A while ago, I came to realise that I hated myself. I’m not entirely sure why it happened; I’d not done anything worse than usual. But my brain had been malfunctioning. I’d been depressed, something which happens to me from time to time, and the negative voices had spiralled out of control to the point where they’d become maddening.
In the world of psychology, self-hatred is a “thing”. It comes with all-or-nothing thinking, where the world is black or white without shades in between. It also comes with “emotional reasoning” – where you take your feelings as facts. Plus, it’s inevitably linked to low self-esteem.
With my own particular version, I would find myself battling intrusive thoughts, my inner voice telling me that I was not good enough, unlovable, not worthy, rejected. I felt wholly unlikeable, unsettled and anxious around new people. My self-worth could not have been lower and I was unable to enjoy any real moment.
At the time, desperate for help, I spoke to a therapist called Wendy every week. Wendy was cool enough to do our sessions over the phone, so I could get my steps in while I sobbed.
A typical session would see me shuffling past the local shops, salty tears and snot smeared over my face, saying: “I’m broken.”
She’d say: “You’re not broken.” I’d cry: “But I am broken.” By the time I’d walked up the hill, past the library and the chuggers shaking tins outside Sainsbury’s, we were at each other’s throats. It was a great way to spend an hour. At times I miss it.
Sometimes, if I had managed the most basic “mental health” achievement in the previous week, such as meeting a friend or getting a work commission, she’d say, in a voice you might use on a puppy that’s stopped weeing on the carpet: “Well done, Gwyneth. That’s fantastic. What an achievement.”
When I met her praise with contemptuous silence, she would laugh and say: “O-kay… so I can tell you still have difficulty receiving compliments.” That’s the problem with therapists. They’re too perceptive.
Through our weekly chats, she began to understand the depths of my self-loathing. As my initial homework, she asked me to stand in front of the mirror and say: “I love you.” A week later, she lowered the bar. “Try… I like you.” When that, too, proved impossible, she said: “Why not focus on your values instead. What values do you have?” Did enjoying my Nectar card count?
I knew this self-hatred wasn’t healthy, though, so I came up with my own foolproof plan to beat it; I would enact good deeds to make the world a better place, and in doing some become a decent person; one impossible to hate.
It sounded good to me – and it was free – so from my baseline of misery, I started with litter picking – an obvious good deed as our streets are filthy. Every day, I would walk around my local park, carrier bag in hand, and pick up all kinds of rubbish from among the grass. Plastic bottles, food wrappers, those tiny silver gas canisters… watermelon vapes. It seemed the whole city was hooked on this stuff.
At times of rain, when worms would venture blindly onto a path, I would pick them up and lift them gently to the other side, whispering warm words of encouragement. I would give loose change liberally and compulsively to the homeless. Sometimes, if a homeless person was sitting outside a supermarket and I had no change, I’d avoid it completely. I’d go on a mile detour just for a cheese sandwich and packet of Quavers.
This focus on good deeds was misguided, though. It did nothing for my self-hatred, but the park did look cleaner – you’re welcome. Instead, I began devouring self-help books and podcasts. I’d wake up to Deliciously Ella and fall asleep to Tara Brach. But all the advice was different. Was I meant to embrace and accept my thoughts and feelings or try to change them? Was I meant to be compassionate to myself or resilient and stoic?
Books and podcasts didn’t cure my self-hatred either. To be honest, when you’re broken – and yes, Wendy, I was broken – there are no quick fixes. I had to wade through past difficulties that had been lurking within me for years. I had EMDR – a type of trauma therapy where you “tap” parts of your chest to help release stored emotions. The aim – I believe – is to put you in an artificial state of deep sleep or REM, where past events can be properly processed. Prince Harry’s a fan; I’m not sure if that sells it or not, but I found it to be quite helpful at bringing things to the surface that I didn’t even know were lurking within me.
For a while, I took the anti-depressant Sertraline – is there a woman in her forties not on it? – and it gave my brain a rest from the worst of the thoughts. I then got into the stuff that all those seriously annoying people tell you is good for you – meditating, breathing, cold water swimming. I call myself Gwyn Hof.
A year on from perhaps my darkest time, I can say I am a recovered self-hater. I would even go so far as to say – wait for it – that I’m beginning to love myself. I am, though, very aware that my dark thoughts do not give up lightly. They’re like Terminator. They will be back.
Stopping hating myself has come with benefits. I’m more focused on what I want – which is, actually, to play funk on my trumpet and write comedy poems. Think I’m weird? Well, that’s another thing. I don’t care. I’ve stopped giving any time to toxic or negative people who drag me down. I just archive their phone numbers so I never see their messages. It’s a great trick. I have learnt to stand my own company and to enjoy the simple things – my fleece duvet cover, a loud fart, my pink leggings from Sweaty Betty.
Plus, I’ve realised there are things in life far more worthy of my hatred. Water companies who profiteer from pumping raw sewage into our rivers. The movie Elf. My mother-in-law.
See, I can be funny. I have work. I have friends. I even – according to my partner – have a world-class arse. What’s not to like?