Why Do We At Times Hate What We Love?
October Reflections - slide 2
"So, this is my life. And I want you to know that I am both happy and sad, and I'm still trying to figure out how that could be."
— Stephen Chbosky
Human emotions are enigmatic in their complexity, often leaving us astonished at the depth of feeling we can experience all at once. It’s remarkable how a single event or experience can evoke contradictory emotions, and the more I observe it, the clearer it becomes that this duality is not confined to moments of crisis. As the heightened emotions of madness subside, returning to the norm, we begin to realise that so much depends on perspective and circumstance. You create something hilariously absurd, only to be moved by its meaning the next day. You read a passage that brings you to tears, yet hours later, its grotesque or absurd style might make you laugh.
Not that I am Chbosky's protagonist to nail it in one quote! Charlie, the introspective character in The Perks of Being a Wallflower expresses this sentiment during a time of deep reflection on his life and emotions, in one of his letters to an anonymous friend. At this point, he is going through all kinds of experiences within friendships, family dynamics, his past traumas, and experiences of love. It captures a moment when Charlie is trying to make sense of his world, where joy and sorrow often seem inseparable.
Han Kang, the recent Nobel Prize Laureate, once posed the question, "What is it in us that makes us destroy the things we love most?" This statement cuts to the heart of human vulnerability: the closer we are to something, the more it reveals our insecurities. That very exposure can lead us to push away what we cherish most, and it’s this paradox—where love and aversion coexist—that defines much of our emotional world. Love, humour, grief, absurdity—all of these emotions are fluid, changing with time and trying to find their place among 10,000 puzzle pieces within us.
And yet, despite this tension, we gravitate toward stories that provoke powerful emotions. Sometimes, the very stories that challenge us most are the ones we need most—though the emotional weight they carry makes them difficult to process.
This is why I consider A Monster Calls so profoundly moving, offering an experience that breaks out the emotional silence of Year 8 students, every time. Yet, I’ve also seen the opposite—one teacher, going through cancer treatment, who couldn’t bring herself to be present. Books like this demand we face uncomfortable truths. Depending on the stage of life we’re in, these truths may feel like a revelation or like a burden too heavy to bear.
But life doesn’t wait for us to be ready for these truths. When we are not prepared, we shrug off what we cannot handle or reject those who offer us the truth too directly. In A Monster Calls, the monster’s nighttime visits and stories are a metaphor for the emotions we try to avoid. Conor learns through these tales that life isn’t as simple as good versus bad, well-intentioned and wicked, healthy/curing and terminally ill, nightmare and friend, that you can love someone deeply and still feel anger toward them for leaving you and shame for letting them go.
This emotional complexity echoes Han Kang’s insight: we often hate what we love because love makes us vulnerable. To love is to open ourselves to guaranteed pain, possible loss or betrayal. In an attempt to protect ourselves, we sometimes lash out, not only at what we cherish but also at ourselves.
We are drawn to books like A Monster Calls because they mirror our inner turmoil. But it doesn’t offer us easy answers. Instead, it requires us to sit with our discomfort and recognise that reconciling is neither immediate nor linear. Sometimes, the only way forward is to confront our deepest fears and untold truths.
When the monster insists that Conor reveal the truth, it forces him to confront his most painful and hidden feeling—that he secretly wishes his mother's suffering would end, even though it means losing her. This truth is devastating for Conor because it makes him feel immense guilt, as though he has betrayed his mother by wanting relief from the agony of watching her die.
The truth that the monster seeks is not about right or wrong, but about honesty with oneself in the face of conflicting emotions within him—anger, guilt, sadness, and even relief.
Books like this are not mere stories; they are tools for emotional reckoning. And this reckoning cannot be rushed. If we resist these books it is because they force us to face parts of ourselves we are not ready to acknowledge. But we love them because they guide us through that process, allowing us to tell our truth.
In life, as in literature, the things we hold dear possess the greatest power to transform us. The tension between love and hate, far from being a contradiction, is the crucible through deepest fears and longings where growth is slowly forged. When we allow ourselves to embrace the discomfort of sitting long enough in silence, hurt, and tears, to look into the eyes of our own stories that unsettle us, we open the door to more than a stripping unease but the opportunity for true introspection.
We need books that disturb the peace of our comfort zones, that compel us to confront the shadows. Such stories force us to slow down, to wrestle with the complexity. Ultimately, it is through the rawness of facing ourselves that we truly move forward—not by avoiding the darkness, but by walking through it.
Beautiful!