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I have no feelings of shame. I was brought up with shame, shame that was focused on me as a person. Not on anything specific about me, but on me as a whole person. ‘Shame on you. I’m ashamed of you. You should be ashamed of yourself’. It was never specified for what or why. The message was always ‘You should be ashamed of yourself because that’s what you are’.

I still can’t make it stick, literally. If the imposed shame has no concrete target, it holds no power. Not over me it seems anyway. It won’t stick.

It’s just a theory, but I find it plausible that if you raise a child with a projected shame on the whole person, it won’t take hold. Shame is always about ‘something’ that should be hidden from the outside world. ‘Something’ can not be everything, ‘something’ is just a part of something.

I’ve always taken myself very seriously when it comes to who I am, what I want, what’s for me, what’s not for me. At least that’s what I’ve tried. I’ve never taken life in general very serious, though. You are born, you die. In between, you do the best you can. We all fuck up. I fucked up a lot. In the past, now it is not too bad.

I don’t remember ever feeling deeply ashamed of anything. What I mean by that is an internal pitch black nothingness filled up with so much shame that I’d rather die than enter. People end their lives driven by shame. Just saying. Shame can be a deadly weapon.

There was a period when I had a distorted body image and there was some shame related to my body; my breasts were too small. I was ashamed of that, I tried to hide that (something I would NEVER have admitted back then). My stomach was too fat, I tried to hide that too. Or just a big pimple on my face. Anything I felt like hiding, things I’d rather not have other people see, there was shame involved in that I guess. I’ve had that.

That only stopped when I started to consistently remind myself that I am not my body. I HAVE a body. It is my home, it transports me, It’s where live. It gives me the opportunity to, while lying in bed, to speak my mind into this voicerecorder. I am not my body, I have a body.

When I could let that truth in, I could also let go of all that so-called shame around my body. I am not my short legs, this body has short legs.

And extra skin, I can fold it into a little face. I carried two children to term so I no longer have a tight stomach. In spite of my marvelous six-pack my stomach looks a bit messy. Damage from usage. Added functionality. However you wish to look at it.

In terms of shame, the world has never really gotten a hold of me.

But… Yes, there is always a but…

I have PTSD. It no longer controls my life but it’s there. I can feel it waiting. I’m used to it.
I have been ashamed of that. The funny thing is that I never realized it was shame. I just never talked about it, it was not a topic of conversation. I avoided it ever being a topic. That says it all, I guess.

I realized, in hindsight, to me it was personal failure, weakness. It was proof of my destructibility, my vulnerability, maybe even proof of my mortality.

I got into a situation where I was painfully confronted with myself on this and I decided to dissect it.

Statement: My damage is proof of my failure

If I regard failure as loss, my downfall, or ultimately; my death, then the whole statement is nonsense. If I have proof of my death, I have already died and the damage proves it. But: I didn’t die, I am very much alive. That makes my damage proof of that fact, that’s the only logical conclusion. My damage is proof that I am alive. Survived. Not just that, I won. Because: I am alive. Otherwise I would be dead. Simple.

There have been multiple moments in my life where I made  the choice to keep on living. Live, not die. If I had failed, I would not have been here and the damage would not have been there. In any case, it wouldn’t be part of the equation.

The damage is proof that I have fought wars. Sitting here is proof that I won those wars. My damage, my scars are my medals. It’s the stripes I’ve earned. I had to fight hard for that, I earned it.

I carry battle scars from wars I’ve fought and won. I’m not just a survivor, I’m not just a warrior. I’m a fucking general.

I’ve been living in isolation for the past few months and I have decided that I really like myself. I am a fun person to be with. Also; I am proud of myself; i am proud of what i have achieved, i am proud of what I’m capable of.

Why is that such a not-done thing to say? Why is that so strangely received. To the question ‘What do you like about yourself?’, my answer is ‘Everything’. And I mean that too; I like everything about myself. Not everything is convenient and I find some things downright bizarre, but yes, I like everything about myself.

There is always such a strange reaction to that. I remember once getting a response, no smile included, something like ‘Well, you think you’re quite something, don’t you’.

Well, yes I do. If I am very honest I consider myself The Shit. I think I’m tough. I think I’m funny. I think I’m smart. I consider myself The Shit, yes. But the fact that I think of myself as The Shit does not mean that I find someone else less, I am not involved with anyone else at all. I consider myself the center of the universe. I have no desire to compare myself to anyone else. That is a completely different person. I have never lived in their world. Maybe that person is also totally The Shit. If that is the case then I just really hope that person is aware of it, celebrates it.

What it has brought me is that I’m no longer afraid of making mistakes. I do my best and hope for a happy ending. Whatever happens, I am totally The Shit. Which doesn’t mean that I can do everything, there are many things that I absolutely can not do. And a lot of things you really don’t want me to do. And I think that’s completely okay. I’m okay with that.

I electrocuted myself several times, on multiple occasions, before accepting that I should stay away from anything to do with electric wiring.
I admit, sometimes it takes me some time to be ‘okay with it’.

Oh, if I ever tell you I’m going to repair my car, please stop me

It was hard for me to accept that at the core of my darkness, I am ruthless and will show no mercy. I will not back down. I will never surrender. I will end up dead before I admit defeat.

I don’t fear that part of myself. I just know it’s there if I need it. I hope I never will because I know it would destroy me, one way or another.

My darkness fuels my power but it’s also my kryptonite.

The opposite to my softness and gentleness is my ruthlessness. I will never be cruel but I will not show mercy either.

Without my sensitivity to balance it out, I would be an accident waiting to happen.

I don’t hold grudges. If you did me wrong, that‘s on you, not me. Even if it was intentional, I‘m fast on forgiveness because my own track record is far from clean.

But…

If the mistake is not acknowledged or my feelings around it are dismissed, if you treat me any less then an equal human being, I get vicious. I will get even with you, even if I have to wait years for the opportunity to occur.

Stab me in the back and I’ll punch you in the face

I will not hurt you just to hurt you. That is too easy. I will simply tell you what you did and why you did it. I will tear down every illusion you ever created about yourself in order to survive and shove it in your face.

I will show you yourself in all your naked ugliness and you will not like it. Maybe at some point in time you will understand it was a gift but I’m pretty sure you wont.

I’m pretty sure you will carry the mirror I handed you for a very long time and you will never forget my name. This is my ultimate revenge.

It‘s not something I‘m proud or ashamed of, it‘s how I operate. I believe everyone has the right to have all the information, especially regarding themselves.

When need be, I’m ruthless.