I still carry around so many shameful memories.
Like letting boys do things to me I didn’t really want them to because I wanted them to like me and I didn’t know how to say no;
betraying a friend for no good reason except some short term boost to my self-esteem or to feel “cool” in the eyes of other people who would never really be my friends anyway;
drinking alone and then lying about it even though I was obviously drunk because I didn’t want to admit that maybe I shouldn’t be drinking at all.
What possible purpose does it serve to continue to carry around these awful moments and the hundreds of others like them? None.
Yet I hold on to each and every one with a white-knuckled grip, like losing them would somehow mean losing a part of myself.
As if I need to keep these red-faced moments of shame close to keep me in line. To remind me of what a fuck-up I have been and might be again if I’m not careful.
Because I must be good now. There are the children to consider, after all. And I am the grown-up, the mom.
There is a line now, so many lines actually, and I am not supposed to cross any of them, ever.
I have drawn myself into a corner and this is where I live, with my shameful memories, my many new responsibilities, and my aching heart.