How You Taught Me to Hate Myself

I never knew how to hate myself until I met you.

You taught me how to look in the mirror, and feel disgust. You taught me how to feel displeased when I saw myself in my natural state. You taught me how to cover myself when we were having sex for you did not want to see certain parts of me. You taught me that sex was only for your enjoyment and for your orgasms; never mine. You taught me that a woman should never sleep with more than two men, otherwise she would be deemed undesirable. You taught me that any physical interaction — like a peck on the lips or cuddling — after sex was off-limits. You taught me that silence was golden immediately after sex. You taught me that you weren’t going to be the one to hold me through the night to calm my fears.

You were right.

You were never there through the night. Every argument erupted into a screaming match until you decided you couldn’t take it anymore. So you left. You picked up your things and without a word, slammed the door, leaving disaster in your wake. It was always about what I did wrong or what I didn’t do. In your eyes, every word I said and every action I did was wrong.

You were never there to calm my fears. You were never there to make the nightmares go away. You caused my fears, my nightmares. You were the nightmare that came to life, haunting me day after day.

You never saw me, either. You never looked at me with love or desire or even happiness. You just looked at me, and saw nothing. I was nothing to you — even after eleven months.

I was always so desperate to have sex with you because I just thought if you were kissing me, and enjoying the pleasures of my body, then maybe you’d take a moment to see me. To really look at me, to feel me. To make me feel like I was something more to you than someone to help you get off. You made me feel like I wasn’t there, even when you were inside me. You made me into a lifeless body that you could use to your advantage. You didn’t want me to hold you, bring you closer, kiss you. You didn’t want me to enjoy myself. You wanted me to simply be there, unmoving and quiet, until you were satisfied. Then you’d climb off and roll away. I’d never felt more cheap and more used in all my life than when you had sex with me.

You taught me not to feel, not to enjoy sex. How was I supposed to know there was any other way when you were only the second man I had ever slept with?

It’s been eight months since I left you, and yet, the nightmare still haunts me. You still haunt me.

The lessons you inflicted upon me for eleven months are ingrained in my head.

I follow them to a tee even though you’re gone.

It’s like I’m still trying to please you, still trying to cater you when nothing I could ever do would satisfy you. I wasn’t who you wanted me to be, no matter how hard you tried to make me change.

I still feel disgust when I look in the mirror. I still fear parts of myself. I still feel displeasure when I see myself with glasses and without makeup. I still cover myself up with a pillow or a sheet during sex. I am never worried about my orgasms in bed because after all, isn’t it all about the man’s pleasure?

****

I fear my undesirability increase each time I sleep with a new man. I instinctively turn away, careful not to have any physical interaction with a man once sex is over. I lay in silence after sex for fear of saying something that may agitate my partner. I am incapable of allowing anyone to hold me through the night.

I don’t let anyone hold me.

Now, when I am cuddled or held, I feel as though the walls are caving in on me. I feel like oxygen is being taken away from me. I can feel my heart rate increase and my instincts are screaming no no no no, because these guys can’t possibly want to hold me. These guys can’t want to snuggle into the warmth and softness of my skin after we’ve had intense, passionate, meaningless sex. It’s inconceivable, at least to me it is. My instincts are telling me to get up get up get up before something more happens.

Don’t wrap me up in the strength of your arms, pressing me against your solid body, making me believe it’s all going to be okay. Don’t trick me into thinking that you’re going to stay, that you’re going to be here for me, that you’re going to fix me. Don’t embrace me when it’s not what you really want. Don’t hold me in your arms, telling me how nice it feels because I know you aren’t going to be around much longer. I know you’re not going to stay. I know you’re not going to fix everything, and make me whole again. I don’t want you to — I don’t want you to stay or hold me or fix me.

No one has ever stayed long enough to put me together. You’re all only here long enough to break me into pieces, and leave the damage behind when the dust settles.

****

So when I left you, there was just me. I was in a crumpled heap on the floor, millions of pieces of me, of who I was, scattered everywhere. Each day, I picked up one broken piece and returned it to its’ rightful place…whether it was in my body, my heart, my mind or my self-esteem. I’ve spent eight torturous months taping and gluing all of the broken pieces of me back together. These were the pieces that you broke. You cut them away from my body and my heart, and you shattered them as they fell to the floor. You kept a few for yourself, too — pieces that represented any self-respect and self-love I had for myself. When you kept them, these things evaporated from my peace of mind.

Once I finally gathered enough courage to leave you, I took back those pieces and returned them to their rightful places.

So here I am: a taped and glued version of myself who is incapable of accepting affection, who is incapable of being held, who is incapable of being loved. This is what you taught me.

urg.d�Y�n���