Written by Jessica Golich
I remember it as if it were yesterday. It was the middle of a Thursday afternoon. I stood naked in front of the mirror and stared at my rose-colored face with streams of tears flowing from my puffed-up eyes and the pattern of the floor tile imprinted into my thin skin. Dreary music lingered in the background as negative emotions rapidly surfaced past the synthetic shiny parts and my crippling anxiety invited me to an episode of living my worst nightmare. I subconsciously planted the seed of self-hatred in my mind and pitched a tent in a paradise swarming with parasites. The infectious disease protruded through every aspect of my being while I swam in the deep end of self-neglect and abstained from bitch slapping myself back to reality. I stared at what I believed to be a waste of human tissue in the mirror and called myself every name in the book; ugly, trashy, slutty, half-baked, empty-headed, failure, dull; you get the point. I was living in a house of shattered dreams. I beat myself up and chronically deprived myself of feeling. I scarcely existed in a state of friction and inner conflict. The enemy within snacked on every crumb of self-love that existed in my meat suit. I was a cradle of apathy living at the core of hate. From the outside looking in, no one could understand it. I hid behind a face of an angel who wore a cloak of deceit. I smiled like a lunatic and cowered in the shadow of my pain. I did not allow myself to sit with the cold bitterness trickling down my spine. I lived a seemingly endless winter through the fog of negativity and the starvation of confidence. I was trapped in a state of paralysis. I fucking hated myself.
Life can be a real rotten bitch. The around-the-clock tug-of-war between existing under the belief that you are a cardboard cutout figurine one day and an almighty superhero the next. Choosing to wake up and share a phony smile through the tsunami of simply surviving or walking tall with the aroma of “don’t fuck with me” reeking from your clogged pores. Sleeping in the frigid, dark torment of reality or “self-medicating” and drowning your sorrows in a bottle of cheap red wine because your thoughts have become a distressing disease. Serve as an ATM machine for shitty acquaintances or spend a night alone at home and at war with yourself. Question your ability to cope with the clusterfuck going on in your mind or connect the dots and unlock the code of what has led you into the vortex of lunacy. As the volume of my dissatisfied life and self-hatred soared, my contemplative nature and I developed a sharp focus which led to a surfeit of inquiry and piercing questions. Ready to get off of the roller-coaster ride of fickleness, self-hatred, misery, insecurity and discontentment? Then quit resisting the other side of the coin.
I have tasted stomach-churning pain. I have shrunk my existence and played it safe in a woeful bubble of bullshit. I was a slave to the psychological chains binding me to my self-hatred. I survived and escaped a kidnapping by a venomous snake in the form of man who handed me a shiny ring at the naively ripe age of 6 years old. I was hit in a car accident by a drunk driver and ripped the shirt off of my back in the middle of traffic to aim to tend to a woman suffering the torturous, crippling pain of blood gushing out of her severed leg. Shit got rough. For years, I felt robbed of the best years of my youth while enduring the developmental consequences of experiencing excruciating trauma, catastrophic devastation and exposure to gruesome scenes that shook me to my core. I either sat in dead silence contemplating an electrified bathtub or lashed out in rage at the smallest request from my behavioral therapist. Woe is fucking me. Furthermore, I have waded and walked through the valley of living death into a cathartic dimension that led me out of the tribulations tied to the gray mass. My lived experiences are not more important than yours. Save the pity. Never in a million years would I have thought that all the rubbish would metamorphose into the beginning of a powerful love affair. I have turned up the heat in the kitchen. I have tossed all of commercialized manifestation bullshit where it belongs – in the trash. I am one glorious and markedly outrageous hot fucking mess. And today, I am madly in love with myself.
As a direct result of my experiences, I have created an existential toolbox full of nuts, bolts and resources that I am eternally equipped with and come in handy through any and every situation I encounter. I had to learn how to live again. The immense wisdom and knowledge that I have derived from personal hardship has given me the privilege of valuing myself and transforming my life into a side-splitting comedy rather than a dreary soap opera. I am resilient and live courageously in the face of fear. I fall the fuck apart on the regular, but I celebrate the fact that I possess a deep willingness to leap into the crux of my emotions for the sole purpose of letting them go. I am endlessly creating myself. Whether teary-eyed or full of glee, I routinely stand in front of the mirror and state loud and proud that I am beautiful, bright, sharp-witted, creatively rich and unique. I honor and listen to my strong, flexible and graceful body. I breathe deeply into my core. I touch and intoxicate myself with amour-propre. I am a master of tenacity. I get tossed around on hormonal tidal waves. I am rooted in who I currently am.
For those bearing what they perceive to be the enormous weight of life, keep in mind that you are not going to get out alive. Lose your shit, crack open and shift your mentality to one of asking yourself what you can learn from your current mumbo-jumbo. Self-love is a demanding, endless journey. Shit happens to everyone and an individual’s character is developed through years of difficulties and trials. Real personal growth is an absolute mess. Are tough times going to build or tear down your character? It’s up to you, cupcake.