Day 01 → Something you hate about yourself.
Day 02 → Something you love about yourself.
Day 03 → Something you have to forgive yourself for.
Day 04 → Something you have to forgive someone for.
Day 05 → Something you hope to do in your life.
Day 06 → Something you hope you never have to do.
Day 07 → Someone who has made your life worth living for.
Day 08 → Someone who made your life hell, or treated you like shit.
Day 09 → Someone you didn’t want to let go, but just drifted.
Day 10 → Someone you need to let go, or wish you didn’t know.
Day 11 → Something people seem to compliment you the most on.
Day 12 → Something you never get compliments on.
Day 13 → A band or artist that has gotten you through some tough ass days. (write a letter.)
Day 14 → A hero that has let you down. (letter)
Day 15 → Something or someone you couldn’t live without, because you’ve tried living without it.
Day 16 → Someone or something you definitely could live without.
Day 17 → A book you’ve read that changed your views on something.
Day 18 → Your views on gay marriage.
Day 19 → What do you think of religion? Or what do you think of politics?
Day 20 → Your views on drugs and alcohol.
Day 21 → (scenario) Your best friend is in a car accident and you two got into a fight an hour before. What do you do?
Day 22 → Something you wish you hadn’t done in your life.
Day 23 → Something you wish you had done in your life.
Day 24 → Make a playlist to someone, and explain why you chose all the songs. (Just post the titles and artists and letter)
Day 25 → The reason you believe you’re still alive today.
Day 26 → Have you ever thought about giving up on life? If so, when and why?
Day 27 → What’s the best thing going for you right now?
Day 28 → What if you were pregnant or got someone pregnant, what would you do?
Day 29 → Something you hope to change about yourself. And why.
Day 30 → A letter to yourself, tell yourself EVERYTHING you love about yourself
I wrote an essay/editorial/article type thing for a second-rate woman's magazine many years ago that was all about the things I hate about myself. They also prompted me to write an open letter to Victoria's Secret, cleverly disguised as an open letter to the "lingerie industry." Sure. I'm sure Bali has pissed off a TON of people...
Anyway, I digress, as usual.
Back in 2001, I wrote a fairly honest and painful essay about all the things I hate about myself. I'm republishing it here, with a few things updated because, LUCKILY, I've changed a bit.
"I hate this hair. This ashy, thick, course hair. The type of hair that used to be so pretty when I was a young girl, but soured with age, along with my personality. The kind of hair that frizzes if you even joke about rain. The kind of hair that never looks good or nice without a stylist's attention.
I hate my eyebrows. They are clear and thin and cannot be sculpted.
I hate my eyes. My big, blue, overpowering eyes. The bug eyes that people made fun of my whole life. These eyes leak way too much. They get bloodshot for no apparent reason. These eyes will not tolerate being opened underwater. These eyes resist the use of contact lenses, no matter how many times I try. My eyes were borrowed from my father, but he grew into his. Particularly distasteful is the left eyelid; the one that bares the white scar from my ex-husband, who tried to claw out my eyes in a fight. Also distasteful, the right. The right eye with the perpetual dark circle - only noticeable if pointed out - that still remains, years after another fight with my ex-husband, where he blackened my eye, dark as night. (if they're the windows to my soul, it seems quite like he was trying to get at and kill my very essence, now wasn't he?) These eyes, that remain puffy for a day or two after a crying jag. These eyes have no spark left, and I just can't stand them. The older I get, the more people comment on them - in a good way.
I hate this nose. The nose that has large, clogged pores, broken blood vessels around the nostrils, and permanent lines drawn across it. This nose is hypersensitive to the touch, and freaks out at the slightest hint of cat dander. This nose is a small distraction, with its upturned and pointy end. My father lent me his nose, as well, along with all of its allergies, skin characteristics, and complications.
My teeth are a disgrace. Besides the coffee stains and white spots from mineral intake, they are crooked. They won't ever be straight. I could never get braces now, even if I could afford them. My bottom teeth overlap and are so close together that they split the floss. They're getting inadvertently ground down on the molars from complications with TMJ.
I hate my shoulders. My masculine, straight-across, non-sloping shoulders. It's hard to buy shirts that fit. When I find the right size, they're made for women with more boobs than I got. I hate having to remove all the shoulder pads out of all my clothes because of those shoulders. I have to admit, though, sometimes they're pretty cool.
I hate these fingers. These short, stubby fingers that churn out these words. They're ugly. They're plain. They're my mother's fingers. I wanted my own. I wanted fingers that look long and elegant, that look feminine, that look pretty with jewelry on them.
I hate those fingernails that finish the ends of those stubby fingers. In an attempt to lengthen my digits, the nails grow long. Whore-ish. Wal-Mart-Cashier-ish. Trashy. Those strong, thick nails that make a tappity noise on my keyboard, rub a hole in my space bar, and scrape all the paint off my E and N keys. I hate them. They resist polish and refuse to stay nice. They're so tough that, when they break, they snap all the way at the bottom near the nailbed.
I hate my breasts. I have none. I look like a little child who has not reached puberty. I feel like a man, and I look like one too. I look terrible in swimsuits, summer clothes, and dresses. I have always been teased, and I can easily see why. I hate that I can't buy pretty underwear or cute clothes without looking like a little girl playing dress-up in something just a tad bit too big.
I hate my stomach, which used to be flat and strong, and is now slightly round and soft. The skin is loose and squishy, and if I'm not very careful to hold it in during my bloated days, I sometimes resemble a pregnant woman. I get tired of people asking me if I'm pregnant. I hate children. My weight fluctuates so much - by 10 or 15 pounds - I can never get myself looking quite right.
I hate my legs. My hips are getting a little big, but my legs…they're too short and tree-trunk-ish. I have my mother's legs, too. My legs seem to stay pale these days, as I don't like to go out in public scantily-clad. These legs are always tired from running. My calves are too thick to wear the most sexy boots. I get ingrown hairs on the widest parts from the constant friction on my jeans. And my leg hair, while I'm at it, is sparse and totally clear which, I guess, is actually kinda cool.
I hate my feet. They, too, were inherited from my mother. With short, stubby little toes that have very little nail. One touch from a brush and they're polished. Feet that are a little smaller than average, yet the stores are always out of my size.
This skin that holds it all in, yes, I hate this skin too. A nasty, pasty, slightly orangey pale color, that is never properly hydrated. I hate it, as well. This skin, that is dotted with small, dark colored moles in the most inconvenient of places, that makes me look like I'm spotted with mud. This skin that struggles to stay clear and blemish-free, no matter how I treat it.
And that's just what you can see. Think about everything that is inside of me that I wish I could kill. All the things inside of me that I wish would die and just go away…Think of all the things inside of me that I cannot change. Things that I can change, but don't know how. Think about all the things inside of me that I don't even understand.
I hate how I always need to be needed. I hate that I need people, because they don't need me. I hate that I never *really* have anybody and, if I do, it's only temporary. I hate that I'm so dependent, and that I'm so pathetic. I hate that I will throw 100% if myself into something when I never get half of that back. I hate that I am biologically unhappy, and nothing can change that. I hate that I failed at the most simplistic of tasks -- suicide. I hate that I have fallen in love with people that I can never have, and can never get over. I hate that nothing is ever good enough. For me, or for anyone else. I hate that I give my all to something, and no one notices. I hate that I feel I am unloved, unappreciated, unnoticed, unattractive inside and out, and that I am destined to be alone. I hate that I try and I try so fucking hard to get ahead, but all I manage to accomplish is just to hold it together for one more day, before I break down and bawl at the end of the evening. I hate that all the energy I spend on just keeping it together is the same energy that other people use to get an education, or jump-start a career, or have a family. And what do I do? Merely get by.
I hate me. I hate almost everything about me. I hate almost every single, solitary thing about myself, and I don't even have the energy or the motivation to change even the things I have control over. Mostly because I don't think anyone would notice or care."
Admittedly, I'm still not thrilled with myself but I think I'm in a much better place than I was when I wrote this 9 years ago. 25 was a really bad, bad age for me. I'd like to think I've become more objective with myself and have realized that I need to work on making a difference in the things I hate about myself. So far, I think I've been pretty successful.
Honestly, I'm not too jazzed about Day Two. Oh well. I've made a commitment.
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