My shame is a shapeshifter. Its ever changing presence lurks nearby at all times. Like my shadow it feels almost a part of me, never missing a step as it creeps along by my side. My shame has evil desires masked by a comforting and soothing facade. It knows me by name. It can sense what I need, and its conniving ways enable it to convince me that it holds the answers I require. Its constant presence is worn like a blanket, draping me in the kind of familiarity that I no longer question while it continues its work to change and steal more and more of me.
My shame understands that patience is a necessary component for its success. It knows when its strength is greatest and waits for those prime moments to slither out of the darkness to strike. When it senses an environment of joy, connection, or engagement it carefully retreats to the background, not in defeat but instead with a sense of knowing that it must patiently wait to resurface later in order to be most effective. While in waiting, my shame compiles all that it needs in the darkness of its lair, gathering each soul piercing ingredient required to overwhelm me when it chooses. I can feel the undercurrents of these preparations. I know it is there and feel powerless to stop it. I know that no matter how much I try to resist and counter it my shame is too clever to reveal its full plan.
My shame watches you. It is learning how to exist around you. It may reveal little morsels of its intentions to you – just enough to make you think it is possible to subvert it. But my shame smiles at these attempts as it hovers behind me with its dagger pressed firmly up against me. It dares you to step closer. It welcomes your attempts to pull me away from it. My shame will simply absorb and catalog your efforts to later assist with its mission when it is required. It knows that your help has limits. Your presence won’t always be there. Yet shame has unrestricted access to me. Your limits will become more fuel doused onto its fiery wrath when it finds me in solitude.
I have learned that naming shame can help to ease its strength. Calling it out by name shines a light on shame and makes it retreat back into its darkness. Its power wilts when this light can reach it. I feel the truth in this, and I try to offer myself this gift of relief by using my voice to dampen it. But my shame is learning too. Like a virus, it keeps shifting and adapting to grow in strength. It is finding new ways to maneuver in plain sight in the midst of a glaring light in its direction.
I need a new strategy. I need a new angle. I feel myself stumbling and submitting. I understand that there is no future beyond surrender, and this is not an option I wish to consider. But my shame has infiltrated my eyes, and I can’t seem to see a path forward from here. My shame is winning, and it knows this. I need to find a new way out.
Everyone has their limit. Everyone has their own personal breaking point. What’s yours? Do you think you know? Do you think you could tell if you were getting close to it? What if approaching this limit was like trying to navigate through a thick dark fog after being bound up and spun around in circles a few hundred times? How are you supposed to know where, when, and how to move when you are unable to even recognize where you stand in space? How would you know if you were standing at your edge – at your own personal limit? Maybe it’s only a matter of one step forward, or back, or to the side that spells safety or peril. But how could you tell if you were that close, and how could you possibly determine which way you needed to go?
Maybe you test all conceivable options. You outstretch your leg in each blind direction all around you, mapping the edges of safety with your foot as it carefully reads each surface like Braille. You find that you are trapped and can’t make safe progress unless you find another way. Something from deep within urges you to keep trying – to find another way. So with only the resources on and around you, you build ladders and bridges and try to make them long enough and sturdy enough to connect you to safety. But everything you construct seems to crumble under your own weight. You try to reinforce your failing ladders and bridges with nuts and bolts and duct tape and super glue and silly putty and bubble gum – with anything that might help – with anything that could make a difference. You try everything you can think of to help navigate your way out of this space. Yet you come up short – again and again and again. This leaves you with nothing but disappearing options. So you stand frozen in place for a while, thinking that maybe a new path will emerge if you can just think hard enough and be patient enough – because hope drives you to believe that a way out must somehow still exist. This flicker of hope is what keeps you searching – keeps you driving towards a belief in what might still be possible. You hang onto this hope. You need this hope. It’s your only way.
But what if while you are waiting and searching and holding onto hope the ground begins to crack and crumble and disappear beneath your feet. As you scramble for new options the edge you fear continues to creep closer and closer to you. You try to get smaller. You try to occupy less space than you require, folding yourself into a ball of crumbling hopeless self protection. Your efforts feel futile. You fail time and time again. You begin to feel a sinking force take hold of you – a convincing voice that echoes a message you do not want to own. Yet this voice tries to claim you. It’s message is loud and very clear. It leaves you questioning everything you reach for and everything you search for because none of it can actually be attained. In the end you start to believe this message. In the end it starts to become a part of you. In the end you realize that maybe chasing hope and purpose is nothing more than a fool’s game.