my psychologist encouraged me to write another version of ‘shame’, from a compassionate perspective. so I did my best to do so…. perhaps you could write about the damage done, the bruises on your soul, your heart that walks with a limp, your voice that only sings when no one’s there? or perhaps it hurts too much, or frightens you, to show those parts that no one knows, the wounded and scarred fragility of the self you’re afraid never will be whole? what if they knew that you feel like a thousand torn and tiny pieces moving as one? what if you were able to say that there are things you don’t even know about yourself? what if you don’t remember, because you don’t want to remember, though you were there and carried the shame home, heavy on your back? why do you think you’d be judged as harshly as you judge yourself? what if they knew that something chewed your heart that night and left a bloody mess inside your chest? why do you think they’d see you differently, just because you’ve been too ashamed to speak of something that was not your fault, that has left you feeling as though you are all blanks and fractures, missing pieces, and the aching, endless, misplaced weight of shame.
