Shame

That consuming and vile grotesqueness, where one becomes repugnant and reviles their own reflection in the plated silver framed over the bathroom sink, could be described best, perhaps, by shame. It is distinct from, yet can comingle self-loathing. However, the perennial distinction is that shame usually has to do with real wrong done by the perpetrator, which is oneself, while self-loathing can arise from an improper and unbalanced view on the world and oneself. One may slip into self-loathing for something as trivial as their hair not being as straight as they like. This is merely an improper amount of gratitude for the immense pleasure to be had in possessing curly hair. However, shame likely has something to do with cutting another person’s hair, or better yet, simply cutting another person. The cutting could even be verbal. Shame arises, most usually, after genuine commission of wrong. There is often sincere sorrow woven into the fabric of shame. But the sorrow lingers, festers, and when it has grown it gives way to a smoldering boil that is shame. Sorrow is meant to cause us to see that the world has unwound and fractured a bit more due to our trespass. But this mere recognition will only lead to shame if not properly dealt with. And our devices are much more sinister when we seek to mask shame, as we do not simply weave the fig leaves self-righteousness to cover our shame, but actually despise others for their perceived lack of shame and seek to spread mechanisms of shame in their lives. Both shame and misery love company. Shame is horrendous, that much more, because it bears the weight of the necessity of condemnation. However, there is hill where we can take our shame. On this hill, all the condemnation in the world was poured out on the naked shamefulness of one wrongfully convicted in an illegal trial in the middle of the night. That is just outside of Jerusalem, and our shame can be taken there and properly dealt with.