shame on you

It feels like I remember every embarrassing thing I have ever done. All the times felt like I was the center of attention, thinking about all my flaws and shortcomings, while other people probably didn’t even notice me. I obsess over these moments endlessly, thinking about how I felt when the embarrassing moment occurred, or even worse, how I felt about when I eventually realized how stupid I was earlier.

I still feel ashamed for many things in my past. All the inappropriate things I have said at the wrong time, all the stupid things I did to other people, all the mistakes I’ve ever made … they replay in my head frequently, at the least opportune times. I have made apologies to a couple of people for things I did or said, and they accepted my apology gracefully, but it doesn’t erase in my mind the fact of how I feel about these things.

Shame has always been a defining factor in my life. My adopted mother and her adopted mother shamed me constantly, making me think I didn’t deserve anything, and that anything I did to call attention to myself was wrong. I learned early from my schoolmates that doing anything outside the ordinary was a source of embarrassment and shame. As you can imagine, having bipolar as a teenager (and into adulthood) caused me to do more stupid things than ever before and resulted in continuing humiliation when I looked back at my actions.

My intelligence, and my reputation as the smart kid, caused other kids to tease me and exclude me from their social circles, and I learned to hide my intellect to avoid being the focus of attention. In 4th grade I deliberately failed during the school spelling bee because I didn’t want the spotlight focused on me, the person who was expected to win. Because I had more advanced schoolwork than the kids in my classes, I was often separated from them, suffering the indignity of having my own special corner in the classroom, or even worse, being sent to the “special” class where I could work independently. [Funny thing is, the “special kids” were some of the most genuine and kind-hearted people I knew.]

Sometimes I would forget who I was, and get a little false confidence to try something; these times would usually result in the most awkward moments of my life. The 6th grade talent contest comes to mind, when for some reason I thought I could be the emcee and tell jokes in front of the whole school; I failed miserably, and I felt people making fun of me. [Whether they actually made fun of me, I don’t know, but I was my own worst critic.] After these failures, I would retreat into my shell again.

There have been very few times when I was in the spotlight and I actually felt good about it: making a great play in baseball, or nailing my solo during the band performance, or winning the marching competition my first day at college band camp. Some of those memories where I actually accomplished something are still good, and I remember those times very well. But the memories of the times where I failed, or did or said something ignorant or embarrassing, are much stronger than the good memories, and I relive the shame of those moments daily.

can I get you more coffee, sir?

Just some rambling thoughts on getting older.

I’m not sure when it happened, but I’ve become a “Sir”. Thank you for coming, sir. Have a nice day, sir. Can I get you more coffee, sir?

When we moved to Ohio I was 35 and in the prime of my bipolar-addled life. Despite the instability, I felt like I was still a youthful person who could hike for miles, climb volcanoes, cut down and chop up trees, shovel the driveway, or stay up late without consequences. My kids were young, and I enjoyed playing with them. My life didn’t revolve around doctor’s appointments.

Now I look back just a little, and it seems such a short while ago. It’s been 13 years. I feel old now. I’m very close to 50, an age I never contemplated reaching. I grew up with old people, but they were old-old, as in ancient. Old people had medical problems, aches and pains, and emitted strange noises at regular intervals.

I feel old now, but I’m not really. If I were to leave this world, people would say it was too soon. I still have to work for 20 years before I can consider retirement, and I’m afraid I won’t make it. Thoughts of ailing health and mortality take up too much of my available thinking time.