Skip to main content

Dear Shame

Dear Shame,

I’m trying to figure out why you keep coming back…or what to say to you when you’re there. I want to be loving and understanding; because love is the best defense right? But I’m also angry, my gut instinct is to put you in a corner and shame you right back. 

You come out in bitten and bloody nails, the familiar crave of a cigarette flowing up to my lips. The purge of all things comforting. Little spirits coating my recycling bin. My leg taps over and over and over again, begging me to listen to its word.

No patience, no empathy. Unable to hold the space for my monster as I do all those around me.

What do I even say to you? I’ve been able to put the word "shame schema" to you for about 3 years now and it still makes no fucking sense. 

What do you give me…

Protection, disassociation, you rip me out of my body and into my mind. Enabling me to analyze and keep myself safe. It doesn't feel safe, it feels like you are sitting on my throat, throwing me against a wall, abusing me with your silent words and disgusting behavior. It feels like once again I’m not good enough, it feels like you'll follow me everywhere. 

How do I love and accept you, when if I let you go, I in turn end up in fist fights with myself? 

I FUCKING HEAR YOU!  You’re like a bug, sitting on my brain whispering in my ear "drink" "smoke" "purge" "DO ANYTHING BUT CUT" "if you cut you fail". 

There must be something you give me because you're there through it all. You've changed over the years though, you're quieter. You still whisper cigarette, shots, cut, purge, and sometimes I do. But you don't get to be stronger anymore when I say yes to those whispers. 

Love,

Sarah 



Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

A Place that Doesn't Exist

 i'm yearning to fall into a space. a space where the only things that make sense are the songs sung by birds, the noises strewn about from leaves. A place that isn't the roof I sleep under, or the desk I sit at. Sometimes it lies behind my eyelids. sometimes I find it sitting in my car with the tears falling. a place where the wind is playing with my hair, and my hand is being held. i'm pining for the pines. a hole that might swallow me up and spit me into that fresh spruce smell. The rain in the pines aroma. The crystal of snow on the tips of their cones. i feel wedged between seemingly polar opposite wants/worlds. Maybe it's a millennial thing, but is that bad? to yearn to fly... to cover the plains, forests, deserts of the world. the consistent restlessness sitting on your shoulders, your blades pushing them back, and towards the sky. but what about this "home" people talk about. The thing everyone goes back to, where it seems the hardest memories lie. The...
Post a Comment
Read more

Prompt: The Dust of Old Bones

I am realizing that when given a prompt, I want to write anything and everything that comes to mind. I am beginning to explore prompts and this one is from a SLC Group called "Salty Scribblers" Deep in her closet a box lies, the dust has spread over the top and seeped to the sides. It has moved with her again and again, though only receives a hesitant glance now and then. But sometimes In her dreams she skips to it, excited to rummage through and release the treasures inside. As she peeks in, she sees distant memories, fervent feelings, and amusement of all kinds.  A Pink and worn Teddy Bear with arms open and a rainbow kite, ripped and bright.  A Snowman sits at the bottom, still frosty and needing a nose.  The scraped knees and rain puddles remind her of play. Some nights she takes one or two out and lays them on her sleeping self, testing the fit.  The beliefs are the hardest to fit.  Her parents know all and her sister protects no matter her own monster wall...
Post a Comment
Read more

Lilac Sidewalk

  Same Sidewalk.  As Yesterday.  It catches you by surprise.   But today. They are here. Either smell or sight and you are called out. Silky petals. Our female elders peeking out with their violet irises The smell, oh the smell.  It swirls in your chest trying to coat your lungs, for just a little bit longer. Same Sidewalk. As Yesterday. You see the crispy. The sun held them just a little bit too long. Close enough, the smell sits still.  But the drops have drifted. Toasted and broiled. It’s gone so fast. Sad and True. I mourn for those that missed it. For those that will forget.  Same Sidewalk.  As Yesterday. Their abode remains season to season. Empty and forgotten Their graceful presence is now a brief memory. Every now and again, I remember what was once. And what will be again.
Post a Comment
Read more