the skin of my hands is that special kind of papery dry. the wrinkles fading from being submerged in water for so long. there were a lot of dishes left from the night and i was the only one still up to wash them. but i was using the task to elongate and savor the fading flavors of what was already one of my favorite dinner parties in a very long time. the night was more than worth the task.
five friends and one mom gathered around a table. some food on the grill. a little bit of wine. my first attempt at gluten free baking from scratch and a lot of conversation. at first we jumped and skipped between topics, starting with movies–the latest hits, the ones missed, a few really cheesy ones from years ago–and moved on to genius, geniuses, theoretical physics, and hillary clinton's texts.
until things shifted.
the sounding of a gauntlet thrown down to lay staring up at us six from among the rubble of half empty glasses and cookie crumbs.
but the surprising thing is we took it up. each and every one of us. we joined hearts and hands and spoke out loud to one another those stories of shame and fear and desire. and more shame. and more. again. and still. and it opened into a night like i haven't seen since a quartet formed out of nowhere in the wee hours after eden's wedding.
we lingered knee-deep in our stories, a different kind of round robin with higher stakes, more vulnerable hearts: things shame keeps us from doing, the things we tell ourselves we can't have because we're ashamed, the things we won't even think about because of shame.
and even if i started the questions, even if i was surrounded by five people i count as my kindred, count among my dearest, the questions weren't any easier for me to answer, and i am disappointed to say i found myself chickening out of speaking in clear and vulnerable words the places where shame rests most in my story, and admitting, without shame, the thing that i am most ashamed of at the moment. and so now, a few hours later, to a wider audience i state what i wish i had said earlier:
i am ashamed that i have settled so often for less in relationships.
ashamed the deeply interesting ones have always just disappeared.
and finally:
i am ashamed that the reason i am single is that i am not good enough for anyone {and never will be}.
there.
those are my secrets of shame.
and they beat a deep and measured rhythm beneath the opposite belief i have steadily been listening to over the years {even if i lose track of its cadence sometimes}:
i am.
plain and simple.
i am. i exist. me.
and that is glorious.
and enough.
and the fact that one day someone will recognize that and want to share their am-ness with me and take part in my am-ness is not something to worry about. my job is to just breathe, be, and remember which rhythm to listen to.
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it's funny how hard it still is to confess. here, safely tucked away behind the screen and sheltered by the internet. i look at the words and throw blankets like cliche and petty over them, judging them and me. or perhaps giving myself a little dig about still not having confidence as i toe the line of thirty. but that's just the shame fighting back, trying to hide away again as it sits there and squirms beneath the light of day shining down on it giving it words and definition and spindly limbs. it looks up at me with beady eyes knowing it's just a matter of time before i gather up the courage to squash it with a paper towel and take it to the trash.
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