I hate having the ability to do something more with my life, but accepting the fact that I do not want to.

I hate needing constant reassurance that I am worth more than a memory or thought or conversation topic passed between family members over dinner, or friends when I'm not present to hear the truth about how they really feel.

I hate knowing what I have become and that, for some reason, I have no motivation to fix it.

I hate coming to terms with the truth and whatever it may bring, because I know I'll never be able to handle it.  

I guess what I'm trying to say here is that I hate
me.