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Deconstructing a shame-based identity feels like dying. Shame is felt as a hostile guest in the psyche, always in the next room waiting to sprint through the walls the moment you doubt it’s yours for keeps, as if it had always been there. As if it has always been you.
This felt experience of shame is often misremembered as the self but nowhere is it louder and more obviously counterfeit than when a new, young and old part of self is in its most erotic form—being born.
A shame-based identity contraction is usually so automatic, it’s not noted by the ego to be anything but its usual conception of itself. Shame, an ancient complex, camouflages as memory of personality and personhood. When you imagine your deeper, more taboo and complex desires are actually parts of you, yet to be assimilated, the shame-based ego understands what this might mean—it’s caught sight of the death card. Shame, an imitation of death, is the best knife to bring to the gunfight of transformation because, of the two, shame has victorious memories, sharp and severe in nature, always waiting to eat psyche’s new and awkward children as soon as they’re born out of the shadow.
Shame is Kronos’ evil twin. Shame eats time.
but no one knows the knife more intimately than the one who survives it