Between blue checkered sheets
“Aren’t you ashamed?” she laughed.
“No,” I replied. But yes, there was a time when I wore Shame like a cloak. A thin, impenetrable barrier that hid me from my Self. Shame was a layer of my skin. I did not know then that she was an intruder, an alien being, grafted into my subconscious before I had developed awareness of Me. She was left to grow in the dark recesses, until she became a silent companion I thought was me.
All desire was stifled by Shame, the urgency of Self, physical and metaphysical. My Self was slowly, carefully asphyxiated and I was the one holding the plastic bag over my soul. Insidious companion, Shame. She will take you to Suicide’s door, a smile on her face, a dagger in her hand.
Now I know Shame no more. For I have shed Shame like an old skin. I crawled from it on my belly, limbs flailing, my mouth in an open scream. I heard my death announced, whispered by a familiar voice I did not know. A death of the worst kind, it said, a slow gradual erasing of Self. Your flesh will remain, a hollow shell void of spirit.
And so I found the enemy hiding within and I ripped at the seams she had expertly sown into my skin.
No, I do not know Shame. She has become a stranger to me. An enemy of the most dangerous kind whose slightest approach sends my soul shouting joyous rebellion from the rooftops:
“Desire! Love! Expression! Freedom! Creativity! Sharing! Excitement! Pleasure! Life! Enjoy! Enjoy! Enjoy!”
For these are my arms against which Shame has no power.