Stepping out of Shadows

Shame haunts me.

We all have vices. Personally, my favourite one is greed. Or perhaps envy. I was never really clear on the details. All I know is that I covet my neighbour’s everything. And Pride certainly puts its two cents in simply by my sitting here pronouncing my favourite sin. And all of that I’m okay with. My ego is content, realizing (or deceiving itself into realizing) that I am capable of beauty and perfection in spite of these things. Often it celebrates the fact that I’m beautiful and perfect because of them.

But shame is the weapon the devil uses against me with stunning efficacy. I am ashamed of my dismal career. Of how much I was capable of and how much I haven’t accomplished. I’m ashamed that I have a well admired degree from a decent university and that I did nothing with it. I’m ashamed I that I cannot recall any of the knowledge I supposedly gained from the endeavour. I’m ashamed that I don’t know more about stuff. I always manage to screw up or let things pass by, as if it were the very nature of who I am. And I’m sure as shit ashamed that I work at such a shitty job. I’m basically ashamed the lacklustre version of myself I see when I look backwards.

When someone asks me what I do or what I’ve done, I avoid the subject. I avoid it reflexively. A hot flush wells up in my emotions, and my fight-or-flight response kicks in. That dread in the pit of my stomach kicks and screams to change the subject. My answer is always awkward or paused; my secret the levy of impending doom. That’s the devil’s weapon in full.

It might be suggested that, if I can comment on these things here, I can’t be that ashamed. It could be claimed that I have plenty of things that I can be proud of, and that tomorrow’s always a new day. But all of that misses the point. I’m not unaware of the shame, nor am I unaware of my life. I’m acutely aware. I have a friend who, sometimes, hates it when I comment on her beauty. I could never quite understand that – because she’s quite evidently beautiful, and my words were always motivated by honesty and truth. But I think this feeling I have is something like it. Because when someone tells me I’m a good person, sometimes it can’t help but cause me to reflect on all the areas that I’m a wash-up. No well-meaning words can fix that.

Somewhere, deep down behind all of that shame (and resultant fear), is the real me. Underneath it.

As anyone who’s been my friend over the past months (read: years (read: intimate friend)) knows that I’ve been working to uncover that man. Discover him. It is an unbelievably slow process.

But I know it will be an incredible find. I know that because my writing teaches me a bit about him. For one thing, he has amazing sex. And more importantly, though just barely, he is real. He is really him, and not someone who’s walking with his face to the past.

First I took time off. Then I broke down. Then I went to Thailand. Then I got a job. Then I went to school for business.

The accounting professor mixed up the class numbers on our first day. The management prof changed her lesson plan at the last minute. The human resources professor apologized for having a testing system that wasn’t the best for students and the marketing professor tried too hard during orientation to be our best friend. This at an institution well regarded for its successful business program.

“Defend everything you say in this class with statistics and facts,” my last professor said, “and remember that people will always act in their best interest. I’m sorry, but that’s it’s just the way it is.”

Sure teaches you a lot about flaws.

One of my professors questioned, politely, why someone in my position didn’t just enrol in a Master’s of Business. The hidden hypothesis he was asserting was that a BBA was a lateral step at best. A needless repetition or possibly even a regression. I could not find the words to adequately explain myself. I could feel the devil stabbing at my heart.

But as I think back to the previous week of classes – the utter realism of honest mistakes, and flaws mixed in with youth, success and ambition, a creeping answer came to me. A simpler reason: The simple fact of the matter was, though I might try and justify, pontificate, and rationalize, I simply wanted to. For 4 years now, I have dreamt about starting over. About fighting back.

Now I am. This is where.

- Z


Epilogue –

My writing is an outlet that I do not intend to lose in the depth of schoolwork. Writing is not necessarily “a part of me” so much as it reveals a part of me. Aside from my ego’s desire to be beloved by hordes of people and make women wet with my words, the thing I like most about my art is that I feel most pure when I create. That, despite the loads of work I will be undertaking with school, is something I want to continue to make a priority.

A friend of mine continually mentions that the most popular online media (blogs, web-comics etc) is that which is updated frequently. To this end, I intend to start updating my blog (which contains what I post on facebook too) more frequently starting in October.

Once every two weeks, I’ll be posting. That’s a commitment. It may be a blog, it may be a creative writing piece, or I may try and do something different altogether. No matter what it is, it’ll always be from the heart.

I hope you’ll bookmark it. I hope you’ll feel comfortable giving your feedback.

As well, on the alternate weeks, I’ll be working with a friend(s?) of mine on a creative writing project involving photography and writing. More on that to come once I can sit down with her and organize how exactly it will work. Hopefully a third artistic project will materialize with my roommate(s) in the new year. I don’t think they really realize how serious I am about it. But I am.

Oh, and I think I’ll be advertising more, so tell your friends. Shameless, I know.

That’s the idea.