diffident nonentity

Please take a note of this:

You cannot make me hate myself any more than I do now.

I wear a mask, a mask that feels ever so heavy, like armor, or iron.

I smile and joke at and with the people in my life. I tend to their needs, tend to their needs, and tend to them more.

But it hurts. It hurts like an oil burn that is still minutes fresh.

Some say words are like bullets, but bullet wounds eventually heal. What is a wound that is ripped open? Day after day after day? Never given the chance to scab over and form a faint scar? And if they do scar, it is gaping, jagged, a keloid blemish on skin, underneath the mask.

“Woman, I want you to cook!”

“selfish bitch,”

“No matter how you look, no one will want you,”

“You look like a whore,”

“Worthless woman,”

“You are nothing,”

“Why don’t you ever think about people other than yourself?”

“I hate you.”

And yet...

I don my mask each morning, smiling and tending to the needs.

You say that I am too young to be so cynical,

But do you see what I deal with, from the white light of the sun to the black abyss of night?

I force myself to keep on trying to get through the day, to keep on smiling.

Even when all I want to do is curl up and let my mind drift.

Disassociation.

It is my only salvation from the hate I feel inside.

I hate my life, I hate my body,

I hate myself.

And you can never, NEVER, understand how worthless I feel,

Every morning,

Every afternoon,

Every night.