If one were to question me on my accelerating self-loathing behavior, I still might not hold the answers to that specific question. I am acutely aware of the instance which propelled me to be a depressed teenager. However, what triggered the culmination transcends my thoughts to date.
The first time I began engaging with men, I felt nothing. Maybe a flicker of flattery when they showed interest in sleeping with me. By that time, my confidence stood in shackles and immobilized by self-despising thoughts running in my brain like blood in a vein. The dignity I once seemed to embrace had vanished long enough to let the 18-year old me enter into promiscuous relationships for external validation.
My relationships see-saw had always been tilted, with me putting all my emotional baggage on one seat to slide some across to them, hoping to balance the scales. Soon after they left, I realized how unfair that was of me, wishing for someone to mitigate my problems.
As and when they got off the see-saw, my side had piled on more since I first sat and was now threatening to break. There, I sat with issues multiplied and promptly waiting for someone else to take the opposite seat, to start it all over again.
Blame it on the indentations left by problematic romance novels or my heart finding an excuse to love someone as I outrightly refused it to fall in love with me. Quite frankly, the men I chose did nothing out of the ordinary, but I still gave them the chances I never did to myself. Why is it that when someone leaves you, you feel furious and hurt over them deserting you when you have been neglecting your own needs way longer?
The heart's meant to love someone, right? When I refused my heart all the chances to let it makes amends with my snarky side, it had to fall for the first person who showed affection. One of the persuasive reasons behind me falling for any and everyone who showed the slightest interest was, as I never did, in taking care of me? Might as well be that the first person to ever break my heart was, me.
