Self-Hatred Is My Superpower

An essay for the deluded.

I'm trying to avoid another post-mortem commentary about Tuesday's events, but everything I write feels imbued with either radioactive dread or tone-deaf positivity. I'm trying to skew positive here, but maybe I should also respect everyone's right to spiral however they choose.

However, I aim to "stick to recovery" on TSB as much as possible from today onward, but please forgive me if I break the embargo due to something completely bonkers happening, bonkers enough for me to chime in with a "You don't have to drink over it!" post. That is an easy way for me to feel useful—and usefulness is my preferred coping mechanism. Well, usefulness and Pepperidge Farm Holiday Nog shortbread cookies. I ate nine last night in under three minutes, and I was a heaving mess afterward.

Today's reboot, which ran last February, is about self-hatred as a narcissistic crutch. It's also about famous reality show person Tom Sandoval.

Several links inside the story do carry a paywall. But I don't want to exclude anyone, so if the cost is prohibitive or you wish to send TSB to someone you love, contact me. We'll happily pass along a free annual subscription to those who need it most.

We can offer free subscriptions as long as we continue to grow. Grab a paid subscription today if you'd like to be a part of that growth—spiritually and otherwise. Thanks and enjoy the Sandoval.

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The Ballad of Tom Sandoval

Originally published February 27, 2024

Self-hate is my default response to any change in my emotional temperature. The cycle of thoughts flashing, "I'm bad; therefore, I don't deserve happiness or even a glass of potable water," comes in hot, but I have enough program (and medication) in me to where it doesn't have to last very long. After seven years (and 185 days) of continuous sobriety, five years of effective mood stabilizers, frequent therapy, daily meditation, thorough journaling, and sweaty exercise, I'd rate my overall mood and self-image a solid 6.5/10 on most days. That's a healthy average for me, but I'm more prone to obsess about (and write about) the bad days—the 2.5/10 rated days where I declare myself a "full human toilet" undeserving of any grace.

And I write about this state often here, sometimes more earnestly than others. I've discovered that it's easier to sell you the idea that I hate myself more than I love myself. I try to love myself as much as I love anything else but it’s uncomfortable. I’m also very self-absorbed. Paradox!

I brought this up in a recent newsletter about learning how to have an "unconditional friendship" with myself (some Pema Chödrön hot shit). Instead of recoiling from that notion, I took a few seconds, stepped away from the impulse to self-hate, and then waited and waited to see if it was possible…and it is possible.

How to get there, beyond all the usual tendencies to ignore the other impulse—the one that suggests that the lovingly kind Hey, you're not so bad, don't punch yourself in the face over this voice is still a work in progress but I have heard it more often than not and I should acknowledge that.

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Alright, now you're going to kill me as to why all this bubbled up for me. It was after I read the New York Times profile of Tom Sandoval, the oft-pissed-upon reality person from the very popular show "Vanderpump Rules," a show I watched a few times a decade ago but can't convincingly pretend I'm a fan of but I also can't pretend it's a destructive cultural poison that inflicts real pain upon human beings for the sole purpose of entertainment because, as a lifelong fan of the National Football League, that would be hypocritical. So we've established that I'm cool talking about Tom Sandoval, and I hope you are okay with me talking about it as well.

Let’s start with this bruiser of a headline about him:

"How Tom Sandoval Became the Most Hated Man in America

He turned last year's season of 'Vanderpump Rules' into the best in reality TV's history — and ruined his life in the process."

If you've already read this profile and have discussed it in your group chat, you're probably already familiar with the eye-poppingly stupid things that he said in front of—and sometimes directly to—the reporter, Irina Aleksander, but I'm not interested in dragging him for that stuff.

Mostly, I found it uncomfortably relatable. Sandoval is experiencing a unique level of self-obsession and self-hatred: he has convinced himself that his worst public moment is his most important professional (and personal) asset. It's a dangerous place to be. When I spent the better part of a year navigating the legal minefields and public fallout that came from the Hogan v. Gawker trial¹, I felt very convinced the only way I could rescue myself was if I spoke about it, with equal parts self-deprecation and self-pity to anyone who asked about it. What was required was patience, humility, and recovery, which I had very little of at that time. Unfortunately, those things are usually earned only through failure and loss.

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I should also note that I became interested in "Scandoval" thanks to one rainy Saturday a few months ago when Hulu's algorithm suggested that I would enjoy watching "Special Forces," a competition show where a group of hard-luck and fame-thirsty celebs take place in grueling military-style exercises and try to knock each other off one by one to win the usual prizes afforded in these types of competitions—cash, sustained relevancy, and slightly rejuvenated self-respect.

Sandoval was a contestant on this show and, as reported in the NYT's piece, came to it just a few months after "Scandoval," hoping to find redemption through something that sounded like boot camp but was just another reality show. During his reality-show interrogation session, the two beefy real-deal battle-tested drill instructors castigated Tom on his performance on the first test—something that appeared to be an icy bridge harness march of doom— which he failed. "Why are you here?" one of them asked, and Sandoval began to rattle off the abridged version of the events that brought him to this place. His eyes lit up as he retold the gruesome details of how his cheating on his Vanderpump Rules fiance affected his life, including the fun fact that CNN covered it and that merch sales for items that declared "Team Ariana" eclipsed $200,000. The whole world hated him, and he "deserved to be punished," so he was here to be beaten down and broken once and for all.

The two instructors didn't blink; they were confused as to why this pretty man with the perfect haircut thought they would care about the relevant “Scandoval” plot points. They told him not to be so self-pitying and that if he worked harder, this could be a chance for him to regain some integrity and a fresh start. "That's all I want," Sandoval said, eyes wet with desperation. Then they stuck a bag over his head like a pretend hostage and escorted him back to the pretend barracks to sleep next to Tara Reid, Brian Austin Green, and the other dozen people searching for integrity and a fresh start.

After watching that interview, I called a friend who had also endured a significant public reckoning and had spent a year in the aftermath, depressed that some parts of his (public) life were over. I told him how I recognized the tone in Sandoval's voice—the arrogance and ego could not be contained by his genuine pain. "He has no idea that there are people who exist in the world who have no idea what he's talking about," I said.

Same goes for me. For a year, I was convinced that everyone knew my story, that everyone probably hated me, that I agreed with them, and that I deserved punishment. But ideally, I would continue to be punished publicly, and then I could cash in on the public redemption tour later on, so it looks earned even if it's not. That was the goal of every interview I participated in six months after the Hogan trial—I needed to show a sliver of my humanity and that I was suffering but also accepted (some, but minimal) responsibility.

Many times, stories written by reporters at publications with large readerships declared the trial had also “ruined my life," in the same, not-so-operatic way that the Times claimed the cheating scandal had ruined Sandoval’s. I played along because no one would talk about me anymore if I didn't. Being publicly shamed isn't fun, but for someone like me, who has moderate to extreme Sandovalian tendencies, it's better if the shaming is public because at least that affirms my status as an exciting and important human.

What I've realized (while writing this) is that I have to make a better effort of not shitting on myself so much here. I feel like too much of that—and, honestly, too much self-deprecation—taps into its low-grade narcissism: The false belief in my own terribleness is just another way to manipulate. I have to stop pretending that I'm sick: sometimes, my self-hatred is just a cold and not lung cancer.

I want to share something I sent to another friend involved in a pretty awful public downfall situation. I shared some things I learned about my experience that I thought would be useful for him. Maybe it could be for you at some point as well.

Here's a list of things I wish I did differently during the 12 or so months (I don't remember) it took to survive all the Hogan business. 

1. I was convinced that my life was on hold until all the loose ends were tied up. This was a mistake. Yes, I was limited in what I could do work-wise, and there were financial challenges. I wasted so much time worrying about what the lawyers were doing, but I should have just lived my life. Yes, Hogan's (or Thiel's) legal squad kept confiscating my laptops and phones every few months when they got bored, but I didn't have an ankle bracelet. I had beaches I could go to during the day, California sunsets to marvel at, and cold oceans to swim in. It sounds hokey, but I felt I couldn't enjoy those things until all the legal stuff was over. That was a mistake. So go outside. Enjoy your sunny days more than you usually would. You need the daily reminder that you can experience happy moments—even if it's just a few hours—despite everything else happening. 

2. Don't read stories about yourself, and don't talk to the press. Yes, I know—IT IS HARD TO SAY NO. But no good can come from this right now. Nobody in the media cares about your well-being, and they will exploit your vulnerability. Even when you can trust the person, don't do it. No off-the-record, no nothing. It isn't easy. And you'll probably slip up, but try to be vigilant. Talking to anyone during this time will only cause you more problems. Wait a year. Two years even. Or better—never.

3. Exercise every single day. Your body's going to become a wreck if you don't take extra care of it. Trauma fucks with a whole bunch of things, and the physical manifestations of it are extreme. I mean, my eyeballs hurt a lot. I almost lost some teeth. I was clawing at my skin every single night in my sleep. Cook your meals at home as much as possible. AND BEWARE OF FAST FOOD.

4. Talk to other people who have been through hard years like this (you'll know who they are). Especially people who have had it worse. Self-pity is your enemy right now. Read the Stoics! Seneca and Epictetus, in particular. Also, there is a small pamphlet-sized book by Admiral James Stockdale called Courage Under Fire about his time at the Hanoi Hilton. It puts things into perspective for me.

5. Have a therapist handy; don't self-medicate. All the obvious things. 

6. Don't pretend that you'll ever be the same. You won't. Your life has officially been reordered. This can either ruin you and be a sad last chapter OR: every day, you can start a new chapter.

7. This will end. It may not seem like it right now, but it will. 

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MORE SELF-LOATHING:

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This is The Small Bow newsletter. It is mainly written and edited by A.J. Daulerio. And Edith Zimmerman always illustrates it. We send it out every Tuesday and Friday.

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A POEM ON THE WAY OUT:

Try to Praise the Mutilated World

by Adam Zagajewski

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Try to praise the mutilated world.

Remember June's long days,

and wild strawberries, drops of rosé wine.

The nettles that methodically overgrow

the abandoned homesteads of exiles.

You must praise the mutilated world.

You watched the stylish yachts and ships;

one of them had a long trip ahead of it,

while salty oblivion awaited others.

You've seen the refugees going nowhere,

you've heard the executioners sing joyfully.

You should praise the mutilated world.

Remember the moments when we were together

in a white room and the curtain fluttered.

Return in thought to the concert where music flared.

You gathered acorns in the park in autumn

and leaves eddied over the earth's scars.

Praise the mutilated world

and the gray feather a thrush lost,

and the gentle light that strays and vanishes

and returns.

— “Poetry Foundation”

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1. Here is a rundown for readers who know nothing about the mess. [NYT]