Letter To Shame

Dear Shame,

Whew. It's rough to be in your presence. 
With you, I feel small. I feel airy, like someone could walk through me. I feel transparent. Like I'm missing my normal mass size. I feel my throat choking, my body trembling, and my anxiety rising. That what YOU feel like, Shame. 
And strangely, you don't always show up with an announcement, or even a reason.
You're just like... always there... waiting to be seen, to be felt, to be less alone. 

Today you popped up because I started thinking about the future I want to have.
The hopes and dreams I have. The aspirations and goals I want to achieve. I thought about the person I want to be, the person that seems far away from who I am today. A person who would be seven feet tall, but as deeply rooted and anchored as a palm tree. A person who doesn't live for other people's praise or for other people's scorn. A person who doesn't live for other people because that person doesn't see other people as separate than herself. A person that is whole in herself, and in her purpose and in her nature and the nature she lives in. A person who is free of pressure, of ideas, of intellect, of small mind, of hubris, of jealousy, of bitterness, of sadness. A person who is rich in depth, in insight, in curiosity. A person who is fulfilled in every moment and in the next moment she fantasizes about. A person who is happy just being a human, telling stories of other humans, reaching others with empathy and tenderness to the human experience. A person with no shame.
I saw that person I want to be in my mind. I know her. I know what she looks like, how she talks, how she carries herself in the world, how she feels about it, how she loves, how she creates, how she is seen and how she sees. I saw her alive and well in my mind, in my dream, in my wishful thinking. And then I became filled of Shame, yes - became filled of YOU my dear, because that person I long to be is not who I am.
And maybe I will never be that person.
Maybe I will never be her. 
Maybe you came up to tell me what a fool I am to want to be that person. What hubris I must have to think I am cut out for that. Who do I think I am with those aspirations!? I should be ashamed of myself. 
Yup. And here I am, ashamed of myself. Filled with you and detesting us both. 
You are the messenger of the loneliest self talk. You are the messenger to the quietest saddest feelings humans tap into. 

With hate, exasperation and fascination, 

​Tamari.