10 Things I Hate About Myself Book Novels & Stories

Hatred, happiness, relief, disbelief, rage, and a desperate need to feel her hug me while crying like a baby. “It is okay, girl; I know you hate me! Please believe me when I say I never planned for this to happen. I never imagined I could forget myself and everything I stood for, fought for and dreamed of as I did. I never wanted to forget you, and for that, I hate me too. It is okay. I know what I did to you, how I treated you, and how invisible I made you feel. That will be my burden to carry, but I want yours too. It is time I’m there for you, so let me do this for you. Let the weights I gave you fall, the ice-cold fear I want you to leave here. Give me the loneliness I suffocated you in,

There’s nothing I can do when I myself is a willing victim to be fucking used. “I can’t do anything about it. They won’t believe us,” I told them, before getting all my stuff to finally get dressed. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself so much. I feel so fucking dirty, but my mind kept on reminding me that this was my own doing. I made myself do this for power. I hate who I become. And I’m sure as fuck that I will hate who I am going to be.

AVA I slammed the drawer shut harder than I meant to, the sound echoing in the too-large, too-perfect bedroom. God, I hated myself. Hated the way my hands shook as I stuffed clothes into the suitcase. Hated the way tears blurred my vision until I couldn’t tell if I was folding silk or crushing it into a ball. Most of all, I hated that somewhere along the way, I’d let him get to me. I was the pretty pawn he’d paraded around like proof of his victory.

I’m the reason he hates me. Lucas gets up from his seat and comes over to me, wrapping his arms around me. He lets me cry on his shoulder for a solid thirty minutes, as everything I had kept in for the past month finally bursts through the mental dam I had built. Sobs heave out of me in a constant stream, as well as my doubts, fears and hatred of myself. I had made this horrid bed, yet I can’t stand lying amongst the thorns. “I don’t know what to do,” I admit, the confession half-strangled, half-whispered.

“Tell me again how much you hate me. Go on. Convince yourself.” “God, I hate you,” I whispered into the empty room, my voice shaking, breaking on the words as if they were glass shards in my mouth. “I hate you so much.” I rocked forward slightly, hugging my knees tighter to my chest, trying to make myself smaller, invisible. But the words felt hollow, even to me. Because beneath the hatred, there was something else—something dark and twisted that I couldn’t name, couldn’t admit. It was like a poison seeping into my veins, slow and insidious, making my skin flush anew just thinking about it.

I wanted to stop feeling for him. I sucked in a quick breath as I dragged the razor across my upper right thigh, it stung like hell but felt so good. I moved a few centimeters beneath and did it again. Why did I always try so hard to be perfect for someone? I hated everything about myself. How I looked, how I sounded, everything. I hated my stupid black hair and my blue eyes. I hated my broad shoulders and pale white skin. I hated my long eyelashes. I hated my tits and my thighs. I hated that I wasn't thin like the girls Mark always chose over me were. I hated everything about me. Why couldn't I be better? Why couldn't I be prettier? Why couldn't Mark have chosen to stay with me? Why couldn'

Because she deserved to be stung. Not just an idiot. Not just stupid. But bad. I am bad. I am bad, and broken, and horrible, and I hate him and I hate myself and I want to die. It was a very, very dark plane ride.

It’s too much. My breathing grows ragged, the words pressing down on me from all sides. And suddenly, I hate being me. I hate my skin. My hair. My lips. I want to tear them off. I want to scrub the name Susanna off the surface of the earth. I abhor it. My existence. Filthy. Dirty. Used. Degraded. Ruined.

I hate you I typed, pressing send before shutting my phone off. Lying on my side, I stared into the darkness. I felt… nothing. Not even the usual irritation I used to feel whenever Aaron’s name came up. Just emptiness. “I hate Aaron,” I whispered to myself. Maybe if I repeated it enough, my heart wouldn’t get any ideas. Maybe if I told myself I was only using him to finish my book, it would start to feel true… again. “I hate Aaron.” And that was it. We couldn't be anything more.

I wasn't a malicious person by nature, I was surprised that I had this much malice within me. But now I knew that deep down, all I really wanted was an apology of any form. It didn't have to be direct, it didn't have to be the words “I'm sorry” but it had to make me know, make me feel relieved and safe. It had to assure me that what had happened would never repeat itself. But most of all, I realized that the person I most hated was myself. For a long time I had slowly begun to hate myself, I hated the fact that I was weak, I hated the fact that I was pathetic. I just wanted to be loved.