Shame, I always felt it. I think it started when I was a kid. Firstly, by tiptoeing. I was a big baby. 10 pounds when I was born. And as a chubby kid, instead of crawling. I used to roll my fat ass around the floor to get where I wanted. I didn’t really crawl. When I eventually did, it only took a few months for me to start walking.
I don’t remember my first steps. But what I do remember is learning to walk on my toes. I can actually go right up onto the tips of my two big toes like a ballet dancer and walk around. Normally though I walk heels up. Front of the foot down first. Heel barely touching the ground.
It gives me this bounce when I stride. I’m not embarrassed about it now. But as a kid I learnt to walk that way to avoid my father. He’s emotionally checked out, like a lot of men from his generation. And I knew very early on to keep out of his way. Both my parents, really.
They have a love/hate relationship. Always have. Always argued. So I walked on my toes to make as little noise as possible. Especially if I needed to get up during the night to pee. Or raid the pantry. I’d tiptoe down our long hallway, not making a fucking sound. Because if I did If they heard They Lion would roar.
Actually Thats what I’m going to call him from now on. The Lion. He’s a Leo and has all the bad traits of one. Controlling. Narcissistic. Pack leader. 🦁 Of course They Lion hated that his Woulf pup walked on his toes. Like a creeping dog. And a flamboyant one at that.
A little Woulf fag. That’s what I think he still sees when he looks at me. I’m living with my parents currently while we sort the last of our shit from our old company that’s in liquidation. And to this day He’s calls me boy . I’ve lived with him for 10 months.
And he hasn’t asked me how I am once. Not once. I’ve asked him. There’s trauma there. Clearly. So his tiptoeing homo son got punished for it, didn’t he? I used to get told off constantly for walking that way. To try and fix it I was made to stand against the wall.
Heels down. Back flat. Stand properly. Walk properly. Be normal. Then there were the plaster casts and needles I’ve already written about. That trauma. But looking back now I don’t think the shame was ever really about walking on my toes. It was learning that the natural way I moved through the world was wrong.
That something about me needed fixing. And I think that narrative got in fucking early. Before I even really knew who I was I was learning that who I naturally was wasn’t quite right. So I adapted. And when you learn that young Your get fucking good at it. You watch people.
You read rooms. You figure out which version of yourself is safest to bring out. You avoid certain people. Certain places. Certain situations. You hold your thoughts back. You make yourself quieter. You make yourself smaller. You tiptoe. Not just down hallways. Through fucking life.
I learnt to adjust my behaviour to create some sense of belonging. And I got very fucking good at it. Then I entered the adult world. Eventually I was diagnosed with hyper-arousal. Suddenly a lot of the way I moved through life made sense. Always watching. Always listening.
Always anticipating. Always checking the room before allowing myself to just fucking exist in it. It made me act that way. Well made. Past tense. Because it’s been six months since finishing EMDR and I’m starting to notice something. That part of me is leaving.
Not in some huge dramatic fucking transformation. There wasn’t a moment where the clouds parted, and suddenly I was healed. It’s been quieter than that. I just keep catching myself doing things the old me wouldn’t have done. Once upon a time I couldn’t leave the house by myself.
Now I’ll go anywhere. I used to avoid looking up. Now I’m walking taller. I used to hold my thoughts back. Now I’m expressing them. I used to worry about being seen. Now I put on a fucking Woulf mask and make sure you see me. Funny that. The thing I spent most of my life trying to avoid, has become the entire fucking point.
Being seen. Being heard. Taking up space. Not changing myself depending on who walks into the room. Not working out which version of me they’ll like best. Not trying to belong. Just belonging. And maybe that’s why the Woulf feels so natural to me. Because he doesn’t tiptoe.
He doesn’t check the room first to see whether he’s allowed in it. He doesn’t ask whether he’s too gay. Too sexual. Too loud. Too weird. Too much. He just fucking is. And I’m realising Thats who I’ve always been underneath all that adjusting.
The shame wasn’t me. The shame was something I learnt to carry, because at some point I figured carrying it would keep me safe. I still walk on my toes. I probably always will. There’s still a bounce in my stride. The difference is I’m not doing it to make myself smaller anymore.
I’m not trying to sneak past the Lion. I’m not trying to be a good little boy. And I’m sure as fuck not trying to walk the way somebody else decided I should. The Woulf still walks on his toes. He just doesn’t fucking tiptoe anymore. Will you see him this weekend in Queenstown?
Arwooooo 🐺