I project a lot of confidence and flair. I sort of have to. A salesperson who has no charisma and who is as dull as dishwater isn’t gonna sell. To my family and friends, I am a happy soul, or at least, I like to think I am. I am not beyond petulance, selfishness and stupidity, for I am a human being, subject to all the faults contained within the human condition, and sometimes, when I am alone, I dwell upon those faults.

I am my own worst enemy. I act without thinking, and the people I love are the ones who bear the brunt of my ill-conceived actions. Why I am sometimes self-destructive, I do not know. I have often wondered if, somewhere within my brain, something misfires. What makes me do stupid things? What compels me to gamble with the most important relationships in my life, for reasons that don’t even make sense?

If I knew the answers to why I behave like that, but it does mean that when I am alone, and contemplative, I have a tendency to loathe myself. I guarantee no one hates me quite like I hate me.

What to do with this internalised hate? Left unchecked, it would be ruinous, so I have to squeeze it with my fist, contain it, and bottle it. It has to become a motivator, a driver to be better. It needs to be concealed, so that it does not poison anything ever again. There is more to everything than me.