Living with 50-Year-Old Shame

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Confined to my bed due to my disability, my mind has become a relentless projector, replaying scenes from my past with unnerving clarity. Some memories, the ones I'd rather forget, rise up with startling intensity—memories I thought were long buried. Among them, one incident from 50 years ago stands out. A moment that, in hindsight, changed the course of my life.

There was a girl in my class, strikingly beautiful. Her mixed-race features, porcelain skin, large, captivating eyes, straight nose, and full lips made her unforgettable. In my childish ignorance, I called her a "mutt." At the time, I had no idea the word had a derogatory meaning. To me, it was a clumsy attempt to express her unique beauty. But my thoughtless remark brought tears to her eyes.

Instead of addressing the misunderstanding, our teacher chose punishment through public humiliation. She instructed her to hit me. Imagine the scene: 50 pairs of eyes—students and teacher alike—watching as we stood face to face. Her eyes, glistening with tears, met mine, and she said, "Look!" Unaware of what was about to happen, I raised my head. Then, with unexpected force, she slapped me.

The world exploded in yellow stars. And then came the shame. A cold, suffocating weight that wrapped around me like a shroud.

That slap marked a turning point. A switch had been flipped inside me. I was no longer the carefree child I had been before. Instead, I withdrew, became timid, unsure of myself. Looking back, I now realize that moment was likely the beginning of my social anxiety. Meeting new people, engaging in conversation—things that once felt natural—became Herculean tasks. The slap faded, but the shame never did.

Now, decades later, as I navigate the world in my wheelchair, that memory resurfaces with unsettling clarity. The same shame washes over me as if no time has passed. It’s strange how certain emotions—especially the painful ones—never seem to fade.

But it’s not just that one memory. Other embarrassing, regrettable moments haunt me like ghosts, replaying in my mind far more vividly than any pleasant recollections. It makes me wonder—why does my brain fixate on shame? Surely, my life has had good moments too. So why don’t they come to me with the same intensity?

Perhaps it’s the stillness. With fewer distractions, my mind has space to wander, and it chooses to dwell on past mistakes rather than moments of joy. I question the nature of shame, how it can lie dormant for years, only to awaken with renewed vigor.

Bearing the Weight of Memory, Moving Forward

I write this not just to relive past pain, but to connect with those who may share similar struggles. If you've ever felt trapped by memories of shame, I want you to know—you are not alone.

Memory can hold us captive in the past, but it can also provide the strength to live in the present. Acknowledging and accepting past wounds is never easy, but I believe it is the first step toward healing.

Even as I bear the weight of resurfacing memories, I choose to keep moving forward. If my story resonates with you, please share your thoughts in the comments. Your stories will give me strength, just as I hope mine may offer you some comfort.

Thanks for reading

Joshua Heo

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