I felt a warm flush crawling up my face and my heart sinking until its place in my chest was replaced with a hollowness. I thought, "she hates me, I'm so broken I can't even pick up my daughter on time." And then I wondered if I've ever been on time...I know I'm not usually the first and not always the last. I thought, I'm usually pulling up at 12:05 and if ever I'm later that 12:10, I pay the late fee as stipulated in the disclosure document, which I hate to admit has happened about once a month.
Teacher suggests maybe I could set an alarm or something, "so I don't have to wait for you."
I fake a smile through my dilated pupils. Guilt realizes I never thought about her waiting for me and Shame seizes the opportunity: I cannot resist the weight of my head hanging in Shame; my shoulders follow like "good obedient" children; my hands slither into my pockets. I mumble something about having to try that, while my tunnel vision locks on the doorknob and the escape alarm sounds.
"She won't let us come back next year" Fear says. I feel myself being pulled apart. I try to hold myself together with Guilt seeking some explanation I can use to find a solution to my tardiness problem. I was enjoying myself too much, I have a hard time pulling myself away--hyper-focused, how can I manage that better? "Damn it!" Blame interjects. "If you weren't so sensitive and deprived from childhood you would be a better adjusted adult."
Right now all I know is I need a shower. The greasiness of shame apparent on my hair. The hollow of my heart apparent in my dull complexion.
I also know I need to tell someone. My training tells me Shame cannot survive in the light. Shame wonders who could understand the paradox of my feelings, the "mountains out of molehills" my mother called them. "Why are you so sensitive?" Shame taunts me.
I think of my best friend, I know she'll listen, but Shame reminds me she's always there, on time, for her kids...I know that's not true and yet I wonder who else I have in my Empathy Seat. I have recently been trying out my husband for this role with pleasing success...but tardiness is a pet peeve of his and a source of past frustration between us Shame reminds me again. "But!" I say, I can tell him I just need him to listen without judgement and I don't even want a response. So there!"
Shame switches to distract mode with "you should text the teacher a groveling excuse. Maybe she'll feel sorry for you." "Grrrr. I'm not falling for your hustling for worthiness tactics, Shame." I think of another friend, a self-professed sister tardier, I could text her to sit in my empathy seat... It's better in writing anyway...I'd hate to leave anything out. I imagine any number of people in my Empathy Seat, a previously lonely enterprise, but now that I believe I am worthy of love and belonging, the exercise has served its purpose and Shame regresses to its corner. Like a shadow Shame is always there and I cannot get rid of it, but knowing where it stands, I can turn away from it to face the sun.
