10 Things I Hate About Myself Book Novels & Stories

“Why not?” His entire being quaked and words poured out a stilted mess. “I hate that he still has that much power over me. I hate that he can get a reaction out of me when no one else can. I hate it’s a test to see if I’m strong enough to fight this…fucking rage I inherited from him. I’ve tried so hard not to end up like him. So fucking hard and when I act this way, I’m exactly like him and I hate it. I hate myself.”

So, I rolled over, burying my face in the pillow, and screamed. I hate this life. I hate Ryder. I hate Hunter. Most of all, I hate myself.

I was, by all conventional metrics, foolish, insulated, and terminably naive, possessing a psychological architecture that granted trust with dangerous ease. I was fully cognizant of these traits. Yet, despite the inherent risks, I was entirely incapable of altering my fundamental nature. That was simply who I was at my core. And on a deeper level, I harbored a quiet affection for my own identity, because every single virtue and perspective I possessed today had been meticulously cultured by my mother. She had operated with that exact same baseline of open-hearted vulnerability, you know. And despite those perceived liabilities, she had ultimately discovered a profound, enduring partnership

I hated how much I liked being interesting to him. My body was not behaving itself and I was fully aware of that. There was this involuntary thing my back had started doing, this small arch upward toward him that I had not consciously decided to do and could not seem to stop doing, and I could feel my own heartbeat moving through me in a way that was embarrassingly obvious if he was paying attention. Which he was. He was always paying attention.

I hated myself! If there was one thing I learnt, it was to keep myself from hating people for my problems, and that was exactly what I was trying to do. But I probably couldn't undo the fact I'd hurt Sable, the best thing I could do for myself at this moment was not to hate an innocent girl for what she knew nothing about.

He said taking back his cola. "I'm not saying you shouldn't hate me... I'm saying...you shouldn't hate yourself, you have the right to hate whoever you want, I'm not stopping you but hating yourself...is something. You shouldn't allow hate to do to you" I explained. "Hmm, are you hating yourself?" He asked all of a sudden. "I...I...donno" I stuttered not too sure...but I'm actually sure I am, I hate myself for not protecting Adrian.

I pulled it from my bag, sat on the edge of my bed, and opened to the first page. Write ten things you like about your spouse. I almost laughed. An hour later... My pen finally stopped moving. I looked down at the page. My fingers had cramped around the pen hours ago, but I never stopped writing Ten things. No. More than ten. I stared at the words I'd written. Then something inside me quietly broke. Because somewhere between the first sentence... ...and the last... I'd realized something terrifying. I didn't hate August…

“You’re in my head. In every breath. In every second I pretend to be someone I’m not. And I hate you for that. But I hate myself more.” There was a soft laugh then. Broken, bitter. “I said awful things to you. Things I can’t take back. I don’t know why I did it. Maybe I was scared. Maybe I was trying to make you hate me so it would be easier.” The words came quicker now, like a confession leaking from a crack. “You scare me. Because you make me want things I was never allowed to want. You look at me like you see past all of it, the name, the legacy, the suit, the mask. And I… I can’t take that. I don’t know how.”

“Baby—” “You want me to hate you, but I don’t,” I cut in. “I can’t. Instead, I hate myself. I hate myself because I am completely okay with this.” My throat tightened. “I hate myself because I don’t care that my father’s in prison, and that I don’t ever want him to get out.”

I faced him, and my chest felt like it was about to explode with rage. "What a jerk you are! I don't mind if I don't get a grade! I would never want to work with a jerk like you!" I couldn't stop myself from slapping him because I was irritated, and my hand moved spontaneously towards his face. His eyes widened as he saw what I did. He didn't expect that from me. I didn't wait for him to say anything; instead, I turned and ran out of the classroom. Speaking causes him pain. He's going to treat me like a dog just because I'm poor? What a jerk! Kian, I'm furious with you! You're absolutely nothing!