Worse, far worse than that, was the shame. I curled myself into a ball,
tried to make myself occupy as small a space in the bed as possible. Despicable. I had made a fool of myself.
I was an embarrassment, like Mummy had always told me. A sound escaped into the pillow, an animal whine.
I couldn’t open my eyes. I did not want to see even a centimeter of my own skin.
I’d thought I could solve the problem of myself so easily, as if the things that were done all those years ago could actually be put right.
I knew that people weren’t supposed to exist as I did, work and vodka and sleep in a constant, static cycle
in which I spun around on myself, into myself, silent and alone. Going nowhere.
On some level, I realized that this was wrong. I’d lifted my head up just high enough to see that,
and, desperate to change, I’d clutched at a random straw, let myself get carried away, imagining some sort of... future.
I cringed. No, that’s wrong. Cringe denotes embarrassment, fleeting shame.
This was my soul curling into whiteness, an existential blank where a person had once been.
Why did I start to allow myself to think I could live a normal life, a happy life, the kind other people had?
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