I only talk to myself when I’m alone and when I do I only say self-deprecating things like, “you’re stupid,” or “you’re an idiot,” or “why did you do that?”
I like myself more than most I think, but I only love myself when I do everything right. I only have a good day when everything has gone perfectly. On a clear seventy degree day with no wind and mild sun, when I’ve had oats and strawberries for breakfast with three cups of coffee and my hair is laying perfectly and my bra strap never falls down over my shoulder and someone I care about hugs me so hard it hurts and I don’t think about the fact that my mother never loved me, am I having a good day.
Some say depression is the price of truly being good at intellectual pursuits. I say depression is the price of truly having standards.
Although perfection is relative, we are all the same person, really. All made of bone and sinew and pores and shit with longing and feelings no one will ever understand and no way of satisfactory way of conveying them. All that matters is that we try. Doesn’t it?