Shame Kept Me Sick. Remorse Turned Me Outward.
For nearly a decade, I was consumed by a shame I could not name and so could not master. I understand now that it was the shame of a sick man who did not know he was sick. I knew only its crushing weight, never its origin, and a grief whose source you cannot find is a grief you cannot answer. So I did what people do with a feeling when it haunts them: I fled it. I drank in parking lots, stealing small sips until the dread dissipated. I smoked weed to quiet the nights the drinking could not reach. I hid my doctorate beneath a grocery-store apron; for a time, a supermarket felt like the only future I deserved. For those years the substances, not I, authored my life; I handed them the pen, having no ability to hold it. The shame kept telling me that I was, at my core, a bad man. Not just that I had done bad things, but that I was fundamentally beyond redemption. I mistook that verdict …


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