/feels/ - Advice & Venting

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 think I only feels this way because I’m ugly. And the thing is… that thought destroys me because I know that’s exactly what they’d say. And a part of me wonders if it’s true. If I actually am just furious because I wasn’t born desirable. If all my anger and insecurity and despair is just some ugly girl meltdown that everyone laughs at behind my back. I hate that I even care what they’d say. I hate that I’m so painfully aware of how pathetic I must look from the outside.

I hate how every beautiful woman feels like a threat. How even seeing them ruins my week. How I feel inferior instantly, like something cheap and disposable compared to them. I hate how jealousy eats me alive. I hate that I can’t control it. I hate that other people seem so unaffected by this stuff, like it’s a tiny inconvenience for them while it’s a full‑body collapse for me.

I hate the contradiction that I want to be objectified and adored, but also deeply loved and emotionally held. I want to be the girl men secretly look at, but I also want to be the one they never look away from. I want to be the one they fantasize about, but the only one they desire in real life. I want this impossible, contradictory, obsessive love. And I hate myself for wanting it because everyone says it doesn’t exist. Everyone says it’s immature, unrealistic, delusional. And yet I can’t make myself stop wanting it.

I hate that I feel like a monster for even saying any of this. I hate that it sounds like some unhinged rant from a girl who doesn’t understand how the world works. I hate that I know how I sound. So envious, obsessive, insecure, and dramatic. Yet I still feel this way. I hate that I can’t logic myself out of it. I hate that I can’t fake being okay anymore. I hate that no matter how much I try to act normal in front of other people, inside I’m screaming constantly.

I hate that nothing feels fixable. I hate that everything feels hopeless, like I’m condemned to feel this forever. I hate that I have these thoughts I can’t get rid of. I hate that I’m trapped in this body, this brain, this identity that feels defective. I hate how deeply I wish I were someone else. Someone beautiful. Someone desirable. Someone normal. Someone who doesn’t fall apart over the simplest things.

I hate that I want love so badly and hate love at the same time. I hate that I hate men and still want them. I hate that I want attention I’ll never get. I hate that I’m embarrassed by my own wants. I hate being alive in this skin. I hate this entire version of myself. I hate everything about me.

And the worst part is that some part of me still thinks none of this is actually wrong.
That part of me thinks it’s the world that’s wrong. But I’m the stupid bitch stuck inside it.