Embarrassed and Ashamed

There are things I don’t write much about, even here. At lunch today, Sir asked me about one of them. I told him it was because I’m embarrassed and he asked if I’m embarrassed or if I’m ashamed. I’m not sure I completely know the difference… which is embarrassing (I think).

So he gave me homework to look up both words and see what I can come up with as definitions, then write about it and the topic he asked me about at lunch (sigh).

I think the most useful defining feature I found in my Googling was this – shame is the feeling that you’re doing something wrong or something to feel guilty for, it is about your own self-view, embarrassment is fear of the view of others, that others will discover something about you that feels awkward or uncomfortable for them to see. Shame is about myself, embarrassment is about others. So if I am okay with a thing alone, but worried about others knowing about it, then I’m embarrassed. If I feel bad about something regardless of whether anyone else ever knows about it, then I am ashamed.

And it is possible to be both ashamed and embarrassed, which I think I am about this topic.

Sir makes me stand in a corner, usually as punishment or part of maintenance, it isn’t something we do for play. I am pretty sure I’ve mentioned it on this blog before, because I have a masochistic urge to poke at the places that hurt. But I’m also pretty sure I’ve glossed over it, mentioned it in passing, let it slip by without drawing too much attention to it because even the thought of mentioning it (like right now) is making me feel like curling in on myself into a tighter and tighter ball until I compress myself out of existence. It is making it hurt to breathe, like there is actual pain around my lungs, it is making it feel as if my stomach is trying to climb up my esophagus. I’m fighting not to cry because I am so… embarrassed to discuss this topic.

But, as Sir asked earlier, do I feel this way when it happens, when no one else is there, it’s just me and Sir, and maybe SB, people I feel safe with, whose judgment I don’t fear. Do I still feel the mortification that I feel now talking about it?

No. Not like this.

There’s always a small degree of embarrassment for me, even if it’s only Sir in the room, even though SB has to do the same thing when he’s in trouble, so I know he isn’t judging me, a little part of me is still embarrassed but it fades pretty quickly as the boredom takes precedence in my mind.

But in my own mind, just by myself in a room, if I think about this part of my life, of our dynamic, of my relationship, without anyone else knowing, there is still judgment. It is a different voice than embarrassment, it is somehow more quiet, more insidious, more of a whisper in the back of my mind, and yet it is darker, more sinister, more ugly than my embarrassment even with its power to make me cry just typing about it.

That voice is my shame. That whisper is the cancer that eats my soul. It is the voice that says something is wrong with me. It is the voice that says I should be better than this. It is the voice that tells me if only I could act like an adult, Sir wouldn’t have to do this. If only I was a normal person, this wouldn’t be necessary. It is only the fact that I am so childish that such a childish punishment is warranted. It is my failure to be a mature adult, it is my failure to rise above childishness, it is my fault that this is necessary, that Sir must do this, that this is so effective in getting me the life I want, that Sir wants for me. An adult life. A responsible life. A life when I don’t watch TV for 8 hours and eat ice cream from the carton every day, because that’s what I would do without this. I have no self-control, I have no self-discipline, it doesn’t matter that I functioned before I was with Sir… I functioned less well, and that is what counts.

This is the voice that makes me want to hurt myself. The voice that tells me to slam my head against the wall, to split my knuckles against the door frame, to scratch myself until I bleed, to find a weapon and eviscerate myself.

And in a brutal irony, this is the voice that tells me, as I fight the urge to hurt myself, that my urge to hurt myself is just another failing proving that I am incapable, incompetent, childish, immature, and unworthy.

Fortunately, that voice doesn’t often get loud when Sir puts me in a corner. It gets louder at other times, but often corner time reduces my ADHD symptoms enough that I can push down the other voices that would otherwise become chaotic in my head.

But when I write about it. When I think about it away from the corner. When Sir brings it up at lunch and I suddenly feel like I’m going to throw up the little I’ve put into my stomach…

He asked me to think about my feelings that stop me from writing about this…if they are they embarrassment or shame. He asked me if it is an activity he should curtail or replace – is it doing me harm? He asked me to examine it and write about it for him, and to serve anyone else in the silent audience who may have their own struggles with embarrassment or shame.

I don’t actually believe that last part. I don’t think this blog serves anyone but me. Maybe Sir because he says I share things differently here than anywhere else and he likes the window into my mind…

So maybe it serves Sir.

And I guess that should be enough for me to keep doing it.

If I were a better person, maybe it would be.

See?

Cancer.