Shame

Shame is such a family thing. We are not taught shame by strangers and blank faces but confused ones, sand lines crisscrossing the faces of our parents as their frowns deepen when we sink deeper into the quicksand of our mistake. The bumbling lies were always new-borns; we’d learn to pleat them perfectly later, but for now we were caught. Questioning, big eyes had their shame wash over us, this looming shadow of the monster underneath your bed finally standing over you in your sleep. This is a nightmare, and you wish you could wake up so badly right now, so badly that your fingers are wringing each other, strangling, straitjacketing the skin that keeps you from pinching and wake up in your bed gasping, feeling a little tight around the edges. Not now though, now you are hiding your eyes, basilisk gazes are not more terrifying than your mom’s angry eyes, and the heat burning across your cheekbones helps form the contours of your face, now you know why models and comedians always have jawlines that kill. 

 Shame was never a private thing. It became an awkward giggle from an aunt you barely recognised as you became a trophy for the first time. Don’t worry, you’ll become used to it. One day they’ll put you back in the case and you’ll realise that being the overachieving child doesn’t mean that you have be shameful of yourself, just that you learn to hide it better. To talk with the adult confidence of a bullshitter and hope the bullshitters accept you as their own. That’s when you know you’re an adult you see: the silent admiration in their eyes not calling you out but shouting nonetheless; 

 ‘I see you. You’ve made it. Good.’

 ‘Now let’s see how long you can keep it up.’