Shame is a Breeze
Shame leads me to isolate. Don’t talk to me or look at me. I don’t even want to talk to myself. I find that I prefer the company of sensory distractions to any moment of silence that may prompt me to face the feeling. I’ve felt it before, I know it can go down smooth without any consequence, and yet fear runs the show as if I’m trying not to let anyone know I’ve been bitten by a zombie. What I’m feeling ashamed of doesn’t matter as much as the growing irritability I feel when I’m in the purgatory of holding an emotion that won’t go down like choking on a hunk of meat, but not sure if it should go up or down.
Shame is dehumanizing. I feel like some sort of monster locked in a basement, hoping that someone will appreciate my torn flesh and save me from my self-judgment. The clumpy, cloudy mass of low self-esteem has been assigned the task of making me special, with isolation as my stage act.
Shame is a social emotion, so its twin, cousin, or stepson is embarrassment. Every head in the room becomes a cyclops, featuring the gaze of middle schoolers, all feeling insecure and judgmental. My mental construction transforms everyone into a bloodthirsty vampire, and I’m on the menu. I become the center of the universe because who else would it be?
Shame exists in the paradox of being on a pedestal and in isolation. I’m special and unique in my pain and coping mechanisms. Out of 8 billion humans, I’m the only one tempering addictions and running from the signals in my body that tell stories. So there’s a desire in here to keep it like Frankenstein, who probably wouldn’t want to change his visage, because no one will ask about his story. It’s become an identity.
Shame won’t release me. I won’t release shame. It’s been caught in my throat because I don’t believe that letting go will yield anything good. I don’t believe my body can handle the processing, which is a silly notion. What do I know of my body’s capability? The vessel that processes food every day without my effort or knowledge. And I don’t believe that I will be valuable if I’m not choking.
Shame went down like drugs in a toilet when I let myself feel it yesterday. I couldn’t tell you where the handle was, but I found it, I pressed it, and just like that, the intensity was gone. The closest I can name as the answer is saying to myself, “I feel shame,” and the whole thing deflated and slid through my system.
Shame will return in Avengers: Doomsday. It’ll be back, and I’ll do this dance again with the hope that it’ll be easier next time with each new rep. And one day it’ll just be another scent in the breeze.