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Shame

I have spent my entire adult life being fat. But until the last five years or so, I’ve been in decent shape. A combination of exhaustion, which led to less movement, and getting older have me feeling hamstrung. Add to it reactivating an old an injury and my mobility has been limited. That’s the truth I’ve come to accept.

So, when my mom and I went to Costco yesterday, I asked myself what my body would feel like if I traversed the vast store on foot. The answer was in agony. Combine that with the time it would take for me to recover and the choice was clear. We both decided to try a scooter.

Although I’ve surrendered to my current reality, there is still a shadow of shame that clings to it, supported by the internal voices that remark constantly about what I could have done to prevent the state I’m in and what it means not to have full mobility in this society.

My mom needed to stop at customer service, so I waited on my scooter at the end of the counter and checked Instagram. An older couple stood beside me, waiting for the next available customer service person and when one became available, the man, in his early 70s, leaned down and said, “Are you going through or are you waiting for your, uh, partner.”

Partner? Sweet mother of Jesus.

I realize he was just trying to be sensitive, but everything in me screamed: Do me a favor old dude and don’t try to be so fucking “woke.”

I turned 60 this year and live in a society that still worships youth despite the 300,000 people who turn 65 every month. Sure, there are more movies with seniors, an abundance of ads geared toward a geriatric population and AARP, which begins to barrage you with mail at 50, is everywhere. But older people grow more invisible with every year they age and the stereotypes of being addled, incompetent and dependent are alive and well, no matter how many commercials you see with white-haired tennis players.

I’m ashamed to admit I feel shame about growing older, of needing more help to do things that I once accomplished in the blink of an eye. Of dealing with cataracts and cracked teeth, and other medical issues that weren’t even a blip on my radar until recently. Of the journey from “it’ll get better” to realizing it won’t and being forced to face the truth.

A big part of me is grateful I have fewer fucks to give and that I’m not raising children in this dumpster fire of a world. I want to live in a space where I celebrate the crone I am and all the wisdom and knowledge that accompany this stage. Recognize the mountains I’ve scaled, the fallen trees I’ve climbed over and the potholes I’ve navigated around. But I’m not 100% there.

When we were done shopping, my mom offered to treat us each to one of Costco’s famous hot dogs. Up until now, I had actually enjoyed cruising the store on my scooter. My shame had melted in the ease of getting around as I sped at two miles per hour past people deciding on which coffee cake to buy and tested the turning radius in the produce department.

A couple dozen people milled about the food court, placing orders on digital kiosks, using the condiment bar, and filling their cups with Pepsi or Mountain Dew. There wasn’t an empty picnic table. I immediately felt myself becoming overwhelmed.

I’ve only recently realized that so much of what I considered to be quirks – an aversion to overhead lighting, a distaste for crowds, an adamant avoidance of foods with certain textures – could be signs of neurodivergence, which includes the autism spectrum, ADD, and ADHD.

This possibility sent me down a research rabbit hole, which led me to take reliable self-assessments and draw the conclusion that I do, in fact, fit in this category. I’m not interested in a formal diagnosis because I don’t want medication or disability at this time.

At first, I first reveled in this newfound label because of the positive qualities that can be attributed to it – a strong curious nature, the ability to engage for long periods of time on a single subject, innovative/out of the box thinking, strong observational skills and attention to detail. There are others that have leveled me.

Having sensory issues is one of them.

While we tried to maneuver our scooters through the crowd, my mind was already worried about how we’d get mustard for our hot dogs, find a way to get drinks or where we would sit. My mind was spinning, and my nervous system was quickly becoming more dysregulated. I tried to order our food on the kiosk but couldn’t figure out how, which is not like me at all under normal circumstances.

As my poor nervous system freaked out, catapulting me into fight or flight, my ability to think clearly evaporated and I was no longer capable of connecting the dots about why what was happening was happening.

More and more people swirled around me, parking their dinosaur-sized carts in inconvenient places so they could order food. Now there were fewer spaces at the tables. I felt a meltdown approaching but knew how much my mom wanted that hot dog, so I kept trying to make it ok.

But I couldn’t.

I snapped at her a couple of times when she asked me questions, mumbled loudly about the stress of it all, and wished I was anywhere but where I was. A man tried to help with kiosk, and it took everything in me to thank him in a kind tone.

People kept bumping into me after we got our food. Their bare skin brushed mine, almost sending me to the moon. I tried to put relish on my mom’s hot dog while arms crisscrossed in front of me to reach a ketchup pump. It was loud. And bright. And I was on the verge of a calamity.

By the time we found space at a table, I was an emotional mess. I couldn’t hold back the tears, which added to the shame I already felt for not being able to keep my shit together. It was bad enough I was grumpy and irritated with my mom for nothing she’d done, now I was crying in the middle of the fucking food court at Costco.

It was humiliating.

I wiped tears from my cheeks and realized at a new level how much I’ve suppressed my feelings and needs because I made what I thought other people desired more important. That added an extra layer to my tiramisu of shame.

When I finally calmed down, I felt like an embarrassed toddler after a meltdown. I was drained and all I wanted was comfort and food. When I explained to my mom what happened, she put her hand over mine and said, “I would never want you to do something for me that affects you this way. I’m so sorry you went through this.”

Her love and understanding dispersed some of the shame. But in some ways, it added more, because I couldn’t blame her love of a good hot dog for what had happened.

I could have said, “Why don’t you get everything to go, and I’ll meet your outside?” Or “Can we eat somewhere else?” I could have prevented the entire situation.

But I didn’t. Because I couldn’t.

They say things come up to come out. And if that’s true, there was a crapton of shame nestled inside me longing to be purged. I am grateful for everything that happened because as I process this, I see shame for what it is. A tool of the ego that keeps me from owning all of who I am without judgment.

That doesn’t mean I don’t want to change things. My mom and have chosen “bodacious” as our safe word for when I begin to feel this way so she can help me avoid the overwhelm because all this is new to her too. I’m focused on improving my mobility in several ways. And as for getting older, so be it.

Without regret. Or guilt.

Or shame.