To tell you the truth, I didn’t really like myself. I loved myself; I hope you don’t misunderstand me there, but I really didn’t like myself. All my life, people kept asking me to learn to love myself, and so I did. I learned to love every little thing. It came slowly but I learned to love the days, the life, the people, and yet, I didn’t really like myself.
There was a slight difference; there is a nuance of sorts. It was like my relationship with the rain. I loved it. I could watch it from the inside as the drops slapped against the glass, and fell down clinging to it. I’d enjoy my cup of coffee as the frost settled on the window. I’d play some chill pop instrumental and walk about barefoot on the cold tiles of my dimly lit apartment. I loved doing all of that as the rain poured down.
If you asked me to go out in the rain, however, I’d immediately call you names, and call the rain names, and just act like a colossal pain in the ass, and throw a giant tantrum. You see, I liked how the rain looked but I didn’t like how it felt.
So, when I’d wake up in the morning every day, I’d look at myself in the mirror, and I’d see what others see in me, and I’d love it. I’d think about my life, the days, and the people, and I’d smile. I loved myself. I had learned to do that all my life. I loved what I saw in my reflection.
However, it was all from the safe distance between the glass and me, like it was with the rain. When I’d take a closer look, and look through myself, and through the days, the life, I’d realise I’d never learned to like myself. I guess I loved who I saw, but I didn’t like what I felt, at least not on most days; on most days, it was exactly how it was with the rain.