When I hate myself, I’m saying that I have no worth.
That I have brought nothing positive in the life God has given me.
That all I’m capable of doing is hurting others.
That my life can be boiled down to five moments.
That I didn’t appreciate my mom enough while she was alive.
That I abandoned my friend when she had nowhere else to turn.
I took advantage of someone when she needed someone to trust.
That I ruined an amazing friendship over my own selfishness.
That I wasted my ex’s time with a relationship that was never going to work.
That in some way, those periods in their lives would’ve been better without me.
That I’m somehow that important.
I let feelings of rejection and resentment control me.
That I’m always trying to make up for areas I think I’m lacking.
That I put myself in situations I’m not mentally strong enough to handle.
That other people get caught in the line of fire as a result.
That my moments of goodness don’t tell the true story of who I am.
That I am bound to ruin things eventually.
That a hero would do something to overcome this.
That the best thing I can do is go away.
That makes me a coward.
That I can’t escape my past but can protect everyone else’s future.
That I was always intended to be alone.
That isolation is the best thing I could’ve done.
That I’m trash.
That I’m a piece of shit.
That I am the dark, shadowy figure looming in everyone’s life.
That I am the villain.