Shame |
Issue 13
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Shame. My face burns like a flame inside my chest. Begging to get out. Shame. The way my mom told me to feel. When anyone asked about my dad. Shame. The tears roll down my face. When I have to leave my family. And eat Sunday night dinner with his wife and his kids. Shame. Wait here, he tells me. I’ll be right back. I felt frozen. Too young for such a big decision. Shame. I look in the mirror and fix my lipstick. What would he think about me? His daughter? Am I smart enough? Am I pretty enough? I wear high heels at my grandmother’s funeral. They are much taller than I’m used to. So I can tower much higher than him. And his family. Shame. What’s wrong with me? He’s going to leave again. Just like the one before. Mascara stains my white pillowcases. Again. Shame. A quick email. It would leave so much damage to him. To her. Would it destroy her? Would she ever be able to pick up the pieces again? Shame. The way I felt about myself. When I hurt them. Shame. That I ever thought they were right. By keeping him from me. They were keeping him from them. Shame. Frozen. Just like that little girl inside the car. So instead I do nothing. Until one day. The shame. It is a part of me. Like a parasite that creeped into every crevice of my body. I scream. I cannot bear to hold it in any longer. Shame. It is time to leave. It’s time for me to speak my words. To tell my story. So I can write a different one.
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Alison Brechtel is a writer and English teacher living in Chicagoland with her two children, two rescue dogs and husband. She graduated from Elmhurst University with an English degree specializing in journalism. Her work has appeared in Screamin Mamas and The B(e)aring All Project.
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