You Have to Love Yourself
August 3, 2011 § 28 Comments
Oh God. This old chestnut.
It was said to me – yet again – only yesterday.
You have to learn to love yourself and be happy with YOU before anyone else will love you.
When someone expresses themselves like that to me, I feel I am going to be sick.
I think it’s a whole load of therapy-speak mumbo-jumbo jargon-heavy wishy-washy pop-psychological bullshit.
For the record, and contrary to what earlier blogs may have hinted at, I do not hate myself. Love myself? Well, that may be going a bit far. What the fuck does loving myself mean anyway?
If it means not cutting my arms with razor blades and not going out of my mind with my own company because I am so desperate to belong and so terrified of a single second on my own for fear I might lose out on acknowledgement by others that I am wonderful, then, hey, I love myself. If it means actively enjoying my own company (I am NEVER bored; don’t know the meaning of the word: the world is full of BOOKS. Wherefore boredom?) and being able to love and be loved by family and friends and, in my time, a few men also, then I love myself. If it means not abusing my body with shit food till I swell up to the size of a fucking walrus, then I love myself. If it means not drenching it with drink and fucking it up with Class A drugs till my heart and mind gives out entirely, then I love myself. If it means not sleeping with jerks for the hell of it, then I love myself. If it means taking pride in my work and enjoying my full-on social life and being on a constant mission to educate myself and learn about the world, then I love myself. If it means giving other people some love and care and consideration and respect and joy, then I love myself. Have I missed anything out?
If it means being an arrogant, entitled, conceited wanker who is entirely up my own arse and only gives a shit about money and material things and who couldn’t give a shit about anyone else but myself, then I don’t love myself. If it means thinking I look like a cross between Kate Moss and Brigitte Bardot in her prime and behaving as if the world owes me a favour because I am so fuck-off beautiful that I can do what the hell I like to anyone I like no matter what inconvenience, hurt or pain it might bring, then I don’t love myself. If it means “putting myself first” and therefore going through life like an A1 selfish and spoilt git without a care in the world for anyone or anything else, let alone the planet which was put there purely for me to plunder, then, no, I don’t love myself. If it means lazing around and never lifting a finger or showing a smidgen of curiosity about anyone or anything other than myself, then I don’t love myself.
And if I don’t love myself, then there’s obviously no hope of me ever, ever finding a nice man again, ever, and the only thing I have got to look forward to is when I die.
Don’t anyone ever again give me that shit about “love yourself”.