The Shame We Carry

“Maybe that’s all adulthood is – perpetual, relentless trying. Although, even as I thought this, I couldn’t help but wonder, when did we go from vision to spectacle? When did our every achievement stop warranting a round of applause, and instead, our mistakes and imperfections gained an audience of wide-eyed starers?”

When I was twelve, and my sister was fourteen, she took extra English classes after school. I would get in the car with my Mom, and we’d wait outside the old building for her to come out. I loved this time because I got Mom all to myself. Sometimes, we’d listen to the radio and not even talk, and other times we’d play Francis Black or Shania Twain. Every week, without fail, a bottle-green Nissan Micra would pull up behind us. I’d watch the lady in the car in the rear-view mirror, even though Mom would tell me not to stare. But I couldn’t look away. I’d watch as the lady ate vast quantities of food. Cakes, pastries, crisps, you name it, and it was in her car. 

I remember asking Mom why someone would eat so much in one go, and Mom told me it wasn’t always easy to know why anyone did anything, and the best thing we could do was not to judge, even if we didn’t understand. As always, Mom was my moral compass, my true north. 

But I still couldn’t look away. Every week, I would watch the lady eat and eat while hating myself for the sick fascination I took in watching her. I don’t know what happened to that lady or where she is now, but I think about her often. 

I recently thought of that lady tucked safely into her Nissan Micra when I looked in the mirror. There’s something about approaching my 29th birthday that is making me log all the changes my body has seen in the last decade. Admittedly, my body has seen more than most. I’ve been sick, sicker, and sicker, for all my twenties. I’ve gained, lost, grown hallow, puffed out, been pale, sickly, flushed and sweating. I guess it’s not surprising then that I have no idea what my body truly looks like. 

So, when I looked in the mirror, I tried to figure out if I even recognised my body now, at the tail end of 28. I ran a hand over my thighs and felt the cellulite there, and that’s when the memory of the lady in the car came back to me, along with a crushing, illogical fear. Had I secretly been eating so very much, so much more than my stomach could fathom? 

Later that night, I was scrolling on Instagram even though I was meant to be doing my screen-free half an hour before bed. (Side note: I used to aim for an hour, but I’m being more realistic these days). I scanned through photos of my friends and family, sprinkled with the odd influencer that survived my recent culling of who I follow, and more often than not, I saw one thing – trying. 

Smiles, poses, beautiful dresses probably covering some tummy-control device that the girl felt she needed, fake tan and photos of bridesmaids – girls lined up together, no one wanting to be the biggest of the group. And I thought, fuck. 

Life is fucking hard, and we’re all just trying to get through it. And so was that lady in the car.

Maybe that’s all adulthood is – perpetual, relentless trying. Although, even as I thought this, I couldn’t help but wonder, when did we go from vision to spectacle? When did our every achievement stop warranting a round of applause, and instead, our mistakes and imperfections gained an audience of wide-eyed starers?

I grew up hearing that I had notions. As a kid, I would say things about wanting to be wealthy or wanting to never rely on a man, and people would say, ‘Just you wait, life will knock some corners off of you yet.’ ‘Life will soften your cough, missy.’ ‘You need to be taken down a peg.’

And it’s true, I still have notions (though I consider them goals), but I no longer declare them proudly. And I have to wonder, did life do that to us, or did we allow it to happen? When did we become so quiet?

Here are all of the ways I’ve allowed the pain of life to infiltrate my once very whole notions: 

• I believe my worth is directly related to my body, though I don’t mean what my body can do for me. My worth lies in how pleasing others might declare my body. Without their input, my sense of my body in space is like mist in the wind. I’m only comfortable being perceived as skinny or pretty or better yet, both.

• I have something to prove in this life, as if my value lies only in the mark I leave on this planet and is not there because I am me, and I deserve to live and live well. 

• If someone in my life is unhappy with me, I have failed. I am no longer pleasing, no longer likeable. And the concept of not being likeable scares me more than anything. 

Now I think about, all of these lies amount to one fear - that I am not enough.

I know logically that these are lies I have crafted for whatever unfathomable psychological reason my therapist and I will undoubtedly uncover in a real Eureka! moment. Or maybe the world gifted me these lies, all to take me down a peg. Because who knows who we’d all be if we removed the glass ceilings our insecurities place over us. 

And I can see this clearly for others. That lady in her car was not less of a person just because she was eating lots of food. I do not value her less than I do anyone else. 

At least in theory. 

Here’s the bit no one says out loud:

I couldn’t look away from her, could I? And I know that if I saw her now, I still couldn’t look away. I’d be glued to my rearview mirror like some creep, watching her with such fascination that I might as well be in the backseat. 

If I’m being honest, I know why I couldn’t look away from this woman. I felt disgusted by her. I hate typing that. But I’m trying to be honest, so whatever. I felt disgusted by her lack of control and discipline, by how readily she would give in to the binge, but mostly, deep down, I felt afraid. Afraid that I would become her, if I let my own control slip for a single moment.

I’m autistic. And yes, I know, I bring it up a lot – you would too. I’m autistic, but I was late diagnosed, so my extended family didn’t watch me grow up, knowing why I was different and are therefore not used to conversations about autism. We’re all learning, and the growing pains are grim. Sometimes, when I tell someone I am autistic in conversation, I feel the air around them change. It almost seems to thicken and coil around the person, protecting them from this conversation. From me. I don’t think these people who have been uncomfortable when talking to me about autism hate autistic people. But I do think autism poses a threat to non-autistic society. For someone who knows nothing about autism, the discomfort comes from the fear that their mental integrity will be questioned. 

It was the same with me and the lady in the car. I felt afraid that I would one day become her, not because someone who experiences binge eating is wrong, but because of the theoretical threat she poses to my so-called self-control. And just like that, I’ve made someone else’s experiences about me. All about me.

I know it is wrong to feel this way, to so readily project my painfully obvious body image issues onto this woman. I should go to therapy and sort my shit out. And I will. I am.

But maybe, just maybe, we’d all be able to breathe a little deeper and sleep a little better if we just owned up to the disgust we feel for those who threaten to expose our insecurities. Suppose we were honest about our immediate reactions to someone who behaves or looks differently. Maybe then we wouldn’t be so ashamed. Or so tired of pretending to be perfectly, impossibly morally righteous.

We carry shame around like a teetering stack of books, one new volume for every new thing we have to be. Fit, skinny, educated, fulfilled, in love, young, happy, polished. Maybe if we weren’t so busy keeping our libraries of shame upright, we could rest a hand on another person’s shoulder, and more of us would look to either side of us and see a kind face there. Someone willing to put up their hands and say, I get it. I feel it, too. 

 Goodbye for now,

Jen x