Today has been awful. AWFUL! I just got home and have been dealing with A: the welfare office and B: the outpatient clinic since very very early this morning. It’s 4:45 now. I JUST took my shoes off. And now I am going to tell you a secret.
If you are lucky enough to not be in the gaping maw of social services, you are very lucky. Because there is exactly one emotion that goes along with social services and that emotion is shame. And it is shame that we will talk about today.
I have a great deal of shame. Crippling shame. Debilitating shame. For past actions. For bad thoughts. For just being a deeply imperfect person. Shame. I’m marinating in it.
Dealing with social services means admitting you need help. *I* need help. I need help, and I have to ask for it. That’s where the shame comes in. Not you! If you need help I will gladly help you. But not me. No, when *I* ask for help, an anvil of shame comes crashing onto my head and all the bad thoughts start. How I’m selfish. Greedy. Spoiled. Inconsiderate. A burden. The black sheep of the family. The dirty little secret. I have a close family member who hasn’t looked me in the eye for over three years. Shame. I’m drowning in it.
And it makes me angry. Furious. Seething and ripping mad and I want to tear everything apart and put my fist through the windows and scream and break things and cry until I can’t breathe. But I can’t. Because that? Gets you in trouble. Might even land you in the bin. And there’s nowhere like the bin to encourage more shame. Nice little black spot on your record, there, missy. Got thrown in the bin because you can’t behave like a normal person and just shut up and take your licks as they come. There’s nothing wrong with you, you spoiled, narcissistic cow. Shut your fucking mouth and crawl into your brain and live inside with the shame where you belong.
That’s what a day of dealing with social services does to me.
I would very much like for today to be over. Or for someone to hit me in the head with a hammer. Either will do.
Sorry about this post. I’ll probably delete it once I’ve read it over. I’m ashamed that I’m whining so much.
But I don’t know any other way of letting it out.