What a Shame

by Abigail Bergstrom

There’s only so long those who love you can dampen their own happiness out of sensitivity for your misfortunes. Eventually they must resume their lives.

We’re not twenty any more, you know. It’s not about “seeing how it goes” or “feeling our way”. It’s not cute to make mistakes. Or to make the wrong move and hurt people. We must know better now.

‘Do you know what keeps us so contained, ladies? Do you? It’s shame. Your shame and my shame. It keeps us tempered. We perform a role – a lot of us learn that performance from our mothers.’

You. Yes, you. We’ve had enough of you. We will no longer tolerate you. You, who break us like we’re china dolls. You, who hurt us. You, who make us afraid when we’re alone with you in cabs or outnumbered by you on buses. You, who impose yourself on us. You, who fuck us without our consent. You, who push our legs back. You, who rape, pillage and maim us. You, who pin us up on billboards and in magazines to show us we’re not good enough. You, who shroud us in pain and violence in porn. You, who steal our education from us. You, who tell us we cannot vote. You, who tell us we aren’t women because we weren’t born that way. You, who wedge us into ill-fitting boxes. You, who catcall us on the street. You, who ignore our cries of ‘No!’ You, who put your hands up our skirts on trains. You, who call us sluts and slags and whores. You, who tell us we cannot have abortions. You, who assume ownership over our bodies. You, who mutilate us and throw acid in our faces. You, who kidnap us and hide us away in basements. You, who traffic us and pump us full of drugs. You, who humiliate and shame. You, who create fear. You, who fail. You, who say nothing to defend us in the pub. You, who talk over us in meetings. You, who think we were asking for it. You, who believe women are equal now. You, who watched and waited until we were just drunk enough. You, who beat us to a pulp with your fast fists. You, who slowly and emotionally undo us, piece by piece. You, who think we are weak and vulnerab...

Georgia puts out her hand and takes hold of mine. We stand, rapt by the fire, breathing in the hot fumes of the future that was no longer for me.

‘I don’t know how to help you,’ she whispers, facing me and wrenching her knees up into the foetal position. ‘It’s okay, you don’t have to.’ I breathe in the puppy smell of Jeremy’s fluffy head. ‘You shouldn’t have to. I’m going to look after myself, I promise. I’m sorry.’ ‘But you don’t have to, Mathilda. You don’t have to face this alone. You have us.’

You think the best part of your life has happened to you. But life isn’t like that. There are better things to come, happier times. I want you to believe that – you need to believe it.’

‘Finding a man cannot be the aim. If it is, you’re going to be incredibly disappointed with life. Whether you find him or not. They’re often not what they’re cracked up to be, and they also die, dear.’

oh, and you loved me, in an unsatisfactory and disappointing way but that doesn’t change the fact that you did. Good and bad.

‘A patchwork quilt of grief stitched together by how much we love each person we lose – something to wrap around us in the lonely nights.’

Serenity, nothing fleeting, nothing missing. I smell the fleshy-green stem of the dandelion squashing in my clasped hand. Iphigenia, sacrificed by her father. Everything is still.

‘It’s the story of our shadow, that part of ourselves we can’t bear to see. We refract it onto every surface of culture and art so it’s more manageable and bearable to observe. It’s too painful to look at in ourselves.’

And we sit like that, together on the park bench. I lie back with my head on Georgia’s lap, the sun on our faces,

In this home.