a basement angel
the rain of shame stays mainly in the pain
on perspective: a preface
I’m trying to break the habit of we, of describing my limited experience as though it’s universal. (We blame ourselves. We hold ourselves to impossible standards. We love round birds.)
We is therapy speak, by which I mean rightfully used by experts in human thought and emotion. In personal writing, it often hints at an inflated ego. But it’s also a distancing tactic. I could tell you about my unlovely problems, or I could make sweeping generalizations about an entire species.
From now on, then, (or at least until I forget,) I’m going to try to write only about my experience, with the hope that it will resonate, mean something, and be helpful to you. And if it does, I hope you’ll tell me so, and in so doing make it an honest—and lovely—we.
I sometimes describe myself as a recovering moral perfectionist. My greatest fear is making a selfish choice and hurting another person, even accidentally.
Let me be clear: this is not virtue. It’s self-preservation. Somewhere along the way, probably early on in my life, I learned that Good was safe and anything else meant danger. I took this deeply to heart. As I grew up, this programming merged with my autistic black-and-white thinking. The result is a sense of abject, sickening horror whenever I believe I’ve done anything wrong.
In the basement of my mind there is an angel who never sleeps. She observes and records my every transgression, filing them neatly away for when they might be needed.
*
The first time I became aware of her presence was in 2019, although I suspect she’d visited without my knowledge many times before. I was deeply depressed, burned out, and traumatized. I was unsafe in my home and my mind. I spent every night crying while staring at the living room wall.
Then, as if I wasn’t miserable enough, the angel ascended the basement stairs, her trumpet gleaming, to number my faults. This angel was convincing, and she was mean. The longer she stayed, the worse my depression got. The crying and wall-staring stretched into the workday. My thoughts grew even more bleak.
I talked to my therapist. I talked to recovery buddies and trauma friends. I found a jigsaw puzzle of the view from 25 different airplane windows, skies of coral-tangerine-yellow, lavender-indigo-blue—and started staring at that instead of the wall. I made a little space in my brain, and understanding crept in.
I wasn’t just depressed. I was making huge changes in my life. I’d set some painful but necessary boundaries and cut unhealthy ties. I’d begun seriously considering a cross-country move to somewhere safer, somewhere I could breathe and sleep.
The shame angel wasn’t there to pile on. She was trying to protect me from the danger of my own growth. The angel remembered the rules, even when I was trying to break them. Be Small. Be Silent. Be Helpful. Be Good. And, most importantly, Never Put Yourself First.
*
I’d love to tell you I was writing this from the top of Shame-Free Mountain, that I’ve made peace with this vicious angel, who is, in her biblical, misguided way, trying to help me. But of course I’m thinking about this now because I’ve just had another visit.
Once again, the angel perched on my shoulder, relentlessly unfurling the scroll of every mistake I’ve ever made: every social gaffe, every moment of dishonesty, every cosmic and molecular offense. Behold your sins, she intoned, and despair.
For a few days, I did.
Then I walked past the shelf where I keep my tarot cards. I saw my two favorite versions of the archetype I’d chosen for 2024: the Page, or Child, of Swords—a reminder to be brave, to ask new questions, and to look at things differently.
The angel followed my gaze to the playful cards and redoubled her efforts. You are loathsome, she bellowed, and you need me.
The Child, watching us curiously from between her legs, said Huh. Are you sure?
And that was all it took. The shame-spell was broken. As I leaned down toward the shelf, the angel tumbled from my shoulder. The Child hopped up the length of my arm and settled against my neck, her soft black feathers brushing my cheek.
Thank you, I said to the angel. You protected me when I needed you most. And I don’t need you anymore.
*
She’ll be back. I know she will. Heavenly habits die hard, and releasing a lifetime’s worth of shame is hardly a one-day project. But the next time she returns, maybe I’ll catch on quicker. Maybe there’ll be nowhere comfortable for her to sit. Maybe I’ll remember that she only visits when I’m doing something big. Something courageous. Something good.
other things i wrote
Last year I received a makeup sample that claimed to include ingredients from outer space. Obviously, I had to investigate. This month at The Last Word On Nothing: the mystery deepens.
In case you missed it: my love poem to a midcentury meteorite.
a magical conjunction
Rebecca Chaperon, the artist of the fantastic painting up top, is also a collaborator and witch-friend. She’s just started a new project for her Patreon supporters that involves art (!), stickers (!!), and handwritten letters (!!!) with poems (!!!!) inside. The delivery in May might just include a little something spooky from me. If you enjoy her art and any of those other things, I strongly suggest you check it out.
tenderness toward existence days
CW: Food mentions
There are some truly fantastic holidays this week. Let’s just hunker down here and enjoy them all. (Cupid who?)
Today, February 13
National Internet Friends Day
National Crab Rangoon Day
Thursday, February 15
National Hippo Day
National Gumdrop Day
Saturday, February 16
Champion Crab Races Day
Random Acts of Kindness Day
Thanks for reading all the way to the end. I am so, so glad you’re here.
Painting and bat witch sticker by Rebecca Chaperon. Happy comet drawing by me.
Excellent read.
blarghhhhhh--- i love this so much!!! great essay horowitz