Noodle Prompt / An Internal Monologue
A Heavy Backpack
A poem of releasing shame
Tentacles tighten around my throat, reach into the pockets of my heart, a bead of sweat tickles the back of my neck, my breathing slows, shallow and short, the breaths of fear and worry, my brain waves flow like yogurt, thick and mucousy, heavy with shame, I regress, return, recall, a child humiliated and embarrassed, remorseful and chagrined, a wave of warm across my cheeks, I wait for chastisement and ridicule, I wait for you to make me feel less than, unworthy, incomplete, useless, unnecessary.
Then, I remember . . . you’re long gone, a father un-grieved, not missed, a ghost of the past that I left before you did — the tentacles are incorporeal, unable to tighten, to hold, to strangle, I’m the adult I struggled to be when you were here, I’m the person, whole and real, I couldn't be when you were here — flesh and blood and feelings.
I breathe deep and smile, a state of complete self-possession, free of you and fears of you, I leave the past behind, accept that I am human, and say with self-assurance,
I made a mistake. I’m sorry.
There were no such things as mistakes or accidents in my childhood home. The slightest error, misstep, or blunder was treated like a planned effort of evil. I learned to fear, cover-up, and disown my innocent mistakes. As an adult, I couldn’t admit to an error. Errors meant I wasn’t perfect and I had to be perfect in a very imperfect world.
I was in my late 40s when I walked away from my father and his disapproval. Still, it took years before I could easily and openly admit to a mistake — until I learned to say I’m sorry with sincerity — until I learned that mistakes can be beautiful gifts — until I learned that I don’t have to carry shame like a heavy backpack.
© Dennett 2021
In response to another mind-blowing prompt from Lucy Dan 蛋小姐 (she/her/她):
