Shame stories

emokitty_artist Some things are better off dead.
Autoplay OFF   •   2 years ago
This is about me, but it covers everyone in general, it goes over some pretty rough topics so I'm just saying it might not be for everyone. I just felt the need to put this out there.


Someone once told me that in order to be loved, you have to start with loving yourself. There are plenty of people who would agree with this.

Plenty of people who think ‘yeah that’s it!’, people who look in the mirror and feel a sense of satisfaction. They love their quirks and their curves, and even their bad qualities.

The ‘confidents’. And then there are people like me, people who think ‘Is that right? Are you sure?’. People like me who look in the mirror every morning and try not to cry.

People who can’t seem to understand how self-love works. People who look at The Confident's and wish they could be like that, wish they could love themselves that way. The ‘shamefuls’.

Some ‘shamefuls’ are worse than others. Comparing myself to what I’ve seen, I’m definitely up there.

I wake up every morning and I get ready to shower, I’ll turn on the water, but then I just stop.

And I stare into the mirror, looking at my stretch marks and my face and wondering where I went wrong.

I can’t single out a single thing about my body that makes me feel this way, it’s just everything put together. But I hate it.

I stare at my eyes with their dark circles, boring into my skull and leaving creases from years of stress and insomnia. I look at my arms, the hideous scars that cover them.

I run my fingers over the lettering; “love me” and then to the scars under those “help me”, even further down it says “ugly”.

I’ll turn my arm over, to hide my shame, but then on the other side, I find a long vine-like scar, swirling all the way up to my elbow. It’s only a discoloration now.

The puffy pink skin has long since faded, now it is like a dark pattern running up my tan arm. It never goes away, I’ve had it for three years now, maybe four.

I look down to my hands, covered in scars as well, you wouldn’t be able to notice them if not for the way they shine a bright pink in the light.

My eyes will move over these, down to my nails, that never grow longer than two inches due to the fact that I’m always nervous. One of my coping mechanisms is chewing.

I’ll chew on anything but food. I’ll chew pencils, pens, paper, cardboard, even my clothing, anything at my means of disposal.

Often times that means my nails, I never bight them off, I just run my teeth back and forth on them, in a calming motion, I know it’s strange but it helps.

I look down to my chest, it’s too large, I hate it, I look at this ‘thing’ attached to my body and It doesn’t feel like mine.

It’s the only good part of me, other than my arse, but all the same, I hate both.

The only two times I’ve had someone actually come out in the open and say they liked me, it was because of these ‘things’.

One of them, well some girls told me he liked me and I said it wasn’t true. He walked up to me and said to my face that he did.

But I hardly knew this dude, I never hung out with him, he was just ‘there’. I asked my friends why in the world he said that… and even they replied it was because of my backside.

I feel like a piece of meat. Not even a good one. I’m the kind you throw away, I’m here for your enjoyment and then when you grow tired of me, I’m as good as gone.

The second boy never said he liked me to my face because honestly, he didn’t. He was only attracted to my body. I don’t even understand how because there’s nothing to like.

I was walking to pick up my sister from school and he was with a group of his friends.

He noticed me and started to talk, even though they were on the other side of the lot I could still hear them.

He was disgusting, for the sake of the pure beans I’m not going to repeat what he said. To be honest, I don’t think it was his fault.

My best friend happened to be what some people would describe as a ****.

She really was sweet though, despite her flaws, and I loved hanging out with her and our other friends, they made me laugh.

I remember once we came to school and while we were waiting on the gates to open, in the middle of everyone surrounding us, she changed into her crop-top and short-skirt.

People took me for one of that crowd, although I think I was closer then to being one of the flirty girls than I ever have been. Back then I wasn’t as ashamed of my body.

I wore a dress nearly every day, and I was open and very physical with my friends. But the worst thing I ever did was talk. Even though I was more confident then, I was still a shy book-worm.

Every morning I would go to the library and check out books, mainly graphic novels. I loved loved loved them. I read the entire library, and I would go during my last class as well.

Twice if not three times a day. I came into the library so much that the librarian started letting me check out more and more books.

She threw the three book limit out the window and I would leave with twenty or sometimes more. Still, I would be back at the end of the day looking for more.

My eyes drift down to my thighs, the stretch marks on my skin, showing how much I’ve grown. I used to be so tall. At the age of ten, I was 5’3. Tallest in the class, and I loved it.

My height was my favorite feature. But then people seemed to be growing more and more, I became confused with why I seemed to be shrinking.

The truth was I just wasn’t growing as much… and I fell behind, I became ‘short’. I’m still only ‘5’4 or 5’5 at most. I despise it so much. My only good feature, down the drain.

Then last my eyes drift down to my legs. Those things attached to me, consolidating limbs. Always bruised and covered in scars.

I have three scars side-by-side running from my knee to my ankle, from where I fell on a rock as an eight-year-old child. My nerves are still recovering from a fall down two flights of stairs.

I landed on the rocks, apparently, I killed the nerves, and they are still growing back. They are numb. Both of my legs. All up the front.

I fall to my knees and sob for a good five minutes. I think, ‘better now than around other people’, I always have to be the tough cookie. I’ve been picked on all my life.

No matter where I go or what I do, so I create this wall that I hide behind. I make sure that in the eyes of others I’m not cute, or weak or insecure.

I’m tough and brave, I like doing everything by myself and I don’t need friends. I’m not mean, I just don’t like you. That is the image I create for myself.

It keeps me from feeling their words filled with hate. I don’t care if it also keeps me from hearing the words filled with love. I don’t deserve them.

I push everyone away and hide behind my walls. I can’t let them see me cry or it ruins everything. Every brick I’ve placed is ripped out of the wall that protects me.

And I will be exposed and raw and alone. More alone than ever before and I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to face that.

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