Tag: self hatred

Body Image, Fiction

Enough

Mel Douleur
Stride by sivel120001 via DeviantArt.com
Stride by sivel120001 via DeviantArt.com

My fingers press against the cold glass causing the area just around them to fog from my warmth. I’d love to break this glass that tells me I’m not pretty enough, sexy enough, skinny enough… I’d love to break it and cut away this disgusting flesh that makes me feel like I’m not enough. I’d love to bleed away all these feelings of hatred and disgust. I’d like to feel the pain of that instead of the useless pain of self abhorrence.

I stare hard at that bitch who screams inside my head that I’m ugly and useless. I can’t stand her voice, it feels like a hammer breaking bones inside my skull. I can’t listen to her for another single minute.

I press harder on the glass and focus every ounce of my magic on those points of contact. I know I might break the mirror, but the sound of that might be welcome compared to the hurtful abuse going on inside my skull. I push harder and harder until I suddenly begin to feel my fingers permeating the membrane of this plane.

My reflection sees and laughs, taking on that awful voice. “Whatcha gonna do, baby doll? Do you think you can come through here and shut me up? God, you are dense.”

I wonder if I’m strong enough. Can I truly breech reality? Can I go through this glass? Is this possible?

Her abuse begins anew, from the other side of that force field, and I don’t even care if this is insane and I’ve had some sort of mental break. I am going to shut her up. I am going to make her stop or I’m going to kill her.

My arm slips in and she backs up, laughing harder until my grip finds her wrist and I pull, hard.

Her face slams into the glass, and I find this incredibly amusing, since my arm is literally reaching through this completely impermeable surface. I do it again twice, giggling at the shock in her expression. She tries to yank her hand from my grasp, but only succeeds in pulling me further in. I lift my other hand to brace myself from smacking my own face on the glass, but then those fingers begin to slip through the surface as well.

I yank her toward me again, and punch her hard in the face. She bounces back, but not out of my grip, and blood begins to gush from her nose. It was a surprisingly square hit, given the awkwardness of this fight, but I do it again before she recovers her wit and starts to fight me.

She captures both of my hands and yanks me into the glass, but it is not solid for me, and my upper body slips into the reflection as if it were another room.

At this point, I realize I am clearly crazy and decide to just pummel that wicked whore to death on the other side. As I lunge toward her, she lands a good punch to my throat, knocking the wind out of me, and I fall back into my own bathroom, wheezing and lifting my bloody hand to my throat. I can smell the acrid tinge and wonder for a moment if this might actually be real. Am I fighting the bitch in the mirror.

I stand and stare at her, blood pouring from her broken nose down her chin onto my favorite blouse. “You’re ruining my shirt.”

The shock in her eyes is disarming, as she stares at my chest, and when I look down, it is clear why. I am bleeding too, and I reach up to feel my own broken nose, even though she never landed a punch anywhere but my neck. Realization dawns on us both, as she too is holding her own throat and wheezing. If we fight each other long enough, I will rip apart.

I stand and wonder if I could do that. Kill myself to silence the hate. Cause myself the greatest pain in order to end all pain.

I lean down against the vanity on my elbows and revel in the silence of her contemplating my ability to end my own life in order to end her. My blood drips into the sink but then suddenly stops, and as I stand upright and look at my reflection again, I see that nothing has happened. It wasn’t real. But one tiny drop of blood remains, on the edge of the sink, daunting me.

A reminder? I can beat myself senseless over the reflection in the mirror. I can beat myself to death, if I’m not careful.

I look again at the girl in that glass. A sight that normally fills me with ‘not enoughs’. Because I will forever be not pretty enough or sexy enough or thin enough or smart enough or sweet enough or good enough… This time, the girl I see is just enough.

Enough to keep me from pummeling myself to death.

That girl in the reflection, that girl who plenty of people DO think is enough… Maybe it’s time she accepted that perfection is unattainable. And that today, at least today, I am enough.

Garbage from my head, Real Life

Beautiful

Mel Douleur

I’ve never felt beautiful.  I had two beautiful sisters growing up, and it did not matter how many people told me we were all beautiful, I never felt it. Boyfriends told me I was the prettiest of the three, even a few family members had said that too. You know how it is though, they were just trying to be nice.  They were just trying to make me feel good with a little white lie. I never even TRIED to see it as truth.

It my lifetime, I can only remember feeling truly beautiful three times.

The first time, I was 19 years old, and this guy I’d been “seeing” asked me to go on a motorcycle ride with him. We rode to a nearby lake at sunset, it was amazing.  We smoked a joint, it was amazing.  He laid out his coat on the ground and sat on it, with me on his lap, it was amazing. Then as we were taking in the view, he leaned down and whispered in my ear that I was more beautiful than that sunset. Of course he wanted in my pants, I wasn’t THAT naive, but it still made me feel beautiful, because he was gorgeous, and the moment was amazing.

The second time was my wedding day.  I would bet nearly every woman on earth feels beautiful on her wedding day.  But for me, it was more than that.  I glowed with something extra special that day. With my hair all done up, my makeup perfect, wearing the prettiest dress I’d ever put on in my life… All of that paled in comparison, because my heart was bursting.  I was getting married.  I was marrying the best man I’d ever met.  I was surrounded by love, family, and friends.  It was magical, and I was beautiful.

The third time…. Last night. My husband told me to come to bed in that silly Grinch tee-shirt.  He teased me with that soft and hard that I adore.  He withheld his kisses and then he kissed me until he took my breath. He tormented me until he couldn’t stand it anymore and pulled me on top of him, but kept taunting, not telling me to take that stupid shirt off, knowing I wouldn’t want to take it off unless he told me to.

When I couldn’t stand it anymore, I pulled it off.  He let out that low rumble… appreciation.  “God, you’re so beautiful.”

I asked him to say it again, and he said plenty of other stuff… *sigh* and *swoon*

I felt it.  I truly felt it.  Sure, he’s said it before. A hundred times, maybe. But this time, I felt it. Even more than those other times that I thought I’d really believed it before.

They don’t even compare. 

In an email earlier, I may have even admitted to it, to being beautiful. This is new.

When he gave me my good day kiss, I felt it again.

As I made my son’s lunch today, and he smiled up at me and told me he loved me, I felt it then.

While I shook my booty on the treadmill to Pitbull a little while ago, I really felt it.

Right now… I feel it right now.

Maybe it was our talk, last night.  He’d read my post from last Wednesday.  He’d read that I called myself a bad person, a shitty person, and he vehemently worked to convince me that I was wrong. He pointed out all the ways I’m good.  He listed all the things that make someone a bad person.  He explained that mistakes don’t make a bad person, but lack of remorse does.  He made me see the girl he sees.  And THIS time, seeing myself through his eyes was even more amazing than the last time.

Maybe it’s the holidays, filling my heart with joy and humanity.  I doubt it, because I can’t stand the materialism of Christmas, but this year, I’ve been able to enjoy giving and receiving in a way I normally don’t.  It could be the opposite, that the way I’ve been feeling has made this Christmas better.  Maybe it will carry over to my birthday in a couple weeks. (My birthday is jinxed… I hate my birthday…)

Maybe it is just my all around attitude right now. In the last five days, I’m been able to shut out the dark, ugly self-hating voice in my head.  I know it’s still there, I’ve heard it a few times, but I’ve worked hard not to listen. Monday evening, I worked late, and it tried to take hold when I got an unexpected email which reminded me of why I hate myself. And I cried all the way home.  But, I made a conscious decision to stay present and not let those thoughts grip me.  This new attitude made me stop.

I’m choosing to love myself.  I’m choosing to love my husband.  I’m choosing to love the life that I have.  It feels really good.  It feels really right.

And I feel beautiful.

 

To my Hubby:  

Thank you, babe.  For giving me so many perfect Christmas presents, including this one.  
You are perfect.  You make me perfect.  You make me beautiful.  You make life beautiful.  

❤  I love you. ❤

And I promise… I’ll continue working to eliminate the self-hatred. Especially if you keep helping me! 🙂

Letters, Real Life, Struggles

Pushing buttons & being judged

Mel Douleur

I keep doing it.  Pushing my own buttons.  Finding the things that will set off the shame and trigger the self-hatred.  I’ve got to stop.  It’s as bad as self mutilation, only not visible.

I mentioned recently about an email I received from a woman who believed I needed to be saved.  I’ve received another.  I swore to myself I would not allow them to affect me, I do not begrudge evangelical Christians their desire to help people give up their sin and turn to the light of God. But this last one sliced right through me.

I’m not going to post the letter.  I’m not going to engage. I don’t misrepresent my blog. So I shouldn’t have to defend myself.  I very clearly state, right in my subtitle, that I write “Erotic Fiction and the real life struggles of mel.” If you don’t want to read about my sex life, my fantasies, my masochism, DON’T READ MY BLOG!

But here’s where it gets sticky for me…

…

I’m not a good person.

I’m kind of a really shitty person.

I don’t need to detail it out, but I don’t always choose the right path. I’m working on that. It’s hard.

But, I don’t hear about this happening to other sex bloggers, so I wonder if this isn’t a message.

A bigger message.

The last email was very hurtful.  This man said deplorable things, attacking me in a way that no Christian should ever attack another human.  It did not really make him sound like a good Christian, trying to save a woman from herself.  But I’m going to rise above and choose not to judge him.

Unfortunately, his words sliced right through me.

I love words. You all know this. I love, love, love words. So when someone’s words cut me open like this… I don’t know how to react.

Maybe it stings so badly because I believe the horrible things he said.

Maybe it hurts so much because I cut my lifelines this week. Trying to do the right thing, be a better person, let go of the drug of attention. Concentrate on my marriage. Figure out how to be the best that I can be. And in doing all those things, I gave up people that gave me strength.

Maybe it burns me because it’s happening now when I’m trying to turn things around.

Maybe it’s worse because of the holiday.

Maybe it is just one more opportunity for me to self-harm.

To push my own buttons and make me want to do all the inappropriate things I am desperately trying to avoid doing.

Maybe it’s a test.

My husband was sweet.  His comfort helped.  But he doesn’t write.  He doesn’t understand how important readers comments and emails can be.

I’m still hurting.  I am really alone in this…

I keep telling myself that the opinions of these people mean very little.  I hit 200 followers this week (between WP & email only). I’ve surpassed 10,000 views.  I am quickly approaching 1500 likes.  All of those numbers are SO much more important than the few who want to “save” me.  And so, so, SO much more important than the 1 person who believes I write with a demon heart.

Everything I write about is consensual, and done with love.  The real life stuff I write about is MINE.  I don’t write anything intended to harm others.  Some people even thank me for what I write, because it helps them to understand themselves better.

How is that BAD?  How is that evil?  How does this blog make me a bad person?

Maybe it’s wrong to write this, in the hopes that he reads it and attacks me in the presence of my readers. People who enjoy my words and might defend me against him.  I really don’t want to engage these people, and I know I should just delete and move on.  I should not let anyone outside of my inner circle push my buttons.

But I know I’ve already started mutilating myself with it.  I’m hurting.  And I don’t want to be alone in this.

Garbage from my head, Real Life, Struggles

I’m not a mean Mommy…

Mel Douleur

I actually had this arguement with my five year old this morning…

I pointed out all that I do for him, all that I share with him, all the love I give to him. It’s ridiculous to argue with a Kindergartener, I know this.  But because I’m already an open wound, his words cut at me and I feel like I must defend myself.  Trust me, I realized how silly and childish this sounds.  I’m needy… Even with my own child!

So before I went on, I just stopped.  I walked away.  He cried.  “Mommy, will you please come back and settle me down?”

I didn’t want to.  I wanted to go lick my own stupid, self-inflicted wounds.  But I’m not a mean Mommy. I held him, rocked him on my lap and he sobbed for a minute. Am I transferring my sadness onto him? Why is he so upset over an easy thing like breakfast? Are my emotions, self-hatred, depression, etc. causing him permanent harm?

When his Daddy came downstairs, he was happy and sweet.  His Daddy has more patience. His Daddy is happy.  His Daddy is fun.  His Daddy is distracting.

His Daddy is never a mean Daddy…

“Love is not something we give or get; it is something that we nurture and grow, a connection that can only be cultivated between two people when it exists within each one of them – we can only love others as much as we love ourselves.”
–Brene Brown

Every moment that I spend at odds with my child is a moment our love cannot grow. If I can’t love me, I can’t love him. He requires my love. All children require love. And it should be unbroken, unchallenged, unconditional love that flows easily.

This morning, after thinking about this on my drive to work, I realized something big.

I actually do love myself…

For creating my son.

For eating right while I was pregnant (mostly).
For the intuition that I had while he grew inside my tummy.
For being strong enough to deal when I didn’t see him for 24 hours after birth.
For somehow making it through the 8 days he spent in the NICU.
For the torture I put myself through trying to provide him with as much breast milk as possible even though my body didn’t want to create it.
For all the nights that I was so exhausted I could barely breathe but still took care of him.
For the puke I caught in open hands.
For every moment I have ever held him and rocked him to comfort him.
For knowing when things were just not right, and figuring out how to deal with it.
For singing to him nearly every night of his life.

There’s probably more.  And those are awesome reasons to love myself!

And if there is love there, I can build on that.  There is plenty to love.

Although less and less everyday!  (Down 30 lbs as of this morning!)

I think the second biggest thing I need to love about myself is this.  This blog.  My words.  Even the stuff I’m mildly embarrassed about, even the things I would never want my Mother to read, even the words I’ve used to tear myself down.  They are mine and I love them.  I love your comments. Each and every time one of you ‘Likes’ something I say. Each and every view.

You help me love myself.

Even if I really am a mean Mommy…

So thank you for letting me vent for the last couple weeks…
I will now resume our regularly scheduled programming!

Garbage from my head, Struggles

Love myself?

Mel Douleur

_Love_Myself[1]

I talk a lot about self-hatred.  Too much.  I don’t think anyone should ever hate themselves. But for some reason, I do. I put on a good act, people who know me IRL don’t often see that I am any more insecure than your average, overweight working mom.  I’m a superb actress when I want to be.

(If you’re sick of it, and want more erotica, go here and catch up on Good Girl. I’ll get back to that soon, I promise.)

I read some very lovely words today, about loving yourself. About recapturing the innocent way you cared about yourself as a child.  As much as I wanted it to give me hope, it made me sad instead.

I cannot recall that feeling. I cannot recall loving myself.

I’m searching my memory banks, trying to find it, I must’ve felt it. All children do, don’t they?

My teenage years were fraught with insecurity, I think most kids are. I had issues with depression, starting with a scary stay in the psych ward at 14. Yeah. Obviously high school sucked and I hated myself. I don’t know why. But I did.

My pre-teen years were awful. I moved to a new school starting in the sixth grade. Middle school was brutal. Kids were mean. So, so mean. I was socially awkward, 30lbs overweight, with bad hair, and already hated myself. I don’t know why. But I did.

In the fourth grade and fifth grade, I despised myself with such passion that I would write nasty words on myself, under my clothes. I hated myself. I don’t know why. But I did.

In the third grade, I was so mortified by my appearance that I would hide in the bathroom at recess. More days than not, my teacher would force me to go out to the playground. I also hated the bus. And the water fountain. And dance class. And my normal, 9 year old body. I hated myself. I don’t know why. But I did.

In the second grade, I hated my life so much I tried to run away. I made friends with the class bully because no one else did. It was easier for me to be despised by everyone else, which I already expected, than to watch her be alone. I hated myself.  I don’t know why.  But I did.

I can’t really remember much before that. Nothing inherently good or bad. Just vague feelings. I was sensitive, easily embarrassed, easily pushed to tears, easily manipulated into doing things.

I was smart, but instead of remembering the praise, I mostly remember the teasing. I started reading before my 4th birthday. My older sister disliked me even before that, for taking away her parents. But then, frustrated that her baby sister was reading HER books, books she struggled with, she teased me for it. And the neighbor kids followed suit. I eventually hid it, only reading under my covers at night so she didn’t see me.     

My grandmother didn’t like me. She treated me differently from my sisters, and convinced me, as a child, a small one, that I was chubby and unattractive. She wasn’t really verbally abusive, I couldn’t tell you how she did it, but it was there.

Feeding me differently, dressing me differently, cutting off my beautiful, long blond hair during the summer before second grade without discussing it with me, or my mom.

“Let me trim your bangs,” THWACK. Ponytail. Gone.

I didn’t imagine it. She actively disliked me. Maybe she was the catalyst of my self-hatred, I don’t really know.

I look at pictures of that adorable 5 year old with beautiful, soft blond curls, and wonder why? I was sweet and respectful. I didn’t misbehave. In fact, I was referred to as the “good one” of three sisters.

Looking back, I remember a lot of people liking me. I can’t imagine people not liking a small child. But, at the time, I believed no one did. I still struggle with this, constantly people pleasing and trying to make others happy. Why do I assume I am disliked? Why do I make it my problem to convince them that they should like me? Why do I rely so heavily on the approval, attention and affection of others?

Because I hate myself. I need others to validate my existence. Without that… why am I even here?

I really feel like I’ve always hated myself. I don’t know why. I just did.

So, I’m all the way back to the beginning of my memory.

I cannot remember truly loving myself. I felt pride on occasion. I was happy, I have many happy memories too. But it wasn’t the self-loving happiness Matt remembers from his childhood. It was the high brought on by attention, thrill, or affection. It was the mirror to others happiness. It was the promise of some of that for myself.

So… Can I train myself to love myself if I never have? Can I convince myself I am worthy if I’ve never believed that?

The past week has been something else for me, when it comes to revelations. The suggestions, advice and words of others have filled me to the brim with the desire to end the self-hatred. My husband coming through for me with a connection that was desperately needed. Wonderful, real life friends, making me feel wanted and worthy. Readers helping me see things I couldn’t have seen on my own. Writers teaching me with their own experiences. I have realized that I must come first. I have to fix myself first. I need to heal, to understand, to LOVE MYSELF. My marriage won’t heal if I’m still shattered.

How could I ever expect my dear, sweet husband to love me the way I need him to, when I hate myself with such desperation that I do not believe I am even worthy of his love?

So, can I learn to do just that?  I really hope so. My life, alit with even more changes, will bear this goal as top priority.  My husband deserves a whole wife. My son deserves a whole mother. My life deserves a whole me.

I do not promise to be perfect. I do not promise not to make mistakes. In order to keep my head above water, I may grab onto things, feelings or people, inappropriately. I will seek the highs when I am sinking into the lows. I’m only human. I cannot allow myself to submerge, because I know that final escape could easily draw me in.

But… If I work hard in between, I could make a difference.

I will convince myself to like myself.

I will act like I love myself.

I will learn to really like myself.

Then, I will love myself.

 

 

Garbage from my head, Real Life, Struggles

“We choose our own happiness…”

Mel Douleur

I’m a swirly, jumbled mess… as usual. I know you’re all probably sick of the Garbage from my Head, but I’m going through a midlife crisis… or something. So bear with me.

I’m not sure I want to live this life anymore. Perhaps it would be better off without me. I know, ‘That’s crazy talk!’ …Yeah, I feel just about that nuts.

I find myself trying again, as I did in my 20’s, to use sex as a surrogate for affection, a mood stabilizer, and a confidence booster. I didn’t succeed back then with nearly unlimited access to men who were willing to fuck me.  Why would it be any different with one (slightly less willing)?

At least the sex is good, generally, even if it isn’t enough.  At least I’m guaranteed release. But then again, that’s not the part that’s important when you’re looking for a surrogate for affection. The orgasm is the icing, the intimacy is the cake. And when the cake you want is a thick, dark, rich, sticky bunt cake, the icing is just a thin layer of glaze. You’d miss it if it were gone, but the delicious, gooey, chocolaty warmth would always be the most important part of the cake.

When you are married, you are automatically responsible for a certain amount of compromise. When you want a new car, but your spouses is in worse condition, you compromise. When you want to go to the beach on vacation, and your spouse wants to go to an amusement park, you compromise. But when you want to feel desired, needed, taken care of, enjoyed, beautiful, sexy, fuckable… How do you compromise when your spouse seems unable provide those things?

My sister said something last night that didn’t strike a chord until about 15 hours later.

“We choose our own happiness. If you are unhappy in your marriage, it’s your responsibility to find a way to be happy. Not to find a way to change your spouse.”

Is that true? Am I unhappy because I don’t allow myself to be happy? Am I unhappy because of my own actions or inactions? Can I be happy with less than I want? If so, how do I even go about doing that?

Happiness-Hands-12-17-12[1]

This afternoon, on a long quiet drive, I had plenty of time to reflect on this. I asked a few questions of said spouse, before he drifted off into that lovely car sleep I never get. We discussed things that I felt would not send me over the edge while behind the wheel of my vehicle. We talked about creativity, and the ability to display affection. It was a nonsense conversation, seemingly unimportant, specifically because I didn’t want to be stonewalled, but I heard things I hadn’t listened to before. I heard a man who isn’t creative, one who I already know is not emotive, affectionate, or deep. And I’m not sure these are things men can learn to be, if it’s not part of them.

I thought about the poor decisions I make, due to the self-hatred that I desperately try to ignore. I thought about the fact that even though I ignore it, my actions affect other people too. I thought about this long and hard, while my husband and son slept on the long drive home. I’m not a bad person, but I do make bad choices. To feel good, to dull the ache, to lift myself enough to not make even worse choices. Inevitably, I feel guilty, though, because my bad choices rarely only affect myself.

“We choose our own happiness…”

I just don’t know about this. Always the leader when I don’t want to lead. Always the earner when I don’t want to earn. Always the decision maker when I don’t want to make the decisions. Always the driver, the commander, the dominant, the initiator, the luster, the lover, the maker. Always the BOSS when… I. Don’t. Want. To. Be. The. Boss.

Am I just supposed to accept it? All the ways that I would LOVE to use that power are the ONLY ways it doesn’t work. You cannot order people how to feel. You cannot coerce people into doing things unless some part of them wants to do them. No matter how powerful a leader you are, you cannot create something out of nothing. If I could manipulate people into doing what I wanted them to do, I still probably wouldn’t.

But I would let him do that to me… I’d probably let anyone do that to me.

I hate myself, so of course I would. The irony is that outwardly, I am confident, secure, happy and motivated. It’s only here, in the warm, safe, secure clubhouse of WordPress that I can open up about this. I don’t own up to self-hatred because it’s a despicable thing to do. In order to experience real love, you must love yourself first. I know this. I try. I’m working hard to make myself into someone I can love. But those bad choices are often easier to make. Instant gratification.

So… If I cannot get the the husband I want, the relationship I want, and the life I want…

Do I swallow it all? Grin and bear it? Put the mask back on? Act like everything is good and try to kill off that piece of myself that knows it’s not?

Do I continue making the bad choices that make me feel good for a moment? Just so I can feel anything at all?

Do I break myself in two, and allow half of myself to seek what I need elsewhere when I know it will eventually kill the other half?

Do I nag, threaten, yell, scream, and exhaust my frustrated husband until he can no longer stand to listen to me?

He is a good man, and I am a spectacular actress. So perhaps I should just suck it up. But I really, really want the warm, gooey, cake. I’m not sure I can live with the frosting alone.

“We choose our own happiness…”

I guess the choice is mine.

I really, really want the cake.

poetry

The Actress

Mel Douleur

She smiles, easily, and laughs at everyone’s jokes.

She adds to every conversation, always bubbling with ideas and experiences.

She comforts those around her who are lost, hurt, angry or sad.

She celebrates those around her who are excited, successful, vibrant or happy.

She swoons when love is shown to her.

She tries not to complain, she tries not to annoy, she tries not to frustrate, she tries not to belittle, she tries not to irritate, she tries not to judge, she tries not to castigate,
she tries not to be anything that anyone would ever find unpleasant.

She always, always tries to be delightful, amiable, lovely, and pleasant.

Pleasant in her mannerisms, her voice, her speech, her words, her touch, her nurture, her gestures, her attire, her hair, her makeup, her cooking, her greeting, her loving.

But, in the stillness and emptiness of night, in the moments when she can let go of the act.

And everything that she hid inside can surface,
every negativity, every hatred, every curse, every ounce of bile…
She uses them on herself.

The actress, so amazing in her skill, no one notices her wounds.
So impressive in her artistry, even those close to her don’t realize her pain.
So inescapable in her charms, the ones who love her never have a clue of the horrid, punishing, darkness beneath her carefully woven costume.

She smiles… and the world smiles with her.
Despite the blood curdling screams echoing from inside.