Shame

February 15, 2015

That feeling that slaps you, brings you to your knees, and holds you there until it decides to evaporate, leaving you less than you were.  Heat rises, leaving visible scalding to your cheeks, exposing you to the world.  Knowing they must be able to see what you’ve done – although, you think, nothing nearly as bad as some, unless they are saints.  Your heart sinks to the level of your worthlessness in the face of shame.  There being no eraser; not time, not self-medicating, not hiding, not confronting.  It just.. is.  It remains there to come upon you again and again, in times of happiness to remind you that you are nothing and, in times of great distress to remind you to be grateful – that you deserve what you get in this life because you are a shameful being who has done things she ought not.  Doesn’t matter that these things were in ignorance or youth, what were you thinking?  Shame shouts at you at night, berates you at work and makes you feel bruised and sorrowful.  You cannot escape this thing; it is with you always and that is a terrible thing, to know that this is your burden – that those minor faux pas have eclipsed your life.  No matter that you have done wonderful things, even great things – all of which are undermined by these shameful mistakes you’ve made and thoughts you’ve had.  No matter that as you age and death approaches, you have made good on your promise to be a better person and you have shared that goodness with others.  It is still awful – that awkwardness of youth, that bitterness as a young adult, that ungrateful spirit you sometimes have – these are the things you did not, could not, root out and, since they remain a part of you, much like your resentful heart, you will carry this shame in your back pocket or upon your head, like a crown of thorns, until you are buried and long forgotten.