Have you ever had a question come from so far left field that you can almost feel the sting of the question on your cheek? You’re so blindsided that the question seems to knock the air out of your lungs, leaving you incapable of forming words. You’re trying to keep as still as possible, to blend into your surroundings so the author of the question forgets you are still there. That was me. I was stood still, staring at the space above the head of my interrogator, silent chuckles echoing around me. He did not forget I was there…
“We feel guilty for what we do. We feel shame for what we are.” quoted Phil Barker in his essay Guilt and Shame. I have stolen meat, and other food items from the kitchen before, indeed the list is non-exhaustive. I also think it is one of those things one can never stop doing. While tearing into the meat — in my room or in the kitchen — for a moment, there is a wave of remorse that washes over me. I have done something wrong. The moment does not last long; there’s something about trying to eat hot, peppery, stolen meat in a hurry, ending up swallowing a huge chunk of it, choking and feeling like you will die in sin, literally, that is just so much more compelling than a wave of remorse. That’s guilt. The crippling wave of confusion I have when I catch a reflection of myself, the feeling of contempt I have when I have to open my mouth to sell myself — like I am a bag of lies, the constant looking over my shoulder begging to not be seen, be noticed; that’s shame. There’s only so much that I can eat to make it go away, and unlike the meat that is long gone once I slam my fist into my chest and force it down, this shame is still there when I am done.
I do not have mirrors in my room, neither in my room at my place or the one at the family house. I remember a mini scuffle that occurred the day I refused the mirror that my mom wanted me to have in my room. I have never liked looking at the reflection of myself. There is something about seeing my reflection in real-time that makes me want to hide my face. After my graduation from secondary school, I was on an outing with family, pensive, and keeping to myself, when I caught my full reflection in the body of a parked car. I was wearing jeans (boot-cut) and a red shirt I was particularly fond of — body-hugging shirts were in then and this one wore like a second skin. My reflection stared at me, with my back slouched and my eyes peeking from beneath my slightly bowed head. I remember wondering how I looked like I wanted to fold upon myself, to tuck in pieces of me that I felt ashamed of, like a centipede that curls up when poked. I don’t think it’s that I do not like myself; it is just this feeling of disappointment when I see my reflection like ‘so that’s me?’ I stand straighter now, but I still want to fold upon myself on most days.
There are old pictures of me before I left the home I grew up in for life in the West. In those pictures, I am trim and maybe even athletic — back slouched, but I straighten up for long jumps, basketball, and the occasional game of tennis. There is less of me to tuck in, but the shame is still there. I am twice my weight in those pictures now. It seems like I am spilling from everywhere. How did I become too much for myself? People say, it’s not that bad, or you’re not even big big, but how do I explain to them that there is way too much of me exposed? I am a boil on your face, it’s small to me, and everyone else, but it is massive to you. So, you keep poking at it, begging (it) to not stick out. I became responsible for feeding myself and discovered the comfort that comes with eating when all else seems to be going to shit. The more everything continues to feel like it is going to shit, the more you start to convince yourself that just maybe, maybe, you are shit too.
If there’s one thing that I have learned this past year, while battling loneliness and adulting simultaneously, it is that — subconsciously, I think — I do not really hate myself, or regard myself so low. I have created the ideal version of myself in my head, placed that version of me on so high a pedestal that everything I do is never enough. I am constantly falling short, inadequate. Martha Nussbaum writes in her book Upheavals of Thought: The Intelligence of Emotions: It is only because one expects oneself to have worth or even perfection that one will shrink from or cover the evidence of one’s nonworth or imperfection. I am not good enough, because I should be doing better. I am not strong enough, because what is this display of neediness? Of vulnerability? And so, I slouch my shoulders, bow my head and pray to disappear from sight.
On reading the essay On Being Too Much for Ourselves by Adam Philips, my mind was beset with a myriad of questions. Not just because he suggests that it is impossible to overreact (a different matter entirely) but that he also suggests that we are too much for even ourselves. He writes: We are too much for ourselves because there is far more to us — we feel more — than we can manage. Is this image of mine that I am measuring myself against too much to fit into who I actually am? Or have I placed myself at so low a pedestal, that things I feel are way too much, too vague and basic, to fit into this ideal version of myself? The whole thing leaves me reeling from the thought that I still do not know who I am, and I may never do. It seems like I am back at the beginning, ashamed at just how ignorant, fanatically — to quote Mr. Philips, I am of myself.
The first few minutes of the movie Shame (2011), recommended to me by a good friend of mine, show Brandon (played by Michael Fassbender) as a man who values his aloneness as much as it provides him the means to be hypersexual, for lack of a better word. There is a part of Brandon that he is ashamed of, and willing to isolate himself in other to not have this part of him be exposed. He ignores his sister’s numerous calls, despite how desperate she sounds on each voice message, and his uneasy face when he arrives at work to find his computer (loaded with porn) gone show how this part of him is a part that though he has made peace with, he still feels shame. His sister moves in, forcefully at first, and throughout his shame at that part of himself continues to make him lash out till it reaches the climax. A conversation where he calls his sister “a parasite” is the climax of this movie. He walks out of his apartment with his sister in tears. There’s a scene at the end where he is crying in the rain. The scene is haunting, the emotion palpable. Michael Fassbender does this movie justice.
Throughout the movie, I can relate to the actions he (Brandon) takes to cover his shame. When exposed to my neediness, I isolate myself. I ignore calls, texts, and scroll aimlessly on Twitter while reaching for the bottle, searching for the high. When exposed to my inadequacy, I retreat into my shell and do nothing for weeks. Or I lash out at myself, angry at my own inadequacy. I am echoing Van Gogh at that moment: I am so angry with myself because I cannot do what I should like to do. David Whyte explores in a section of Consolations: The Solace, Nourishment and Underlying Meaning of Everyday Words: What we have named as anger on the surface is the violent outer response to our own inner powerlessness, a powerlessness connected to such a profound sense of rawness and care that it can find no proper outer body or identity or voice, or way of life to hold it. In my moments of inadequacy, of feeling too big to carry myself, of vulnerability, that powerlessness is crippling and my anger immense. This anger is ironically also the deepest form of compassion to myself because the ideals of myself which I hold dear (to be strong, to be good enough) are all vulnerable and I am hurting.
It makes me uncomfortable to feel needy or weak because I demand better for myself; I demand perfection. Alain de Botton writes in his book The School of Life: An Emotional Education: The emotionally intelligent person knows that they will only ever be mentally healthy in a few areas and at certain moments, but is committed to fathoming their inadequacies and warning others of them in good time, with apology and charm…. Navigating these moments of my vulnerability with grace, and intelligence becomes the challenge. I do not like the feeling of being alone; and each time I am left reeling by just how vulnerable I am, how needy I am being in a moment, and want to fold upon myself, I am subjecting myself to an even greater sense of being alone. Navigating this gap between who I am and the image I have of myself becomes a never-ending task that begs that I endure. I do not like challenges so much.
You know how your mind brings you the right response for an argument or a question that shocks you, days after the actual confrontation? I still have no perfect sound bite to that question. There is no witty way for me to respond that my shame has nothing to do with the work that I am doing, the work I don’t love particularly but I am striving to not be a nuisance at. The silent chuckles continue around me. He does not forget that I am there. I do not forget that I am there too, after all, I am carrying all this weight and shame with me. He asks the question again. I look him in the eye, and I smile.
- Twitter: @theosondu
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