If you’re going to loathe yourself, loathe yourself.

Don’t skimp, dillydallying around in woe-is-me self-avoidance martyrdom, cursing yourself in cutesy tones and then looking around to see if you’ve caught anyone’s attention. To see if anyone cares.

Don’t give yourself meager portions of half-baked sentiments that wouldn’t satisfy the hunger of a church mouse. Or tell yourself half-true stories that land a million miles from the center of your longing. Or waste your energy cutting everyone around you into pieces only to give yourself sloppy seconds.

Take the knife and stab it into your own heart first. Stab it where it hurts the most. Split open your grief and let it spill to the floor. Hate it for what it took from you. Hate it for haunting you. Hate it for consuming you. Hate it for killing your dreams, for keeping you from doing all you wanted to do and being all you wanted to be.

© Tyler van der Stappen

© Tyler van der Stappen

There is no room for dabbling now. Stare what you loathe about yourself and your life straight in the face and own it (It is yours, after all. And if it isn’t, what the fuck are you doing still carrying it?)–the mistakes, the whys, the shame, the shadows, the shortcomings, the wtf’s?, the impossibilities, the unknowns, the paths that you are afraid may or may not be written on your soul. And then take off your clothes. Every layer of them. And pull all those hateful things in close to you. Closer. Until there is no space left between you and them. Until the center of where you came from is lined up with the center of where they came from.

And just stay there in that unusual embrace for like two seconds. And don’t tell me you don’t feel something move, something shift, something quiver under the weight of your brave presence. Under the weight of your ownership of you. Under the weight of your truthfulness. Your compassion. Your love.

I mean, if you’re going to love yourself, just really really love yourself.

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