A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

I hesitate, 

the truth tastes 

weird 

upon my tongue.

I’d waited 

for this moment,

but now a million tiny specks of doubt

coalesce into a lump

that sits inside my throat,

and stops the words from coming up.

I wonder

why I wait.

I feel

uncomfortable

icky

guilty, but I know I’ve not done wrong

embarrassed

but more than that

caught red-handed

(though again, I know

this is not wrong,

I am not wrong)

judged

(but by whom?

You are the one person

I actually trust

when they say

I am not judged.)

judged, unworthy, awkward, unlovable, insufficient – 

the adjectives pile up – shameful, ashamed,

ah!

That is it. This is

Shame.

She is both surprising, and familiar.

Why does she raise her ugly head now, 

constricting my throat 

as though through some telekinetic magic?

I realise

this is one of the many reasons 

I love the gardens of our conversations – 

there is no shame here with you,

at least there is none

that is not firmly planted inside myself. 

Right here. 

Right now. 

Why do I feel her presence?

Where did she originate?

I sift through decades 

of memories

emotions

fears

pains

and even joys,

like panning for gold,

and she remains, 

a large immovable lump,

like the lump in my throat, 

present for as long as I remember. 

My earliest clear memory, 

I was two or maybe just three. 

Dr Hughes in Taroona, telling me

I must not pick at scabs or scrapes or insect bites.

Not kindly advice, 

but judgment, 

a warning on par with fire and brimstone.

It is disgusting – 

the corollary I understood even then:

you are disgusting – 

and you will die from infection.

My earliest clear memory

is of a doctor

already teaching me the sort of doctor not to become

before I even knew my path in life,

but shaming me. 

Around that time, I started

to bite my nails,

chew them to the quick, 

a filthy habit, you’re embarrassing yourself. 

Well, I wouldn’t have been embarrassed if you hadn’t told me I ought to be. 

Just turned four,

and unable to bring myself

to be changed for ballet

in the big room, where my little body might be seen,

having to weigh on the balance

my fear of being witnessed

against my fear of getting into trouble, 

there was no possible win that day.

And that same year,

when Fabian told me his dad’s ute had a gun,

and he wanted to shoot me in the face

because I was fat and ugly, 

it never even occurred to me that the problem here was him,

as Shame extended her roots deeper into the fertile soil of youth,

and truly started to blossom in all her hideous maleficence.

And all the while

I was learning

sit still

be quieter

a lady doesn’t sit like that

a good girl doesn’t dress like that

a good girl doesn’t answer back

use your inside voice

don’t be so sensitive

don’t laugh so loud

don’t take so much

don’t talk so much

don’t be so much

don’t

And all the while

what I was really learning was

your role is to please others

not to make waves

not to take up space

not to make anyone else uncomfortable

And I

oh I wanted to be the good girl

I wanted to fit in

I wanted to feel loved

I wanted to be praised

I could live on the scraps of accolade that drop from the fanfare of the celebrated.

Or so I thought

But the more I sought approval,

the more I tried to be a good girl

the more I sanded off my edges

in vain attempts to fit a variety of moulds

the more I changed my body

to become something they could love

the less I thought of myself

the less I thought I could be loved

the less I knew who I really was

and perhaps most ironically

the less I did fit in

the less I was loved

the more I was shamed

because if there is one thing

a bully hates more

than someone who stands up to them

it is someone they can label pathetic

for even trying

to be what they quite clearly are not

Shame pervaded all

became the very paper on which the book was written.

I was shamed for not being popular

(there’s obviously something wrong with me),

for not having enough friends, 

for being too smart,

but then for not doing well enough,

for speaking too much and too loudly, 

but then for not speaking at all,

for owning an opinion

and then for saying I’d defer to comment.

You’re shamed if you drink,

shamed if you don’t. 

Shamed for being “a virgin who can’t drive”

(thanks, Gabby, then shamed for not knowing the movie reference)

or shamed for losing virginity.

And at some point, inception:

shame within shame

you literally feel ashamed for feeling shame

And the biggest heartbreak 

is that underneath all these layers of shame

is that little ballerina

still blaming herself.

It must be my fault.

I must be different.

I must be wrong. 

Maybe I am disgusting. 

Maybe I am unlovable. 

If someone laughs at my body, it must be because it is laughable.

If someone laughs at my laugh, it must be an assault to their ears. 

I get pantsed on camp at age seven,

in my pyjamas,

and it’s all they can talk about for days,

so there must be something wrong with me. 

Alex destroys my flowers 

and I squash her up against the wall in my rage,

and somehow what I did was wrong, 

and what she did wasn’t,

and I don’t understand this, 

but if this is the lesson you need me to learn

then you know I will remember this forever. 

It doesn’t matter what they do to me, it doesn’t matter how I feel.

That time we had plans,

and she forgot,

and all I knew deep within my bones

was that it must be because I was not worth remembering. 

That morning I drove across Sydney,

to pick him up from the hospital,

and he kissed me but it just didn’t hit the way I thought it would, 

and that night he slept with her,

because this is how it goes, right?

I’m the old reliable for a favour,

but not the one you really wanted.

And my Black Domino, 

that night I’ll never forget

with a promise of something distant this time,

then ghosted 

as though the masks had never come off

and we had remained strangers,

all because of her poisonous whispers, 

but I supposed she was right.

And in between, 

scattered gems

of true friendship

and true love,

and even those could be tainted by 

Shame, 

as she would run her white-gloved fingers across them, 

inspecting for dust. 

They just don’t know you yet. 

You just wait

‘till they do.

And true achievements,

but even those

stood within her cross hairs. 

You didn’t deserve this. 

It was a fluke.

You should have done better. 

You should have been better.

One of these days

they’ll see you

for the fraud you are

for the failure you are.

But for the first time in my life, 

I see these games

of Shame

and Blame,

Imposter Syndrome,

and RSD

for what they are – 

fake news

deep fakes at times

insidious lies.

No more.

I will not stand for this. 

Someone needs to take that little ballerina

and love her

for her

and teach her

her worth

her ineffable

immutable value.

She needs to hear

that her feelings matter

her thoughts and opinions

her body

her

and that she was never the problem.