Self-Hatreds of the Just in Case Variety

And perhaps... the start of an antidote?

Many of the women I have known have hated themselves a little bit from time to time. Truth be told, sometimes they’ve hated themselves a lot; the woman in me, too.

Every now and then, I wonder if we hate ourselves just in case. We save some self-loathing for a rainy day. We have an emergency fund for when accidents happen – when imperfection arises – and we feel the need to batter ourselves or others back into shape.

Anyway, my point is mostly just that I have noticed this. That’s pretty much all. I am not sure what I’m meant to do about the scale of it a lot of the time. Although, although, I do also notice what I want to do about it… in gaps, in cracks of light, in any small and hopeful and rebellious ways.

I want to say to these women – to myself, too – I see you, my love. You are imperfect and I automatically love you. I feel all sorts of other things for you, too, of course. But that’s life: a mixed bag, ever-changing.

And it’s okay, my honey, I promise we’re all imperfect and complicated and a bit shaky inside, and so it may as well be allowed. You are made of a love that isn’t contingent on some self-monitoring hatred.

And rest for a moment, you treasure, you angel. That may as well be allowed, too.