"You’re such a fucking failure."

That’s the kind of thing I whisper to myself when I forget to reply to a message or eat three croissants in one sitting. I’d never say that to a friend. Never. If someone I loved said that out loud about themselves, I’d want to wrap them in a blanket and remind them of every goddamn time they tried. Of how hard they fought to stay alive some days. But when it’s me? I say it like it’s just… fact. Like weather.

I wouldn’t tell a friend they’re weak because they cried again over the same person.

But to myself? I say, "Jesus, you’re pathetic."

I wouldn't tell them their sadness is boring.
But mine? Mine gets called a performance. An attention-seeking farce. As if grief has an expiration date. As if heartbreak should have packed up and left months ago.

To a friend, I’d say, “It makes sense you’re still hurting. Healing isn’t linear.”
To me, I say, “Get the fuck over it already. Nobody wants to hear about it anymore.”

I wouldn’t mock a friend for struggling to get out of bed.
But to myself, I say, “Lazy bitch. What the hell is wrong with you? The world is moving. Why aren’t you?”

I don’t allow myself the kindness I pour so easily into others. I ration it. Like warmth in a cold war.

I would never tell someone they deserve to be alone.
But I’ve stared in the mirror and said, “This is what you get. This is what happens when you’re too much and not enough at the same time.”

I’d never say to a friend, “You’re disgusting,” even if they binged and cried and hated their reflection.
But I’ve screamed it inside my head while looking at stretch marks and softness that didn’t used to be there. Like I’m only lovable in a smaller size.

I wouldn’t accuse a friend of being a coward for needing space.
But when I need time? I’m flaky. Selfish. A burden to everyone.

Like there’s a judge inside me who grew up in a courtroom with no defense.

I hand out sentences instead of mercy.
I don’t forgive myself for being human.
I demand performance. Perfection. A version of myself that never existed and never will.

And the worst part is...I know better. I know better.

But knowing doesn’t undo the voice. The one that grew out of years of absorbing shame like a sponge.
The one that says:

You’re only safe if you’re perfect.
You’re only lovable if you’re useful.
You’re only worthy if you’re better than yesterday.

And if you fail at that? Silence. Exile. Inner war.

I would never say to a friend, “You’re hard to love.”

But I think it every time I flinch at intimacy. Every time I sabotage something good. Every time someone loves me and I wonder how long it’ll take before they see the mess underneath.

Maybe I think I don’t deserve them.
Maybe I’m scared of what it would mean to really believe them.
To soften. To forgive. To stay.

But I’m tired.

Tired of being my own bully.

Tired of treating my wounds like moral failings.

Tired of surviving my inner world like it’s a war zone.

I want to talk to myself like someone I want to keep alive.

Even when I disappoint myself.

Even when I fuck it all up.

Even when I’m not strong or wise or productive.

I want to look at myself the way I look at my people, raw, messy, beautiful in their trying.

I want to say to myself the thing I always mean when I say it to someone else: “I’m so glad you’re here.”

If you need that too, go here and start your healing.