My memories plague me

It’s 5am, and my mind is racing.

It’s taken me back to a distinct memory, from which I visibly cringe, and the heat is emenanating from my face as I remember.

Several other bad memories seem to be jostling for space, each as mortifying and embarrassing as the other.

I have a pathological fear of humiliation. To be shown up in public, to be caused to appear weak, and having done something which exposed me in some way sears onto my brain like an imprint from a hot poker.

My memories plague me. I don’t want to remember. I wish I could erase them. I wish I didn’t care about that pathetic time I spoke too loudly, or I choked back the lump in my throat when arguing with someone who knew better than me. Insisting I was right.

Shouting that I’m not going to be quiet anymore. And thinking that I really ought to control myself.

Why do these memories stay with me? The other people who were present at such events have probably completely forgotten about them.

They don’t remember the small, weak girl, with the distinctive face making a fool out of herself.

Just a stupid fool. Like the one sat in the small, plastic chair, feeling empty because the teacher has shown everyone else how stupid she is. Over and over and over. They might as well have pointed and laughed at me.

It’s apparent how anxiety has a way of making me mourn the past as well as the present.

There are several clouds with me today. And the sun hasn’t even risen yet.

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