The weight of the shroud around me is constricting.
It’s confounding.
It takes reality and distorts it for a lesser truth.

I’ve “lived” my life in the shadow of shame. Not even shame of what I’ve done, but shame of who I am. I am filled with shame of my thoughts. My words. My actions. My very being.

Shame has been a constant companion, but a hollow one. Shame speaks loudly, much louder than the quiet truth. The noisy shame cries out,
“She’s angry with you”. . .
“He lied to you”  . . .
“They’re ignoring you on purpose”
“No one *really* likes you”
“You’re worthless”
“You’re defeated”

Shame demands that I prove my worth, my value, yet it never relents. It never yields to my attempts. Shame leans in quietly, and says, “You. are. not. enough”.

Shame is the culprit.
Not worry. Worry is there, no doubt, but it is merely shame parading around under a veneer of worry. “Stop worrying!”, I’m told.
OK. Yes. Good idea. I’ll stop worrying. . .except. . .I can’t. I’m not actually worrying, I’m proving to assuage my shame.

The vicious cycle is locked down tight. My shame forces me to worry, to struggle to find peace within myself. It holds my hand to the flame, unrelenting, until I cry out. Shame masks the pleas for mercy, for “enough” to be constant.relentless.enduring worry.
It’s as if one who has an allergy to penicillin specifically asks the doctor for a shot of penicillin, knowing they cannot have it but being unable to ask for anything different.

. . .

I hate this shroud of shame. I shrink beneath its weight, and long to step out from under it. It is repressive and lonely. I hope that through this journey, this struggle, that others will find solace in the knowledge that they are not alone.

Peace be the journey.