Real Life Lessons

03/12/24

There are many things I’ve done in life that I’m not proud of but there are a few times when the shame has actually been of value. By that, I mean it led to massive behaviour change, ultimately making me proud of myself.

In my first year of secondary school a group of bullies egged me on to be mean to this very quiet, unassuming girl, called Ilona. I was horrible to her. I saw the look on her face – hurt, confusion, fear – and I felt like a fucking shit, but hey, I was in with the mean girls, so…shrug.

Laying in my bed that night I couldn’t get that girl’s face out of my mind. I knew that what I’d done was wrong. Being mean to her, to stop the bullies being mean to me, was wrong. I resolved to try to make amends.

I walked into the form room the next morning, chin jutting, spine ramrod straight, absolutely determined but petrified at the same time. Marching straight past the bully girls, I stood in front of Ilona.

“I’m sorry I said those things yesterday. It was horrible and you didn’t deserve it.”

She was gracious enough to accept my apology, and I stood beside her while register was called.

I knew what the consequences for me would be.

I was completely isolated from my peers and bullied, ever more viciously, for the next four years, until my family moved house. I didn’t regret saying sorry to Ilona, not once.

I’m still proud of that choice, but still ashamed of my initial one.

That realisation about becoming a bully to avoid the bullying is a lesson that’s stayed with me. I’ve avoided cliquey, excluding behaviour and groups ever since.

Some years later in life, finding myself on the brink of incarceration, it was the shame I was made to feel, and someone putting their faith in me, that made me forever change my life course.

There’s one other, major incident, involving a young girl who’s name I don’t even know.

I had recently separated from my son, Kieran’s, physically abusive father. Kieran was months old and we were living in a notoriously dodgy, inner city area.

Late one night I heard screaming from the alleyway behind my house. My 17-stone bull mastiff was out in the yard going mental, trying to hurl himself through the gate.

I locked the dog outside, closed my blinds and my ears and did nothing.

I told myself it would be crazy to draw heat on myself. I didn’t release the dog. I didn’t pick up the phone to call the police.

I did nothing.

The next day I found out that a young girl had been gang raped, her face destroyed by the knife they held in her mouth while they did it.

Her life?

Fuck…

I hope they didn’t destroy her life. I pray she found healing and fucking stormed this world kicking ass and guzzling her fill of the delights that exist.

I hope.

The moment I found out what had happened, I swore I’d never, ever, close my eyes and ears like that again. It was another form of the cowardice I’d shown when I was vile to Ilona – a willingness to let others be harmed so I could be safe.

Since reading Anne Frank’s diary, I’d always felt a bit unsettled by the inner thought that I didn’t know what I’d have done. I wanted to believe I’d have been like the amazing people who helped shield the families in hiding, but…

By doing nothing that night, it was as if I’d given myself the answer to that question, and I didn’t like it.

I promised myself I’d become one of the brave people.

I’ve done my level best to put that oath into action throughout my life since, in major and minor ways. It’s the only way I can make good come from that night. It’s my way of saying sorry, and trying to honour her.

She was in my mind the night I threw myself over an unconscious stranger on the ground, to stop a group of seven men from kicking him. They did stop. He lived.

She was also with me as I held a young man, crying for his mother as he died, having been thrown from a stolen vehicle during a high speed collision.

I was in the taxi he hit.

People were watching him die, doing nothing. My cab driver was intimating the boy deserved it. I was in pain from my own injuries. But no young boy deserves to die alone, frightened, on cold, wet tarmac, while people look on like it’s a spectator sport. I held him until the ambulance crew pried him from my arms.

Where I can, I fight for the ‘little guy’; on the minor end there’s stuff like signing global change petitions, right through to major stands, such as leading a tribunal case for peers.

That young girl who was attacked is with me when I’m marching, voting, supporting…trying to be an example of what I want to see in the world.

The point of all this is, I feel that shame and guilt both fall into the category of being pure self-indulgence, unless they are being used to motivate change.

I now need to start taking that inwards.

As I’ve done in the past, I can use the shame and guilt I feel to change my ways, but this time for myself, not others.

Good selfish.

The way I allowed myself to be treated, what I was willing to do to keep EH with me, completely ceding my power and autonomy – all of that makes me feel ashamed.

However, I can’t change the past.

I can let the past teach me how to be better, to be more, going forward. And that’s exactly what I’m doing.

I will come out of this more, not less.

MUSIC OF THE DAY:

JP