kept a promise to yourself. Congratulations. Please enjoy this complete absence of applause.

I’m still learning to let those small things count. Especially on days when something goes wrong and I’m tempted to use it as evidence against my entire life. A rejection can hurt without settling the question of whether I should write. Trusting the wrong person can leave damage without proving I deserved it. I can regret the time I’ve lost and still use the time I have.

I don’t always manage this gracefully. Some days, the old arguments return before I’ve had coffee, and I catch myself halfway through a familiar prosecution. But I’m getting better at noticing when reflection has become repetition. There’s usually something more useful I could be doing, even if it’s just making breakfast.

I used to expect admiration from the mirror, once I’d finally earned it. Respect seems like a more reasonable place to begin. I can look at the man standing there, acknowledge what needs work, and let him get on with his day.

He’s made it this far. I’d like to see what he can do with a little help.

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