Over the past few days, I’ve found a handful of No Shame November posts trickling into my email account. Though I can’t post them, I would like to say that if any of you feel the urge to share your stories, you may continue to pass them along in my direction. Sometimes the catharsis is contained in just writing it and sending it away, not necessarily allowing hundreds of strangers to read it. It is enough to have it removed from yourself and tucked somewhere safe.
noshamenovember@gmail.com
Hi everyone,
Thank you to everyone who participated in No Shame November this year. You have all proved your willingness to do something outside of your comfort zone, and I hope you gained a little something from sharing your words.
Until next time,
Rachel
the scariest part of this project is that i am being honest, but i still don’t feel very brave.
(nora)
Every time I tell myself just once more, you’ll be perfect soon, this is the last one. I’m lying, and I know it, but that won’t stop me. I’ve grow too accustomed now, I don’t want to. My eyes tear up as it all comes out, and I think about my goal, I’m satisfied now that everything is gone. I promised him I’d never go back, it’d never get that bad, it’d never be worse, I’ve kept it from the one person that knows me the best. But I’m happy now, I’m going to be perfect. Just one more time, right?
(sometimeinsummer)
I can’t get you off of my mind. I miss you and it’s killing me.
(anonymous)
I should hate your guts after all the shit you put me through. But I don’t. Not at all, not even a little bit. I still just want to make you happy because your sad all the fucking time. I still just want to be yours. I still just want to sit in an empty room and just stare into nothing with you. I loved how we could spend hours talking or hours in silence. I loved how you were like my half, my angel. But i guess god ripped off your wings a long time ago and i never got the fucking memo.
(somethingsjustfallapart)
Something that scares me: I will have to wait another year before I can submit the words I want to share. I haven’t found them yet.
(anonymous)
There must be something wrong with me. I have a constant need to feel wanted. You might say…on no everyone goes through that. Everyone wants to feel wanted. But this is different. I don’t know what it is about me. But I need it. I need it to function. I fall apart if I don’t feel needed. Right now my friend base is 0. All I have is my mom and my boyfriend and sometimes I get too needy and I push them away. I’m being counter productive. I wish I could tell myself why I’m like this. Why can’t I just be okay with being lonely? Is it because I’ve been alone for so long? Why does stress affect me so? Is it because I’m constantly telling myself somewhere deep in my unconscious that I’m not, nor will I ever be good enough? It’s taken me all month to send this post in. And all it’s given me is more questions. Something is wrong with me. It’s like an infestation of bugs inside my head gnawing at my every thought and every action. Someone please fix me.
(inspirshannon)
My eyes were puffy bloodshot eyelids swollen blue and purple semi circles imprinted on the delicate tissue my body was aching everything felt stiff and sore my blood felt of glass frozen glass as if nothing was moving everything was at a standstill, my bones felt dead and brittle as if I would snap!! any second, as if I would crack!! at the wrong step a miscalculated twist. I rolled out of bed the sheets catching my leg. I tripped to the floor my knee hit hard another bruise another blue another purple it was all the same. I climbed up gripping the side of the bed my feet padded along the cold hardwood floor. I saw my reflection glinting in the waxy sheen, step step step along the long quiet hallway. Everything was cold. I ached, my head throbbed, I looked into the mirror. The walls were painted white. I looked into the mirror, I tried not to. I didn’t want to see what I knew I was going to see. I saw the puffy eyes, I saw the swollen slated purple under my eyes. I gripped the hard edges of the sink, I closed my eyes. I felt sick, I didn’t want to look in the mirror anymore. The white on the walls seemed too fucking clean for me. His yelling, his screaming and pushing and pulling and grabbing were too much. I was tainted. The purples and blues screamed too loudly. Could they hear me? I had work in thirty minutes. I washed my face. It hurt and the white was blinding. It didn’t matter. Everything was late. Time didn’t slow for the weak.
(ethany)
The truth is that I’m broken. My first kiss was with a guy that had lead me on for years beforehand and would tell me beautiful lies because I was too weak to hear the truth; the truth is that I love him for those lies. My first best friend turned out to be a bitch, and now we don’t even talk; the truth is that I miss her more than anything else in the world. My first love was my best friend when I was 13 and he told me he was gay; the truth is that sometimes my heart still beats a little fast when he crushes me in a hug or tells me I look beautiful. The truth hurts. It gnaws away at us when we keep it inside and burns through thickets of lies when released. By keeping the truth inside, I’m breaking further and further each day. Speak now.
(laura)
