Shame.

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As I sit here, figuring out how to even do a few menial tasks, the word resonates with my situation. What triggered the thought was a television show. A boy, exposed by his brother, as having trouble with wetting the bed, kills his brother. The part was well played, I would know. Of course, from there, the seed grows and shame is viewed from many angles, times in my life, and on to shame others must bear.

No, I no longer wet the bed! Shame on you for even thinking such. I cannot be certain when it began, though it started about the time my beautiful babysitter waltzed me into sexuality. So, by 5, I was having this problem. In spite of the possible correlation to molestation, I do not think the two were related other than by time. I remember the many ways adults attempted to correct the behavior. Gifts were given for successfully not wetting the bed and punishments of various sorts were meted out for failures. The worst of the punishment was shame. To include having my sheets hung out my window as a teen.

Beyond the punishment was the knowledge that I could not spend nights at friends' homes. I had to be careful on camping trips and so quit the boy scouts. In it's time, bed wetting was a huge thing in my life. So, when I watched the boy who killed his brother, poor acting would have been noted. I even suspect, had just one thing been different, that boy could have been me. What that one thing is perhaps I will never know. To say that I was angry at many people, years later, when I came to know that because I was growing at an accelerated rate, I probably had little control, is an understatement. By 12 I was already 6'4", at which point I quit growing. I had size 12/13 feet and wore extra large mens' gloves, if too I weighed only 142 pounds. My organs, it seems, the bladder in particular, had no way to keep up with my growth. Starting out, so I am told, at 2 foot tall at birth (is that right, but it is what I was told), that leaves 4 feet and 6 inches spread over 12 years of growth. That is over 4 inches average per year, and about on target.

So, when I consider the other parts of my life which have caused the most deep and bitter shame, I certainly look at back door possibilities. How much of the shame, in essence, is mine. How much of the situation was the best option in a terrible situation? How much of it is due to simply being where I was without fault. And how much of that bitter apple did I see, take, and eat? That leaves plenty of shame, however. Further, even mitigating factors only offer a slight salve.

As I sit, today, in my crippled state, trying to figure out how to do what any normal man would simply have done, I have shame. It is a great shame. And, as I think on the thing, I am still unsure. Even if it is conditional, like the bladder, and not fully in my control, I realize that does not always matter. At least emotionally, and currently. Shame, like guilt, avarice, jealousy, hate, and others are not part of the thinking and logical. It, and they, can only possibly be dealt with using those parts. And, even using those parts, one may never know the truth about themselves in all situations. Such as the situation I am in.

I do wonder if those touched by shame are blessed or cursed. To be sure, I have met a few who seem to have no shame. Though none of those have ever killed to my knowledge, I would guess that such a thing would not have bothered them. As well, I am more sure from having met them that I much prefer my situation to theirs. Perhaps it is an oversensitivity which makes some not only aware of what is shameful, but more prone to it's effects. How one is raised also should be considered. I also wonder if people who know shame are weakened by too close or frequent a walk with that attribute or sensation. I cannot be sure, though I can suspect. As for me, to a greater degree, I have found a place to put shame, most of the time and when I realize it. I think most people, as was my old habit, forget it as quickly as possible and move on, hoping the thing will stay in the past. That is where danger lies. Not just murder, but suicide comes from a sudden realization of all the collected shame. The less dramatic effects can include leading a self-destructive life (both consciously and not), choosing poorly to avoid facing the various shames, and other little bits that lead to unhappiness, the real unhappiness.

Though I still bear shame, and will until I die and then some, if I am correct and before forgiveness can take place, I do have a means of treating the poison. I can slow it, sometimes stop it. Knowledge may help, though even knowing it was a bladder size problem only helped after years, maybe a decade. Owning it and handing it to my stated authority as reverently as any other gift I might offer is the major method. The trick to handing it in is making sure it is mine in the first place, thus my contemplation. I would no more hand in false suffering than fake money. There is one final method. That is action. Sometimes, figuring my way out of the box, I am able to tend that which needs attention.

The sad thing is that I know I live in a world where few have any method at all. I live in a world where people are shameful and shamed by it, waiting to combust with it and do almost anything. Like people on fire, literally, how any one may react when their shame and their conscious mind collide is... unknown, perhaps unknowable. But terrible things have come from not dealing with shame. As for me, though I have methods of caring for my shame, that is an ongoing process. Yeah, it's... uhrm... it's in the mail.