Kintsugi
Sponsor
I feel I am on the precipice of releasing this enormous, weighty burden.
I had really, really long hair growing up. I remember seeing my sister's long hair when I was very small and feeling envious of it, wanting to mimic it. I went beyond imitation. My hair fell halfway past my ass by the time I was 12.
Also when I was 12, a knot had developed at the base of my neck. I could not get it out. I had always taken insane care of my hair, brushed it for 30 minutes three times a day in addition to combing it out in the shower for about 10 minutes, used the best products--I was a freak about it. It felt like the only outstanding thing about my entire identity other than being a nerd.
The knot felt like a personal failure. I hid it. I hid it for about 6 weeks. It was a shameful secret. And of course it only worsened, left to become dreadlocked.
When the knot was discovered, my mother flipped her lid. Her best friend, my godmother, owned two salons, and I heard my mother telling her to shave my head because she was so angry that I had allowed this knot to form.
The next day, she took me to the salon. They cut my hair into something you'd see Peter Pan sporting. I don't know how to describe it. It hit my earlobes. It was... f*cking adorable. It looked so good. It was so cute. It was so easily managed.
I was terrified of having my hair cut. That was who I was--the girl with the impossibly long, beautifully maintained hair.
When the girl cut it, I said, "Whoa, my head feels so light." She thought I was light-headed, that I would faint from the horror of my shorn hair. But that wasn't it. I hadn't realized over the years that my hair was so, so heavy. It weighed my head down, hurt my neck to carry. I had no idea that it was burdening me until I relinquished it.
I had a similar epiphany this past weekend, Saturday night. I've had this strange feeling all summer, ever since I left my boyfriend (who I dated for the better part of 8 years). A few weeks after leaving him, I realized with sudden clarity that I had essentially been dating my mother for a third of my life. That was disturbing. And true. How frightening.
But there was something else. Something I couldn't put my finger on. It was like there was something stuck in my shoe that I couldn't find, and every time I tried to walk forward, it would cause me to ache, but I couldn't for the life of me remove it because I just didn't know what it was or where.
Sunday morning I realized what it was: shame. A thing I have carried since the earliest memories of my life. I knew I had shame--crushing, unimaginable shame. I'm pretty sure that somewhere around here I have a thread entitled "Shame in Perpetuity." And that is true of me. I feel crushed by shame all the time, all day, every day. It makes me loathe myself. It makes me feel that existing inside my own skin is unbearable.
What I did not notice was that to have shame, I had to carry it.
And carry it I was. I have been carrying it my whole life.
My having extremely long hair is not like my having pale skin or green eyes. It was a choice I made when I was extremely young, and keeping it long, letting it continue to grow, was also a choice, but I never really saw it that way. To cut it felt like a big threat, something that would fundamentally alter my identity. It was so threatening it didn't even occur to me as an option until my hair became so problematic that I was forced to part with it.
I realized Saturday night what the thorn in my shoe was, why it caused me to feel as if I were standing still even though the whole world called for me to come forward, to walk into it. It was fear. A nagging threat. It's the little voice that tells you not to do something because something bad might happen to you, even when you know as well as anyone can know that you are safe from harm. It's the same breed of fear that colored my reality when I was anorexic. The idea of feeding myself was just so threatening in this hard-to-place way. It was my mode of life; I never questioned that feeling of being threatened because I just became someone who barely ate. It felt like there was nothing to think about. That was just me. I never stopped to consider what it was I felt I would be giving up if I simply sat down, picked up a utensil, and ate like other people ate every day.
Saturday I realized I felt threatened. It was very uncomfortable and revelatory. When I awoke Sunday, I put a question to myself: What do you feel you're being asked to give up, Simon?
Shame. I feel that the Universe has asked me to give up my shame. And I didn't even know I was carrying it. I thought it was like the green of my eyes, not like the length of my hair. Having shame never felt like a choice. I have carried it for my own personal eternity.
More later. Must go to class.
I had really, really long hair growing up. I remember seeing my sister's long hair when I was very small and feeling envious of it, wanting to mimic it. I went beyond imitation. My hair fell halfway past my ass by the time I was 12.
Also when I was 12, a knot had developed at the base of my neck. I could not get it out. I had always taken insane care of my hair, brushed it for 30 minutes three times a day in addition to combing it out in the shower for about 10 minutes, used the best products--I was a freak about it. It felt like the only outstanding thing about my entire identity other than being a nerd.
The knot felt like a personal failure. I hid it. I hid it for about 6 weeks. It was a shameful secret. And of course it only worsened, left to become dreadlocked.
When the knot was discovered, my mother flipped her lid. Her best friend, my godmother, owned two salons, and I heard my mother telling her to shave my head because she was so angry that I had allowed this knot to form.
The next day, she took me to the salon. They cut my hair into something you'd see Peter Pan sporting. I don't know how to describe it. It hit my earlobes. It was... f*cking adorable. It looked so good. It was so cute. It was so easily managed.
I was terrified of having my hair cut. That was who I was--the girl with the impossibly long, beautifully maintained hair.
When the girl cut it, I said, "Whoa, my head feels so light." She thought I was light-headed, that I would faint from the horror of my shorn hair. But that wasn't it. I hadn't realized over the years that my hair was so, so heavy. It weighed my head down, hurt my neck to carry. I had no idea that it was burdening me until I relinquished it.
I had a similar epiphany this past weekend, Saturday night. I've had this strange feeling all summer, ever since I left my boyfriend (who I dated for the better part of 8 years). A few weeks after leaving him, I realized with sudden clarity that I had essentially been dating my mother for a third of my life. That was disturbing. And true. How frightening.
But there was something else. Something I couldn't put my finger on. It was like there was something stuck in my shoe that I couldn't find, and every time I tried to walk forward, it would cause me to ache, but I couldn't for the life of me remove it because I just didn't know what it was or where.
Sunday morning I realized what it was: shame. A thing I have carried since the earliest memories of my life. I knew I had shame--crushing, unimaginable shame. I'm pretty sure that somewhere around here I have a thread entitled "Shame in Perpetuity." And that is true of me. I feel crushed by shame all the time, all day, every day. It makes me loathe myself. It makes me feel that existing inside my own skin is unbearable.
What I did not notice was that to have shame, I had to carry it.
And carry it I was. I have been carrying it my whole life.
My having extremely long hair is not like my having pale skin or green eyes. It was a choice I made when I was extremely young, and keeping it long, letting it continue to grow, was also a choice, but I never really saw it that way. To cut it felt like a big threat, something that would fundamentally alter my identity. It was so threatening it didn't even occur to me as an option until my hair became so problematic that I was forced to part with it.
I realized Saturday night what the thorn in my shoe was, why it caused me to feel as if I were standing still even though the whole world called for me to come forward, to walk into it. It was fear. A nagging threat. It's the little voice that tells you not to do something because something bad might happen to you, even when you know as well as anyone can know that you are safe from harm. It's the same breed of fear that colored my reality when I was anorexic. The idea of feeding myself was just so threatening in this hard-to-place way. It was my mode of life; I never questioned that feeling of being threatened because I just became someone who barely ate. It felt like there was nothing to think about. That was just me. I never stopped to consider what it was I felt I would be giving up if I simply sat down, picked up a utensil, and ate like other people ate every day.
Saturday I realized I felt threatened. It was very uncomfortable and revelatory. When I awoke Sunday, I put a question to myself: What do you feel you're being asked to give up, Simon?
Shame. I feel that the Universe has asked me to give up my shame. And I didn't even know I was carrying it. I thought it was like the green of my eyes, not like the length of my hair. Having shame never felt like a choice. I have carried it for my own personal eternity.
More later. Must go to class.