I’m Not Ashamed

There are things I know I should be ashamed about, but I’m just not.  I don’t know why.  Some quirky thing about how I came to accept myself didn’t allow for shame about these things.

It seems like a long list.  I am not ashamed about the scars on my left arm.  Almost no one ever comments on them.  It doesn’t bother me if they do.  I know the scars representing years of self harm are about my recovering from childhood trauma and abuse.  It’s not like at 12 someone told me how to deal with the horror, the confusion, or the mental illness developed because of rape, incest, and emotional battering.  I found my own way to cope.  It was not the best.  It took me many years to feel like I no longer wanted to hurt myself.  That’s it.

I’m not bad nor am l damaged.  I got hung up on a coping mechanism that was dangerous and destructive.  We all have bad coping mechanisms.  Some are worse than others.  Cutting myself was one of mine.

In Western State Hospital when I was 14, the counselors were trying to get me to stop cutting myself.  Based on a combination of destructive forces, I was unwilling and unable to give it up.  I remember one counselor, Frieda, saying to me, “You have scars on your arm.  You don’t want to make anymore scars.  What will you tell your children?”

I found that a very odd argument.  I gathered my 14 year old self up, looking her straight in the eye and said, “I hope I will have the strength to tell them that I had a very difficult time and harmed myself.”  She had nothing to say in response to that.  Even at that age, I knew it was more about what mattered to her than anything having to do with me.  It was a very ineffective argument.

There are other things I’m not ashamed of.  Sometimes, I get really ugly cold sores on my lip.  I remember the first time when I was 25.  You can’t exactly hide your lip.  It was a large one since followed by others.  It was on my last day of an old job.  Someone was taking pictures at the celebration.  I tried to cover my lip with my hand when the camera was pointed at me.

I decided then and there to call it Lip Art.  I told people, “I have Lip Art.”

“What’s that?” was the response.

“Well, you see, the cells of my lip are doing something entirely different and creative.  It’s an art form.  I call it Lip Art.”  

This was usually followed by a frown and then a smile of, “That’s a different way to think about it.”  Yep, it is.  It works for me.

I’m not ashamed of being a mental patient many times over.  “Yep.  I’ve had hard times.”  Who hasn’t?  It wasn’t pretty but so what?

I like people of all body types but am very fond of round bodied women.  Everyone likes bodies of one type or another.  This is mine.

I’ve worked part-time for nearly my entire adult life.  I have my reasons which are life affirming.  It took me a long time to get over the fact that I don’t have a college degree.

I’m what could be considered a masculine woman in that I wear men’s clothes.  Historically, I could be referred to as a dyke.  I am often mistaken for a man by people who don’t know me.  This occurs often in the women’s restroom.  I feel that if restrooms are going to delineate by gender people are going to have to deal with the consequences.

I hate my parents.  I’m not ashamed.  They treated me brutally.  I may simultaneously love my mother, but I also am very angry with her.  Justifiably, in my mind.  My dad is dead.  I am long, long over loving him.

I love wrinkled skin on aging faces including my own.  I love my gray hair.  I told my coworkers one day, “Isn’t that the goal?  To get gray hair?  It’s what’s supposed to happen.”

My boss said, “Wow, you’re right.  That is the goal.  It’s supposed to happen.  I never thought of it that way.”  My point of view never keeps anyone from coloring their hair.

My aging skin is getting spots.  I’m okay with that.  I seem to be getting them down the side of my face.  I could potentially look like an alien named Jax on Star Trek’s Deep Space Nine.  Things could be worse.

This isn’t to say I don’t have things to be sorry for.  I have said thoughtless, hurtful words at times.  I have committed selfish acts that I regret if I can remember them.  I punched kids in elementary school.  I have hurt people I love.  At times, I have been a disappointment to myself and others.

I think this is all related to being alive.  At some point, I had to give up on trying to be perfect.  However, I notice I still strive for it in my work and relationships.  It’s pointless but probably keeps me motivated.

There are a bunch of ways I don’t fit in.  I prefer working in a cubicle to having an office.  I like the closeness and camaraderie of being near my coworkers with the ease of collaboration.  It works because I can totally shut out my surroundings when I need to.  Not everyone can do this.

I like white shirts and thin ties.  I wear the same clothes weekly, sometimes daily.  (To be fair, they are clean and often duplicates.)

I am not a foodie.  I eat the same lunch everyday.  I am intimidated by potlucks and restaurant menus.  I find the options overwhelming.  When I’m in restaurants, both my partner and my daughter tell me what I would like from the menu for which I am grateful.

And potlucks!  You wouldn’t believe the sheer number of potlucks held by my office.  If there is a cause for celebration, my coworkers have a potluck.  I haven’t tracked this but it’s at least two or three times month and maybe more.

When the public disclosure specialist came to our staff meeting, she talked about the need to delete unnecessary emails.  She said she took a sample of our office emails that were not deleted.  The unusual aspect to our unnecessary saved emails compared to other divisions was the extreme number of potluck related commentary.  I think it was 200 out of 1000.  I’m doomed.

When it comes to making money and being ambitious about my career, I just need enough not more.  Enough is more than most people have.  

I love my part-time job.  It doesn’t matter to me whether I’m a Human Resource Consultant 3, 4, or 5.  When my boss came to me and said, “We want you to specialize in reasonable accommodation for employees and go from a 3 to a 4.”  I had to stop and think about it.  In my opinion, a promotion is not always a good thing.

“Well,” I said, “I suppose that’s okay” referring to the promotion not the assignment, “as long as I don’t have to supervise anybody.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, we won’t have you supervise anyone.”  I think they were relieved they didn’t have to deal with that expectation.

My competitiveness is with myself.  I want to do MY very best.  That’s what matters to me.  Other people are in charge of themselves.  They can have promotions if they want.  I just want to do my work and do it really well.

There is a lot to be distressed about in the world.  A LOT.  I don’t need to waste energy being ashamed about something that is intrinsic to my life experience.  

My quirkiness is something I have long since accepted.  It’s my life.  I’m in charge.  Taking care of myself and accepting myself is an act of loving myself as well as those around me.  I can do no better.

L’Chaim.

Joceile

8.5.18