but I get irritated when I'm cut off
in the middle of my sentence, as if what I have to say
isn't as important as what the interrupter does. I
don't love myself, but I feel indignant disbelief when
I'm ignored or seemingly forgotten by so-called friends for
weeks or months at a time. I don't love myself, but I
believe I deserve an apology when I have been wronged, and am
angry when it never comes. I don't love myself, but I
don't allow people to talk rudely of my interests and
invalidate my feelings about those interests. I don't love
myself, but I'm stung by whispers behind my back; I'm
worth honesty, even of the brutal sort. I don't love
myself, but lies to my face are insults to my intelligence
– and I do know I have plenty of it. I don't love
myself, but I'm bitterly jealous when I'm the last to
know something significant about someone I care for, and when
another's advice on a difficult situation is sought out
instead of mine; I believe I offer valuable counsel. I
don't love myself, but I don't understand when others
don't love me. Maybe I don't hate myself as much as I
thought I did. Maybe I'm finally beginning to realize that
I amount to more than what some have tried to make me believe I
do.