Shame

Shame,

Shame has been with me a long time.

So long it has learned my name.

So long it has learned how I breathe.

At first it spoke quietly,

like concern,

like caution,

like a friend trying to keep me safe.

It taught me to watch myself.

It taught me to watch the world for proof.

It taught me,

To measure my tone.

To calculate my presence.

To move carefully through the world

as if existence were something

I could misuse.

When I had energy, it warned me not to take up too much space.

When I was tired, it told me I was failing.

When I worked, it said I was running.

When I rested, it said I was lazy.

It never raised its voice.

It never had to.

It was always there.

If I took time for myself,

shame called it selfish.

If I didn’t,

shame called it weakness.

If I felt anger,

shame said I was dangerous.

If I was mistreated,

shame said I deserved it.

When I leaned on others,

shame called me a burden.

When I stood alone,

shame called me empty and pathetic.

When people were kind,

shame said they didn’t know me.

When they were cruel,

shame said they finally did.

It followed me into ordinary moments—

into traffic,

into conversations,

into rooms where nothing was wrong—

and made sure I felt wrong anyway.

It judged my kindness.

It judged my refusal.

It judged my generosity.

It judged my boundaries.

It told me there was no correct way to exist.

Alone was wrong.

Together was wrong.

Giving was wrong.

Receiving was wrong.

Shame grew sharper with time.

It stopped commenting

and started sentencing.

You do not belong here.

You never did.

You were a mistake that no one wants.

It said I should be reduced to something smaller than human,

something discardable,

something that wouldn’t be noticed

being thrown away.

It said even that was too much mercy for my worthlessness.

It poisoned death itself,

telling me I should be ashamed

for wanting an end to the pain.

I thought once that 

discipline,

service,

and war

might burn this thing out of me.

I thought if I carried enough weight,

ran far enough and fast enough,

if I did enough violence in the name of duty,

shame would finally be satisfied.

It wasn’t.

It only learned new words.

New images.

New ways to accuse.

And still—

something in me has been watching,

and waiting.

Something in me can say:

This is shame.

Not truth.

Not justice.

Not God.

Shame is loud,

but it is not all-knowing.

It is relentless, it made me relentless,

but it is not right. 

I am still here.

Breathing.

Feeling.

Trying.

Not because I have proven my worth.

Not because I have earned forgiveness.

Not because I have been allowed to live.

But because my existence

does not require permission.

I will no longer be bound by these chains, 

I will no longer live under the thumbs of those who have mistreated me.

If we shall pass as two ships passing in the night so be it. 

Today,

I am enough