Chapter 2: Chapter 2: When Self-Hatred Takes Root and Blossoms, Growing into a Beautiful Flower

Traumatic experiences can have profound effects on one’s mental sanity and psyche, for trauma, for a lack of better words, can be a real bitch sometimes. I know this feeling first-handed quite well, for it is one that defined me and shaped my eyes and how I view this accursed world I live in. After Daniella had cut all ties with me, I swore to myself that I would never open my heart up again, and to such an extent that I began to notice physical and mental changes in myself: My usual friendly and approaching aura around me had become a cold, lifeless, emotionless cloak that I wore to dismiss those around me. As well as…I swore off unnecessary interaction with anyone I wasn’t already close to, especially girls. It appeared that I gained a case of gynophobia because of Daniella’s actions; I was scared to get close to another girl, because I knew one day, she too would leave me because I wasn’t good enough. Looking back, it took me a whopping nine weeks after the incident to ever refer to a girl by her given name. Do not misunderstand, that is not to say I didn’t speak to girls for nine weeks, I just always avoided calling them by name, for the moment I did I felt like I would cross a line I did not want to cross. …It’s hilarious now that I think about it…I was simply a coward, nothing more and nothing less. That said, no matter what my mind perceived as what was best for me, my heart would often act out and listen not to my words or my discretion, like a small child whining at the supermarket for this or that with their mother. Speaking of which, my mental sanity had never been better, I was seriously at my prime.

            I feel sick.

            I acclimated to my classes and began receiving perfect scores in everything again.

            I feel nauseous.

            I improved relations with people and school and began to make friends with those in my classes, though I obviously didn’t get too close.

            My head hurts.

            I never really talked with my classmates because I was worried that they would only talk to me if they wanted help with homework and such.

            My entire body hurts.

            But as the old saying goes, ‘Don’t judge a book by its cover’, I guess it really is true because they were for the most part pretty nice.

            I’m in pain.

            Though I still sometimes felt uncomfortable when I’m alone with them, it’s tolerable, and that’s an improvement by all means.

            I’m suffering.

            All in all, my social life was on the rise, I was making new friends, and my grades were perfect; my life was definitely at its peak.

            I’m tired. I don’t want to do this anymore. Everything hurts. My heart aches. My head burns. My soul aches in pain in increments that are in resonance with my irregular heartbeat. My head hurts.

         “If you’re in that much pain, mayyyybe you should go home?” I heard a beautiful voice that dragged me out of my deep pit of self-hatred and back into reality. “Why are you covering your ears and muttering to yourself?” The voice began to chastise me for my “bizarre muttering”; well to be fair it is weird seeing someone hold their heads and mutter. “Mr. C was looking at you pretty funny too, are you feeling okay?” After mocking me with that lighthearted tone, the voice began to console me and ask about my well-being; how rich. In return, I lifted my head full of madness and turned to look behind me towards the recipient of the voice that pulled me to consciousness. There sat a girl incarnate of the word beauty, at least to my choices anyway. Her name was Carmen Leonis, she had large, light brown eyes, shoulder-length cut brown hair, a beautifully-pale face, and a revolting personality you couldn't stand for more than five minutes. “Yeowch, talk about a scaaaary face.” That too was fair, considering my eyes looked to be the eyes of the devil itself; that is to say, I had the meanest and evilest expression imaginable on my face: “What’s more, you look even scarier than usual, well, not that that’s a bad thing.” I sighed at the continuing one-sided conversation and fully turned around at my desk.

            “What do you want?” I replied with an attitude whose levels of coldness and emptiness rivaled that of the deepest reaches of space that harbors black holes.

            “I told you, Mr. C was glaring at you because you were dozing off, so I helped you out, you’re weeelcome.”

            “How irritating.” This damn girl really wanted me to thank her.

            “You’re not thinking in your head, you’re talking out loud again.”

            “Oh no what a disaster.” I said in a monotone, not to mention completely intentionally sarcastic voice. When I said this, I had fully prepared myself for the oncoming onslaught of emotional abuse, otherwise known as pouting, but I felt nervous when I shut my eyes and heard nothing. The silence between us began to accumulate in anxiousness and awkwardness…and I was the first one to falter. “Fine! Fine. Thank you for ‘helping me out’ of your own volition.” I sighed once more, an obvious occurrence, and grabbed my head in pain, whilst also admitting defeat.

            “Well of course, I’d do anything for you.”

            “Stop saying things out of context that can also be interpreted in other meanings!” I snapped back. God, I always seemed to get a headache during these daily interactions. “You…you’re gonna give me a heart attack one of these days you know?”

            “Ohh? Does that mean I can give you mouth-to-mouth resuscitation? How exciting, I can’t wait.”

            “Despite the obvious ulterior motives, wishing pain upon a person makes you an ever-scarier person than I look. Repent for all those who you’ve wished suffering upon. Scum.”  

            “Tsundere.” Final straw identified.

            “God you’re abhorrent. Shorty.” I tried to turn back around but felt a strong grip on my shoulder after I spoke those words. A shiver was instantly sent down my spine and goosebumps flared up my arms. Ahh, it appears I identified a final straw. Also, what’s up with this grip strength?? That isn’t human, or it shouldn’t be anyway. Scary.

            “What was that?” The voice had turned sweet and proper. My Danger Detector went batshit wild. “My apologies. I don’t think I heard you quite well. Would you care to repeat that?”

            “Uhm…your eyes are looking uhh, quite pretty?” I said in response to the sweet smile + death glare combo I was faced with. “Good?” I asked with a thumbs up.

            It most definitely was not good. I swallowed and sucked up my pride and prepared myself for what I planned to say next.

            “Let’s go on a date?”

            If any event could be described in a single, more fitting word, I wouldn’t believe you because what I saw was the very epitome: Hell breaking loose. Glares of murderous intent were instantly softened and turned into eyes of love and anticipation.

            “Really!? Really really!?”

            “Yes, really really. I’m not so shameless as to not go back on my word.”

            “Are you sure it’s because you’re not just a softy pushover when it comes to me? Well, that is to be expected since I am amazing.”

            “Your narcissism knows no bounds huh? And no, I’m not soft by any means, you’re just a pain in my ass to deal with and it’s easier to just go along with everything that stops you from whining.”

            “You say that but we both know you’re in love with me.”

            “Yeah yeah I lo-” I started to say that while waving my hand around in the air but was suddenly stopped with a bad feeling struck me. My heartbeat accelerated, I began to shiver, my teeth began chattering. What was I going to say? Why would I say that? How limitless are my disgusting qualities? Who am I to say something like that to someone? I don’t deserve to ever say those words to anyone. That emotion is unnecessary and only brings about pain and suffering; thus, it should be discarded forever. I never want to feel that emotion again…yet why? Why am I conflicted as so? Why do I continue to torment myself to this extent?

            “Sorry. One sec, I need to go to the bathroom.” I said while getting up and quickly rushing to the door. Leaving behind a face of confusion that I knew I couldn’t turn around to look at. Despite it all, I was telling the truth, I really did have to go to the bathroom…only the reason wasn’t the same as what most people would consider. I ran inside one of the stalls and felt a warming sensation rising inside my throat. Bitter. The puke continued to escape from my mouth, even though my stomach was already emptied. Once the last drop fell into the toilet, I pushed down the toilet-seat cover and sat on top of it. And that’s when I noticed that I coughed up some blood while I was puking; my throat was probably hurt and damaged so much to the point of bleeding. Blood huh? It replenishes itself, so why do humans need so much of it? Which brings me to another question regarding blood: Why do we as humans feel more pain whenever blood is involved? I understand it’s because that blood is actually the seepage of dead red blood cells, but why does it hurt so much than any other form of pain? When compared, poking your finger with a tiny needle hurts more than stubbing your toe against a table leg at two in the morning when you get up for a glass of water, and why is that? Over the past few weeks since the incident with Daniella, I’ve painstakingly come to such a conclusion: When a person is subjected to a similar experience in a repetitive manner, like a broken record on repeat, one begins to become acclimated to such experiences, like an immunity.

            You still don’t get it? Fine, I’ll stop using such roundabout and vague words: What I’m trying to say is that when someone becomes so used to self-harm, you hardly think anything of it anymore.

            It doesn’t hurt anymore. I can scratch away at my arms until blood draws, yet I don’t feel a thing. I want to feel something, yet I feel nothing whatsoever. Emptiness. Loneliness. Regret. Hopelessness. I claw away at my arm covered up and down in scars in hopes of finally feeling something…only to be further disappointed by the daily.

            Self-Harm becomes a tradition. A saying I have grown quite fond, despite the sinister intents behind the words. While the words on their own suggest something horrid, what I am trying to explain is not the fact that Self-Harm is a tradition practiced by those in some sort of weird, fetishistic bloodline.

Self-Harm becomes a tradition.

I am trying to say that when confronted with a wall too tall to climb over,

Self-Harm becomes a tradition.

There needs to be something for you to lean on,

Self-Harm becomes a tradition.

Something for you to rely on,

Self-Harm becomes a tradition.

Something to support you and your lifeless emotions,

Self-Harm becomes a tradition.

That something just so happens to be the closest and easiest thing to rely on that is the closest to you in the greatest time of need.

Self-Harm becomes a tradition.

And when you begin to practice that ‘special something’, you can’t abandon it halfway through.

Self-Harm becomes a tradition.

It’s almost like an addiction, I feel like if I stop then everything will come crashing down, everything I’ve worked so hard to protect.

Self-Harm becomes a tradition.

The many sleepless nights when exhaustion was ready to embrace me and whisk me away to the world of sleep,

Self-Harm becomes a tradition.

The only option I could turn to was the one that required me to disregard my own body and my safety,

Self-Harm becomes a tradition.

I embraced Self-Harm, and it allowed me to not falter and fall victim to the hellish realm of sleep.

Self-Harm becomes a tradition.

 That is why I will continue to walk this path,

Self-Harm becomes a tradition.

You are reading story A Soliloquy of Self Hatred at novel35.com

continue to draw my blood,

Self-Harm becomes a tradition.

 and most importantly, continue to offer up my sanity to Self-Harm in order for my mental state to stay in a posing, counterfeit, feigned state of mental equilibrium. Hence, why I say and continue to embrace the fact:

Self-Harm becomes a tradition. A custom which I will never abandon, not until the time of my ultimately untimely death.

I once again rummaged through my pockets looking for something sharp enough to break skin with enough force, but something not too sharp. Call me a hypocrite, but even though I had grown long numb to the feeling of pain in the entirety of my left arm when cut with a blade, I feel the ‘phantom pain’, pain that’s not really there and my brain only thinks it is. And pain is something I never again want to feel, hence why I use ordinary, everyday objects with enough of an edge of them to satisfy my unnatural and inhumane desires.

“Looks like today’s lucky winner are you guys.” I said with a mischievous and broken smile on my face as I pulled out my house keys from my pocket. I had previously resisted the urge to bring my tools of self-mutilation to school, mostly because I got enough for the day in during the night when I could never sleep, for every time I shut my eyes, I could see Daniella’s disgusted face staring at me. Though, occasionally I could fall asleep somewhat peacefully and would sleep for an average of about two-and-a-half hours per week.

So, just as I did with the pen, and just as I do every night with any object that’s closest to me, I placed the sharper edge of the key against my forearm and examined the optimal position. I always made sure to do short, numerous scratches instead of a few long ones, for I wanted to avoid accidentally cutting into a vein at all costs, for I would undoubtedly be found out about my condition. I took a deep breath, relaxed my tensed eyes, put a significant amount of force behind the press into my skin using the key, and then dragged it downwards towards my hand. Instantly, a faint red line began to bulge out of my skin, and then it began to darken. In response, I put the key against my forearm and redid the procedure again, this time starting from a few millimeters to the right from where the first scratch occurred.

This time applying a bit more force, I instantly felt the rugged texture of the key attempt to go against the smooth skin, but it was viciously outmatched by my strength. This time instead of the faint red scratch line bulging out of my skin, I felt a hot, yet not uncomfortable, feeling in my arm and watched as small amounts of blood began to trickle out from the newly opened cut. I repeated this process of creating new surface scars and bringing real scars to reality for a few minutes in the bathroom stall alone with the thoughts that were no longer overwhelming my psyche. After I finally began to feel better, I exited the stall, stopped in front of the bathroom mirror in an attempt to fix the depravity shown in my eyes, gave up and left the bathroom, and headed back to class.

I waited outside the classroom and waited until the noise had just about reached its peak, for I wanted to at all costs simply sneak back into my seat without drawing attention to myself. I opened the door just enough and peeled my head through to get a good look at my surroundings. Good, Mr. C isn’t looking this way, I thought to myself.

The way the classroom was laid out was so the door was at the far left of the classroom if looked at from inside the classroom, and Mr. C’s desk was in the far-right corner, meaning he didn’t have a clear view of the door. So, I slinked inside and walked over to my desk cool as a cucumber, and no one paid any attention to me. Perfect…or so it would be if one person in particular hadn’t noticed my retreat and then return.

“Are you feeling okay? You look even worse than you did when you left?”

What? What are you talking about?  I made sure my disheveled hair and corrupted facial expressions were normal, there shouldn’t be anything off about me. I took the time and care to ensure that something exactly like this wouldn’t hap-

“Because your eyes look reeeally tired.” What do you mean by ‘my eyes’? How can someone’s eyes look tired?

“What do you mean by ‘my eyes’? How can someone’s eyes look tired?” I attempted to laugh at the end of my sentence and release the emotional tension. But that unnerving and unmoving face in front of me wouldn’t budge laughing.

“Your eyes look emotionally and mentally tired, and your mind seems like a jumbled mess, what’s wrong, you can talk to me about this, you know that right?”

Stop.

“I don’t like seeing you in so much pain.”

Stop.

“You just look so unwell, and I want to help.

Stop it.

“I know I pick on you so much and make fun of you all the time,” 

Please, stop it.

“But I really do care about you.”

Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Please stop.

“And I want you to know that.”

Stop. Just stop.

“So please, just talk to me, confide in me, I’m here for you.”

Stop it now.

“Even if no one else is on your side,”

Don’t say it. Stop talking. Stop mouthing off that emotion before...

“Just know, that I-”

Before I do something I’m going to regret.

“-always am. I’m always going to be on your side.”

The face chock-full of emotion that was staring at me was also full of hurt and anticipation. I honestly don’t know what came over me at that moment, but I assured myself that in the end, it wouldn’t matter anyway. So the question is why, why did I do what I did next? What type of emotions was I feeling at that moment? Looking back on it now, I can’t even tell if I was feeling anything at that point. Emotions to me have always been a non-necessity for life; we don’t need them to survive, so why do we have them? I suppose, as with most personal ideologies, they were born out of how one was raised. See, even as a child, I liked to observe things. I never wanted to join in with the other kids who were having fun and playing, instead, I would opt for sitting off to the side, by my lonesome self, and merely watch everything that happened. All the fights, all the cries, all the acts of bullying committed, I watched it all, and I never talked with anyone about what I saw or witnessed. My personality trait called ‘indifference’ has paved the path for the person I have become today.

If I see something occurring, I will merely walk away and say something along the lines of “Not my business, not my problem”, for nothing good ever comes from sticking your nose into places it doesn’t belong. Most people would call me a terrible person, but I have but a simple retort to those imbeciles: Why would I put myself at risk over some trivial event that doesn’t even relate to me? It’s a very simple understanding of a thought process: Let’s say, hypothetically, I am walking down the school hallways in the early morning, and I see an underclassman being bullied and getting beat up, most people would immediately jump in with a “Hey knock it off!”, but why? Why would any sane person go out of their way to protect a stranger? The answer is a self-serving force of “Justice” that inhibits and clouds the mind; that force is also known as Pride.  Everybody wants to be a hero, so anybody would take the opportunity to save someone in need, but as with everything in this world, it comes at a price. Sure, you successfully get the bully off the underclassman, but then the bully turns his attention towards you, now what? Now you get beat up for your own self-absorbed hero complex. Which brings me back to my point about indifference: Why would I go out of my way and put myself at risk over some stranger? My very simple thought process that I mentioned before goes as such: If I don’t know the person, why should I care about them or their well-being? Again, most people would choose to label me as a horrendous person with no sense of morals, but I once again have but a simple counterargument: What about all of the people all around the world that are left to suffer? Do you care about them? You talk-your-talk about being a “good person”, but have you, you yourself ever done anything that could consider you to be a good person? No, all you do is spout convenient lies that you tell yourself in order to make yourself feel better about your insecurities, as well as to feed your excessive self-pride the delusions that you’ve done a good deed that will help the world, when in fact the small “contribution” you’ve made is just as insignificant as you and your desires. All that humans know how to do is lie, trick, deceit, mock, take advantage of, and put others down for their own benefit. In this world of ours, there exist truly no “good people”, there are only people-placeholders for good who are shaped into merely looking good by those around them and by society. Every “good person” you can name, for every good deed they’ve done, it would be possible to name ten bad things they’ve done. What I’m getting at is that indifference is everywhere around us; it shapes and molds us into being the ideal people for our inevitable entrance into society and the real world.

People are horrid creatures who do nothing but condemn this world to eternal damnation, and they all suffer no consequences whatsoever. And the driving force behind those rash and selfish decisions is the root of all problems ever faced in human history: Emotions. Emotions are unneeded and unnecessary, and only cause pain and suffering, if not to oneself then inevitably to others, particularly to those you may eventually end up caring about. Emotions will cause someone pain and suffering at one point in their lives, and we as indoctrinated children are just meant to sit down obediently like cattle and follow blindly. It has often been said that the greatest threat to mankind are humans themselves, and this is partly true; however, it is the emotions those humans are experiencing that are the real enemy. Emotions only induce pain, so I resolved my soul and threw mine away long ago, even before Daniella, she just acted as the final hurdle I needed to overcome. I had prepared myself for the consequences of abandoning my emotions and my humanity, and I was fine. Without my emotions, I finally felt free, free from stress, free from pain and suffering, and free from everything that tried its hardest to keep me chained down to my humanity. My life had peaked and reached the best it could be...so why? Why at that moment did I feel that way? I usually feel nothing, so why then did I feel something?

In Mr. C’s class, I sat in the second-to-last very back row of desks, there were no people to my left or right, and no one sitting immediately in front of me; the class was noisy enough that the people two seats in front of me were also completely distracted. Knowing this, and using this to her advantage, my annoying neighbor who sat behind me closed her eyes, sighed, shook her head, and reached her hand out towards my own head. As usual, not caring, I didn’t react and didn’t say anything, but merely let her do what she was going to do anyway, it’s not like it’d have an effect on the emotionless person I am-

“You don’t have to pretend anymore.” She said this as she put her warm hand behind my ear that was further from her, and she pulled my head closer to her. I shut my eyes and reopened them when I felt a heavenly sensation atop my hair. I once again didn’t react, even as she pulled my head onto her chest. All reactions seemed to leave me; really what was I supposed to do except sit there leaning toward her?

“I can see it in your eyes…you’re exhausted, aren’t you?” I regained a few composure points and snickered.

“Bold of you to assume I was exhausted in the first place. Also, what’s up with this position?? What if someone turns around?”

“That doesn’t matter to me.” I was astounded. How could someone disregard and jeopardize their social standing at the expense of someone else? This girl continues to truly amaze me.

“You had this reeeally scary look in your eyes, and you looked sick as well. And well, I just wanted to help make you feel better, you know?” She was blushing, this definitely wasn’t easy for her either, so why is she doing this?

“I feel like I’m repeating myself here…I care about you, and I want you to be happy and safe.” What was the benefit of her doing this? She got nothing out of it so why would she go this far for someone like me?

“So once again, talk to me, please I’m begging, I want you to confide in me your worries, insecurities, fears, hopes, dreams, everything.” I don’t get it.

“So come with me now.” She said this as she released my head from its blessed captivity. She then grabbed my hand and stood up, pulling me standing as well. The bell rang, dismissing us as soon as she did that. I grabbed my backpack and threw it over my right shoulder and continued to follow behind her as she was still holding my hand. We walked for a few minutes in silence until we reached the school’s garden; how beautiful the flowers still were for it being the middle of fall.

“Sit here.” She said as she sat did herself, and then patted the spot on the bench right next to her, signaling me to sit down. I obliged but made sure I sat a little bit further away than she had motioned. In response, she scooted over to be closer to me, which caused me to scoot away as well, which, as you could probably guess, made her scoot toward me again. Eventually, I was trapped between her and the edge of the bench, and when I tried to get up, she grabbed the back of my shirt and pulled me back down.

“What’s up with you?” I asked with a hint of noticeable nervousness in my voice. She didn’t answer, and instead pulled my head back into her chest again. “Oh, we're doing this again? Do you want me to thank you for the service?” I said mockingly, trying to lighten the severity of this situation.

She didn’t laugh, and instead shut her eyes and took a deep breath, before beginning her reasoning behind the voluntary kidnapping.

“I want you to tell me about you and what you’ve gone through. Everything.” My eyes widened and my throat closed, why would she ask about things like that? “Starting from the beginning, I want you to tell me about all the bad things you’ve been through; you need closure and someone to talk to, and that person will be me.”

“How cheeky for someone shorter than me…”

“How cheeky for someone younger than me.”

“Only by like five months.”

“That’s like half an entire year, so you should one, treat me with respect, and two, be grateful a beautiful older girl is willing to listen to your personal problems. You’re welcome.”

“Anyway, what makes you assume there’s something wrong with me? How bold and presumptuous, look at how rude and arrogant you are. Apologize.” She smiled slightly when I said this, however, it was a smile full of sadness.

“You can drop the tough act now. I know you’re suffering.” Why? Why do her words continue to hurt me as so?

“…” I hadn’t the strength to say anything in response.

“Start from the very beginning, even from before Daniella.” My eyes widened and my heart rate bolted.

“H-how do you know that name?” I choked out whilst being unable to breathe properly.

“I talked to Sirius, and he told me everything.” That damn guy going around telling personal and private information. “He said he noticed a significant change in your personality after…that incident with Daniella.”

“…Then why did you say from befo-” I began to say but before I was interrupted.

“Because she wasn’t the first person who hurt you, was she?”

The world seemed to freeze. Time didn’t flow. The birds didn’t chirp. The wind wasn’t blowing. My consciousness felt twisted and wrung, discarded, and tossed away. Everything felt backwards and the universe itself seemed to flip upside-down.

“Amelia.”

You can find story with these keywords: A Soliloquy of Self Hatred, Read A Soliloquy of Self Hatred, A Soliloquy of Self Hatred novel, A Soliloquy of Self Hatred book, A Soliloquy of Self Hatred story, A Soliloquy of Self Hatred full, A Soliloquy of Self Hatred Latest Chapter