‘I hate…’

I hate people. I hate that I’m human. I hate a lot of things.

I hate the little gap between the buttons on the crisp white shirt I wear to class every morning. I hate the little white moist particles that remain in my mouth, the aftermath of my toothpaste.

I hate that even though I close the windows every night, tiny little insects still find their way onto my bed and into my space.

I hate that I’m human. I hate that I feel things, irrevocably so.

I hate that I cry when I’m sad, angry or frustrated.

I hate that no matter how much I try to explain, no one understands me or even believes me.

I hate that what most inspires me to write is pain and confusion.

I hate that everyone has a version of me in their heads and thinks they know me, just because of that version of me they know.

I hate that I’m susceptible to pain. That I feel everything, too deeply I think.

I hate that words have an effect on me and I think about them days after they’ve been said, wondering what I could I’ve said or done better.

I hate that I’m anxious all the time and that I’m walking on eggshells even in my own story.

I hate that I always seem to say the wrong things and that I never know how to approach a situation.

I hate that I talk too much, that I ramble, that I always try to explain.

I hate that I can’t take a day off. That even though I try to rest, my brain is always at work, always in overdrive.

I hate people. I hate when people talk too loud as though the balanced tempo of their voices could never be heard clearly.

I hate that people try to make other people feel small just because they’re different.

I hate that people have a standard for what’s cool and what’s not, and a standard for success too.

I hate that I never get to just be.

I hate that we’re all just people.

Human. Flawed.

I hate that there’s a possibility that I’ll never find that one person I don’t hate as much, so we can hate people together.

I hate that I can’t be with the one person who does, who is so undeniably perfect and loves me, a lot more than I love myself.

I hate that He’s so far away, yet so near.

I hate that nobody will ever know me, or love me as much as He loves me.

His name is Yeshua.

Love, Dara.