I tried to hate her, honest. I even thought lots of new and creative hateful thoughts in her direction, scanned the premises for accessories to a violent fantasy, and wondered what it would be like to slam her face into the concrete using her flowing long blond hair as a handle. But, let’s get real here, I just wasn’t that into it. There was no paniced rush of adrenaline, no surge of HULK SMASH-esque power. Hating her felt boring. For once, it felt as fake as it was because the truth of the matter is that I don’t hate her, and never hated her, and hating her was a proxy for feeling other things which were more difficult but I seem to have gone on dealing with feeling anyway.

I realized something, as I looked and un-hated this girl, and that’s that I never actually wanted to be her, which always made hating her more difficult. The truth of the matter is, as much as I’ve “wanted to be her” I actually never have. I’ve never wanted to be blond. I’ve never really wanted to be a varsity cheerleader. I’ve always wanted her body, but also wanted to claim something closer to mine as my triumphant war-wound, my proof of having Lived life in the Real World. I’ve never actually wanted to be a stoner – I don’t like my life mediated in that way. Maybe I could hate this girl more if I felt more really that she’d usurped something of mine. But the truth is, as I took a good look at myself, that I’m kind of the person I always wanted to be.

I really like how nerdy I am. I like that I’m the girl in chucks and funny pants and a peasant top, even though she looks slammin’ in a bikini. I never actually wanted to be the girl in the bikini – I always wanted to be the girl in the chucks who the hero realizes he’s loved all along. I like how busy I am. I like all the things I do. I like the frenetic pace at which I live sometimes, it makes me feel important. I’m pretty close, a lot of the time, to the Me that I set out to be.

How weird is that?

How weird is it that, though I claim no particular feelings of high self esteem right now, and though this girl is quite possibly one of the most beautiful I’ve ever seen, she’s kind of the proof of why I like me. At the end of the day, I’m not such a bad place to be.

All of this, this feeling of not feeling, is probably tied to other, heavier things. Things which are scary and not mine and I can’t write about. To that I say only: we’re attempting to regain control. I’m glad she told me. One in four aren’t lying. But we’ll get through.

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