If I were to ask you to tell me
about something that you hate, how long would you be able to talk about it,
assuming no interruptions? Ten minutes? An hour? Or would your hate for this
thing be so strong as to render you incapable of even talking about it at length?
Speaking for myself, it would most definitely be the former. For the most part,
I don’t have to put much thought into why I like or enjoy certain things. It’s
easy to tell you why I like pizza. Who doesn’t like pizza? I shouldn’t have to
explain that. But what about olives on pizza? I truly hate olives. They are the
only food that triggers my gag reflex, without fail. I hate the taste and smell
of them. I hate the word ‘olive.’ Don’t bring olives into my home, please. They
are the devil’s seeds.
Most of us were probably raised
being told that “hate is a strong word.” And it is. There’s a lot of weight
behind that one syllable. Even saying the word feels like you’re twisting your
face into an unpleasant sneer. Hate.
We use it as flippantly as the word ‘love.’ "Man, I hate that song. I hate that
guy." Have you ever accidentally told someone that you love them? Depending on
the situation and the person, it can be very uncomfortable. Did you say it
knowing that you should have kept it to yourself? Or did you say it because it
felt like muscle memory to utter “I love you” after saying good night? "Good
night, love you!" Oops. But when I say I hate something, it is intentional. I’ll
never accidentally tell someone I hate them. I will say it with the utmost of sincerity.
And I’m not proud of that fact.
Hate is indeed a strong word.
Instead of throwing that word out in a casual conversation, I’ve tried to start
saying things like “That’s not my thing” or “I don’t care for it.” This is way
more pretentious, of course. “Have you heard the new Metallica album?? Yeah,
it’s not my thing.” See? Problem solved. No hate here. That kind of thing is
easy to shut down. But for me, hate has always been there. We go way back. I’m
so familiar with it because the one thing that I have consistently hated all
these years is myself.
This goes pretty far back, all the way to Kindergarten. I have this gnarly cowlick in the front that sticks
straight up and my Mom would always do my hair so that the absurdity of the
cowlick was accentuated to the max. Looking back on it, I’m sure that it was
cute, but I hated it then (Sorry Mom!). My older brother was jealous that my hair
did that naturally, which was probably the only time in my life that he was
ever jealous of me. I hate my lips. I always thought my bottom lip was huge and
I was self-conscious of it. I even used to hate my name. I didn’t know a lot of
other people named Jordan until later in life. It was such a weird name. You
couldn’t shorten it or warp it into an endearing nickname, because then you get
Jordy, and only my Mom and my sister call me that. My middle name is David, so
for about a week in middle school I insisted that people call me JD. It was way
cooler than Jordan. There was a JD at my school and he was popular. Nobody hated
him.
These things aren’t to be taken
seriously. Most of us grew up not liking something about ourselves, be it our
appearance, our tendencies, our thoughts, etc. Some of us never stop hating
those things. As for me and where I am right now in my life, more often than
not I hate the things that I do. I look at a situation before it occurs and I
think of how it can and eventually will go wrong. And I know that if I am to
have a hand in causing that outcome, it will most likely happen. That’s not
healthy thinking. And I hate that I do that. I get nervous about situations
that can be deemed risky, because I know that I will hate whatever it is that I
end up doing. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy. Will I end up lying about
something? Will I stay up late tonight, ensuring a tough morning tomorrow? Will
I skip that thing that I don’t want to go to, or will I suck it up and go? Yes,
and I’ll hate myself for it.
I’ve always said that if I wasn’t
me, I would hate me. As in, if I were anyone else in this world and I
interacted with Jordan Smith, I would hate that guy. Because I know him. I know
his selfishness. I know he is obnoxious and speaks without thinking. I know
that everything is a joke to him, not because he is insecure, but because
that’s mostly the only way that he knows how to process things. I know that he
would do anything for his own comfort and I know that he often leaves things or
people worse off than they were before he came around. This bitter combination
of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and Bipolar II is a beast that tricks him into
believing that the darkest part of him is the majority of who he is, and he
cannot escape it. One goads him into
thinking that things will end up going wrong and the other helps him stay mired
in the lowest of lows, where it’s easy to believe that the worst outcome is
also the most likely. But these disorders are not excuses, they are merely a
way of life and how I perceive it.
It can be worse when I turn my
attention to other people. When I think of someone, my tendency is to think “oh
man, I hate that guy” or “that girl hates me.” I rarely open those thoughts by
thinking about the things that I like about this person. It’s always negativity
and vitriol. Lately, there are not many things or people that I am fond of. These
days, I more often absorb pain rather than take joy from things. And this leads
me to be acutely aware that something is wrong with me. I constantly feel like
I am letting someone down or that I am not good enough, and I hate it.
Despite the general negativity
of this post, I swear that I am working on it. I know that these are lies as
surely as I know that there are people that love me. I open my eyes every
morning and immediately think of the things that I am not looking forward to.
It is my daily battle, and I am certain that this is true for many of you. I’m
not some special sort of broken. We are all suffering. And there’s a weird sort
of comfort in that. Most days I do OK. Some days are good, or at least a part
of them are. But night is the hardest time of any given day for me. Night is
when I think about my failures. Having happy thoughts will help you drift off
to sleep, right? The opposite is true. Hate keeps me awake. Shame keeps me
aware. I want to be able to sleep again. I know that it will come.
I do not have the answers, which
is why I write and share this with you. I don’t know what the answer is. And
that’s OK. But I know that hate is
not the answer, whether it be focused inward or projected outwards towards
someone or something. Hate is not the answer. I say this to myself as much as I
say it to whoever is listening: learn to love yourself. Make your cowlick the
first thing people see. Use your big lips to become the best kisser ever. And
take some damn pride in your name, because someone who loved you gave it to
you. Make hate the furthest thing from you by inviting in the things and people
that you love, however uncomfortable that process or misshapen your battered
heart might be. Love is an equally strong word, and at least for myself, it is
much harder to master. It is a constant struggle. You’ve heard that hate is
easy, and love takes courage, right?
Let’s start there. Start with
courage. The love will come. Keep the hate out.
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