I feel like I’m rotting inside myself. I feel like every thought I have is wrong, disgusting, embarrassing, but it’s still what I feel and I’m tired of pretending it isn’t. I hate the way I am, but I also can’t stop being this way. I feel so fundamentally broken that I don’t even know where the real me is supposed to be underneath all this mess. It’s like I’m trapped in a mind that keeps malfunctioning and the worst part is, some part of me truly believes my reactions make sense even when everyone tells me they don’t.
I hate pretty women. I hate them even though I know that makes me sound bitter and pathetic. I hate that their existence feels like a direct attack on mine. I hate that beauty seems to be the one thing that determines who gets loved easily and who has to beg for scraps. I hate myself for caring about it. I hate myself for watching the world revolve around looks and wishing I had something worth orbiting.
I hate that I’m not beautiful. I hate that I’m not even average. I hate that I look in the mirror and feel this immediate drop. Like my face is proof that I’ll never be wanted the way I want to be. I hate my body. I hate even existing physically. I feel like if I weren’t this ugly, my mind wouldn’t torture me like this. I know it’s irrational but I can’t shake it. Nothing helps. Not therapy, not logic, not comparison. Nothing.
I hate the way men look at women. I hate how casual they are about it. I hate how normal it is. I hate that it hurts me so deeply I can barely breathe sometimes. I hate how I feel invisible and sick and replaceable the second I realize I’m not the only one they find attractive. Or even find attractive at all. I hate that this is just how they are and I’m expected to be okay with it, to swallow it, to get over it, to not make a scene. But I can’t. It feels like a knife to my heart every time.
And then there’s this humiliating contradiction inside me.. I hate men, but I still want them. I hate the way they treat women, but I still crave their attention. I hate their entitlement, their blunt desire, their wandering eyes. And yet I still want to be the one they look at, the one they crave, the one they can’t get enough of. I feel like an incel, genuinely. Like some delusional, bitter creature screaming into the void about desire and validation and beauty, knowing exactly how pathetic it sounds but unable to stop.
Most people would probably look at the things I say and immediately
Post too long. Click here to view the full text.