I’ve never been one to succumb to hate.
It’s always been easy for me to let things go, to accept that people are people and sometimes they do things that hurt others. I don’t believe anybody really means to hurt anyone because the world is cruel but it’s generally not evil–at least not the world I know.
I don’t remember ever hating anybody. How can I hate something if I don’t care enough about it? Usually, I just shrug off the building pressure and take it somewhere else. I’ve played video games and slept through anger.
I have actively worked on myself to be incapable of hating anyone because let’s face it, it takes so much work to hate. And I’m so lazy that I generally don’t care.
Thinking about it now, I realized how stupid I’ve been. How could I protect myself from something I’ve never felt?
It’s like waiting for someone whose face you’ve never seen before. It’s like trying to recognize someone you’ve never met.
Well, that’s until lately. That’s until I finally felt hate knock air out of my lungs. It’s all consuming, isn’t it? To remember something and cringe at the thought. To be reminded of a memory and wish that you didn’t.
To be asked with the, “If you could go back in time, would you change a thing?” question and the answer that strikes directly at the tip of your tongue is, “yes.”
It’s a shame, really–to not recognize who you were just around the same time last year. What’s even harder to accept is that you couldn’t imagine yourself being that person; what’s even harder to accept is that you ever let it go that far.
I guess t’s possible to hate the things you did and didn’t do–like that one time you had the chance to leave but didn’t. Like the many number of times you could’ve left but you stayed until staying changed you.
Bad memories are only supposed to sting not wound, unless of course it’s bad enough to swell.
In such a short span of time, I realized that there’s only a thin line between hate and regret; that hate could easily become a regret; that we could hate and regret even the most beautiful things that ever happened to us. And I think that’s sad.
I guess they’re right what they say–that hating takes just as much work as loving. That hate is equally just as powerful as love.
And maybe just like love, it’s okay to have enough hate in your heart–an amount just about enough to have you walking away from things that no longer makes you happy.
It’s the kind of hate that’s designed to sting, not wound. It’s the kind of hate that wakes you in the middle of the night, out of breath but full of life.
It’s the kind of hate that makes you decide to love yourself more.
The day I realized I hated who I have become is the very same day I decided I wanted to be better.
In that very moment, hate was a good thing.