The same pattern repeated itself over and over, in various ways.
And with each new scenario of social anxiety, a sense of unconscious shame was born and continued to grow.
I should have been able to call my friends without worrying that someone other than my friend would answer— we were teenagers. No one else my age seemed to have a problem with calling their friends. Everyone else was normal. (I wasn’t very normal at all.)
I should have been comfortable going to a new parents group to chat and compare notes over coffee— I’d had thirty-something years to learn how to be confident. Everyone else was crying out for a group to support them. (I was crying out for an excuse not to go.)
I was too sensitive. I was too weak. And because I was weak…I was ashamed of this me person who seemed somehow broken compared to the normal people who were unafraid of all the things that frightened me.
How beautiful fragile I am.
How beautiful fragile I always have been.
Me who loves like the deepest ocean.
Me who was made this way so I could translate my heart into words.
So I could play and sing, and feel my music, not just hear it.
I was made this way because I was made this way.
Because I am fragile beautiful.
Because I am fragile-beautiful-me.