I Remember: The Hate Me Journal

November 26th, 2009

Warning: This piece might be unhealthy to read for those suffering from self abuse, severe depression, or darker memories in general.

I remember…

I remember a dark journal bursting with words over shadowed lines- scribbled as if by another hand. It spoke of missing people who never were and ending the existence of the dreamer who dreamt them up in the first place.

Pictures drawn over proclamations of loathing. Little daggers dipped in ink and knives between the pages. It hated so very much,… hated me though the pen rested in my hand. I never remember writing any of it, the script so morbid to my own, but it was my journal after all.

“I hate myself.”

I know those words too well. Spoken, screamed, babbled, murmured, cried, whispered and worshipped. Those numb little words that were once such a part of myself. I won’t remember when they started. I don’t remember when they stopped.

“I hate you.”

But I can’t forget that voice.

My voice.

“Hate me?”

I still hear it from time to time, wearing tread marks in my mind, but it’s no longer mine. It rings and roars in my head, echoing back from the days of that dark little journal. Screaming and stinging with blackness and guilt.

“Help me?”

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