Messy Jessie

An Essay on Shame

Sep 16, 2024

The last few weeks have been hard. My brain’s a hot mess and I’ve retreated into full burnout hermit mode, trapped in this never-ending spiral of self-hate and regret.

Before I convince myself to send this essay to the graveyard to never see the light of day with the hundreds of other things I have written, I’m going to post it and hope that you make it to the end.

Shame can manifest in two distinct forms: healthy and toxic.

Healthy shame acts as a reflective tool, prompting us to acknowledge our missteps and guiding us towards growth and change. It’s a temporary feeling that encourages us to amend our behavior and align more closely with our values.

Toxic shame is a pervasive, destructive force that undermines our sense of self-worth and perpetuates a cycle of self-criticism and isolation. This type of shame distorts our self-perception, making us feel fundamentally flawed and unworthy of love and acceptance. While healthy shame can be a catalyst for personal development, toxic shame often traps us in a state of perpetual self-loathing, hindering our ability to heal and connect with others.

Toxic shame is killing me like slow-drip poison.

It’s been clinging to me since I was a kid, whispering, “You are a total mess. There’s something wrong with you, and you’ll never fix it, no matter how hard you try.” I have believed those thoughts my whole damn life. Like a sucker.

Shame isn’t just that cringy feeling when you remember something embarrassing you did five years ago. It’s a projector that lives in your head, replaying all your failures with surround sound. It’s a weighted blanket you can’t escape, not the cozy kind that helps you sleep. It makes you want to crawl into a hole and disappear because everyone secretly hates you.

Really, really, REALLY hates you.

Shame doesn’t just tap on the door; it barges in, sets up camp in your bones, and convinces you you’re fundamentally broken. It duct tapes your mouth shut and asking for help feels impossible.

Shame is a silent killer.

“I am unlovable. I’m alone. I’m a burden. I’m impulsive. I suck. I’m too much. I’m not enough. Things will never get better." – the greatest hits of my inner narrative, available on all platforms, streaming in my head for most of my life. It’s been a real banger, let me tell you.

I have spent my life drowning in burnout, self-sabotage, and this deep-rooted belief that I am unlovable, unfixable, and just generally unworthy of anything remotely good.

Shame convinced me that I am the problem—that my struggles are a reflection of my personal failings.

Thanks, shame, very helpful.

Navigating life with an ultra-sensitive nervous system is like trying to ride a bike uphill—with flat, square tires—in a thunderstorm. Everything feels infinitely harder than it should. I’ve been playing catch-up my entire life. Overwhelm might as well be my middle name.

And what’s on the menu to go with all that? A bottomless buffet of shame.

Delicious.

It’s not that I don’t care—I care so much it paralyzes me. Focusing? Ha! I’ll start with the best of intentions, and poof! My brain pulls a disappearing act. Why can’t I just sit down and focus like everyone else? Why am I always late unless I am an hour early? Why do I forget important things like appointments, bills, or entire conversations? If it’s not right in front of me, it’s as good as gone. That’s why my yoga mat is a permanent fixture in my room and I carry my water bottle around like a toddler with their favorite blankie. It’s survival, folks. (I also have a blankie. And a stuffed animal I sleep with. Leave them out of this.)

Panic sets in as I scramble to meet deadlines I forgot about or finish tasks I started sometime during the last Ice Age.

Shame swoops in like, “See? You’re a disaster.” Thanks, shame. Again, very helpful.

The weight of it all feels unbearable, and then I berate myself for creating that chaos. Living in a constant cycle of good intentions and disappointing follow-through is exhausting, and the shame from that eats away at me every single day.

This violent cycle overwhelm and shutdown? Chef’s kiss. Perfection.

Just kidding. It’s hell!

Growing up in the shadow of unhealthy relationships and hollow people left me with no real sense of self—at least not one that was loving or kind. I have hated my body, constantly felt too weird for everyone around me, and never quite fit in with my biological family or the other kids at school. I didn’t have the tools to understand my feelings, let alone process them, so I just absorbed everything—the hurt, the criticism, the fear, the shame. All that emotional baggage came out in the form of black eyeliner, studded belts, baggy clothes, brightly colored hair, and an endless soundtrack of loud, angsty music. I was a walking Hot Topic ad with unresolved issues, hoping that maybe if I looked like I didn’t care, I’d eventually believe it.

Watching other people manage life (seemingly so) effortlessly while I’m over here trying to figure out how to ‘adult’ feels like I’m failing some invisible race. The shame kicks in when I start believing I should have it all together, that I should be able to function like everyone else.

When shame hits, it doesn’t just poke at my insecurities—it grabs a baseball bat and goes full Babe Ruth on what little self-esteem exists. No one bullies me quite like my own inner critic. She’s got a killer swing.

But the truth is, things like childhood trauma, growing up without being taught crucial life skills, ADHD, autism, C-PTSD, and chronic conditions that effect your mind and body put barriers between you and stability, and those barriers are not a reflection of who you are at your core. They are external challenges that make it harder to function in a world designed for different kinds of minds and bodies. These barriers can feel dangerous and isolating, leaving you feeling incredibly lonely, especially when you’re navigating them without adequate support or accommodations. The shame surrounding these struggles only deepens the sense of isolation, reinforcing the false idea that you're unworthy of help or connection.

Without support, naturally, my life turned into a runaway train of chaos—waves of burnout, unhealthy relationships (especially and most importantly, the one with myself), and the occasional total nervous breakdown. Surprise, surprise. When you’re feeling like you’re on your own, it’s easy to fall into patterns that numb the pain—even if those patterns hurt more in the long run. My teens, 20s, and early 30s were a hot mess express of spirals I couldn’t even name at the time, all desperate attempts to make sense of a world that felt too loud, too much, too everything.

Messy Jessie, first-class passenger on the Hot Mess Express, no stops.

I’ve been living in survival mode for so long, it’s practically a lifestyle brand at this point. I became a master at making impulsive, short-term decisions just to make it through the day—whether it was avoiding confrontation like it was a sport, people-pleasing like I was up for an Oscar, or jumping headfirst into things without a single brain cell fired up. Unhealthy relationships? Check. An eating disorder? Oh, definitely. Addicted to sugar? Just call me Sweet Teeth. Chronically online? I practically invented MySpace.

It all felt like a great escape—but it was actually just a shame spiral in disguise. Desperate attempts to run and hide from my pain and regulate my frazzled nervous system.

And each of those fear-driven decisions? Just more proof that I was a hot mess. Stuck in this never-ending loop of self-sabotage, convinced I was broken and destined to make the same train-wreck mistakes forever.

Support, for clarity, isn’t a one-size-fits-all deal. It’s not like I just need one person or one solution to save the day and come bail me out. I need a whole toolbox filled with different strategies to get through daily life. Everyone’s got a toolbox (you may not have any tools in it yet), and everyone’s looks different. Some boxes will have the same tools and some will have specialized tools for specific jobs for that particular person.

I didn’t grow up with a toolbox for coping with stress so my nervous system is stuck in survival mode and constantly being electrocuted to a crisp, like Marv at the end of Home Alone 2. Pushing through constant pain, exhaustion, and brain fog isn’t exactly a long-term wellness strategy. I have to ration my energy like I’m preparing for a power outage.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: ‘But you’re so smart! You’re writing this essay, clearly you can take care of yourself!’ And yeah, sure, I’m smart. But a busted and burnt out nervous system doesn’t care how smart or creative you are. It’s just trying to survive. My brain’s like a browser with 40 tabs open, and I can’t figure out where the music’s coming from. Trying to close one problem just spawns three more, like a digital hydra. My body is always on high alert, like I’m being chased by an invisible tiger—constant sensory overload, exhaustion, and pain.

My body shuts down, my memory plays hide-and-seek, and my to-do lists turn into novels. I start jobs and projects with enthusiasm but somewhere between the tabs, I get overwhelmed and implode. Everything’s amplified—smells, sounds, lights, pain. My brain blows 100 fuses and then the stability I created for myself goes up in flames, leaving me curled up in the ashes, wondering what went wrong.

Some days, I move so fast that no one sees how much I’m hurting. Other days, I slow to a crawl, hiding in the dark with the same song on repeat, hoping the music will soothe the pain, or at the very least, remind me there are still beautiful things that exist. When it’s really bad, I can’t listen to music and I binge-watch Law and Order: SVU or House because watching fictional people handle life-or-death situations makes my mess feel less tragic. It hits differently when your own life feels like a series of “How did I survive that?” moments.

I tear myself apart, convinced I’m just terrible at life.

My life feels messy and I am so ashamed about it. Some days, I want to die. Maybe not actually want to die, but that it would just be easier (on me and everyone else) if I weren’t around to take up space.

I am tired. Tired of doing things the same old way, pretending everything’s fine while I’m internally combusting. Every human has limits and I’m a human. I’ve had enough of stoically pushing through pain and overwhelm like an exploding firework only to fade just as quickly.

Every human being has limits and I am a human being.

I tried to do life without consistent accommodations or support because I thought I should be able to handle it. It’s how I was raised. “Life is hard! Adulting is hard! Suck it up, crybaby!” I hear the workhorses say. So, I grit my teeth, push through the burnout and pain, ignore the crushing weight of expectation, the piles of debt collection notices, the humiliation of having my car repossessed twice, the near-misses with homelessness and dying, and ‘just keep swimming.’

Some days, it feels like I’m being swallowed by a black hole. Other times, I am the black hole. The loneliness is suffocating. Even with 7 billion people on the planet. Maybe even especially because there are 7 billion people on the planet.

Shame is a pillow being put over my face and strings that lace up my rib cage to my shoulders and pull like I need to fit in a dress 10 times smaller than my actual size. Shame cuffs me to the bed and stuffs me in a dark closet. Shame keeps me small and sick. Shame is a full-time job I never applied to and don’t get paid for.

I’ve spent so much time surviving in self-destructive ways because, honestly, I didn’t know any better. And let’s face it, you can’t do better until you know better. Even when you do know better, change is a beast—it’s slow, messy, and definitely not a straight line.

But there has to be a better way to live.

Under the right conditions and with the proper support, humans are basically designed for bouncing back. Humans are this wild spectrum of emotions and experiences, a kaleidoscope of energy with a ridiculous capacity for healing. Like Wolverine, but, you know, less claws. Our bodies? Resilient. Our brains? Not carved in stone, more like plastic. Our hearts? Absolutely mendable. And our nervous systems? Totally reprogrammable—like finally updating a clunky, outdated operating system. We can rewrite our internal stories whenever we’re ready to. It’s within us.

Is any of that easy? Not in my experience. Is it possible? In my experience, yes. However, it takes time, patience, unlearning and relearning, a real desire for change, other humans (we can’t survive on our own), resources, and LOADS of grace and compassion and forgiveness. Things that aren’t readily available to a lot of people, so it’s easy to see how easy it is to stay stuck in survival mode and in a shame spiral.

Toxic shame is a little gremlin, sneakier than any diagnosis or trauma I’ve faced. I’ve spent over 3 decades of my life hating myself and it’s not a good time. I’m smart, but my brain’s a 90s computer constantly freezing, convincing myself that, despite being intelligent and creative, I’m just a hot mess—nothing more than a burden.

Shame’s a liar, but it’s a talented one.

If I don’t do something about this shame, it’s going to kill me. I’ll either die quickly (shoutout to impulsivity for that “the world would be better off without you” whisper), or, even worse, die slowly—buried under a mountain of anger, grief, and disappointment until I wither like a neglected houseplant. That’s how a lot of my family have already died.

I don’t want to be a withered house plant. I want to be a sunflower in a summer field.

If I hear “You’re smart, you’ll figure it out!” or “Life is hard!” one more time, I swear I’ll scream for an entire year. I may never stop screaming. I know life is hard dammit!!!! I’m not lazy, I’m not incompetent, I’m a human with a nervous system that needs a bit more TLC than the factory-standard model and a body and mind that needs lots of love and rest.

I wonder what life might look like if I let myself be loved and supported.

I’m scared of judgment, terrified people will think I’m lazy or unworthy if I tell them the truth.

But if I stay quiet?

One day, people will be mourning me, wondering why I never said anything.

Dramatic? Sure. Honest? Absolutely.

I’m at a fork in the road: keep suffering in silence, or dive headfirst into the terrifying unknown of self-love and acceptance. I know where the first path leads, it’s just more suffering. The second one? Uncharted territory, but maybe it’s filled with love, support, and all the good things I’ve been craving.

Having the energy and resources to take care of myself, doing meaningful work that is sustainable for my nervous system, having a home and a family, long term stability, getting out of debt, writing books, recording podcasts, building community, recovering from burnout, and making the world a better place. Less suffering, more acceptance. That’s the goal.

I think it is also important to share that my life has not been total misery. I’ve had a ton of fun in my life. Like, a ton. I’ve laughed so hard with friends I’ve actually peed my pants. I’ve been bathed in countless hours of live music and feasted on incredible meals. I’ve witnessed breathtaking sunsets and danced under the full moon.

I know joy, and she knows me.

But knowing joy exists, feeling love’s presence, but still believing deep down that I don’t deserve any of it? That’s a special kind of all-consuming pain.

It’s worse than not believing in joy at all.

The old story is dying—the one where I’m alone, suffering quietly in a corner. It’s time to write a new one, where I’m loved and supported, not because I’m weak, but because I’m human.

Sensitive and dramatic, sure, but that’s part of the charm.

I’m learning to forgive myself for all the times I convinced myself I wasn’t enough, for the moments I kept silent when I should’ve asked for help, and for the millions of mistakes I have made.

I’m still figuring out what forgiveness even looks like, but maybe it’s less about understanding it perfectly and more about embracing it as a practice. I wasn’t raised to believe in softness, in grace. Instead, I was taught to "tough it out," to weather the storm, grind through the pain, and wear those scars like badges of honor. But in the end, what does that really get you? I’ve seen too many people live that way, only to end up isolated, burdened by their vices, disconnected from love and tenderness. They die alone, trapped inside their own sad stories. That’s not the success story I want for myself.

Can there be acceptance in place of shame? Instead of shrinking back and hiding from the world, is there a safe space where I can show up as I am, messy and all? Shame is a sickness that keeps us isolated, and maybe the cure starts with forgiveness—beginning with myself.

It’s easy to get the feeling that if you’re not keeping up, you’re doing something wrong. But the reality is that support systems should be built into our lives, not something we have to fight for. They should come naturally. They should be in place before we need them. Finding the right tools and resources for me hasn’t been easy; it’s often felt like a scavenger hunt. But I know that support isn’t a luxury—it’s a necessity.

So here’s my message to anyone who’s been stuck in the shame spiral: You are not alone. You are not defined by your struggles or your perceived shortcomings. You deserve support, compassion, and love. Even when shame makes you feel otherwise. It’s okay to not have it all figured out, to stumble, to need help. The journey is messy and imperfect, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t worthwhile.

I am learning to understand that my worth isn’t tied to my productivity or how well I manage my challenges. It’s about recognizing my humanity and embracing it with all its messy imperfections.

Here’s to finding our way through the shame and into the light of self-acceptance. Here’s to knowing that even when it feels like we’re failing, we’re still moving forward.

I’m learning that I am all these things: lovable, messy, frazzled, smart, creative, impulsive, beautiful, tired, recovering. I don’t have to be perfect. No one is. And I don’t have to figure everything out on my own—it’s impossible! I deserve love, care, and support just as much as anyone else. We all do.

Shame is a story I’ve outgrown.

I hope I don’t chicken out and delete this later. Sharing all this feels like standing under a spotlight in the middle of a crowd and it’s horrifying. Being perceived causes me pain. The light stings my little bug eyes, but I’m willing to bet I’m not the only one who feels like this. And maybe, by standing here in the light, I’ll help someone else feel a little less alone too.

Who says you have to have it all together to be worthy of love? A lot of people, actually—and I believed them for a long time. But they’re wrong.

Shame has kept me small for decades, convincing me I had to hide parts of myself to be enough. Messy Jessie is part of me, and it’s time I stop trying to fix her. She’s a scrappy survivor, and she’s been fighting for me this whole time. Maybe she’s wiser than I give her credit for. I’m learning to love her, to forgive her, to make space for her to thrive. I’m starting to believe she deserves that—and so do I.

If we’re going to prevent suicide, we have to start by being honest about how hard it is to be human. By showing up for ourselves and each other, exactly as we are, mess and all.

September is Suicide Prevention Month, and it’s a topic close to my heart. I’ve thought about leaving this world more times than I care to admit, and I’ve even tried a few times. Suicide isn’t always fast—it can be a slow fade into darkness, a creeping numbness that you don’t always notice until it feels like too much. Suicide isn’t always a dramatic exit—sometimes it’s a quiet disappearance into the dark corners of your own mind.

If I let myself be fully supported, if I allowed love and forgiveness to hold me up, would I really want to leave behind the sunsets, the music, the lavender matcha lattes?

Hell no.

I want to live.

It’s not about pretending everything is okay. It’s about recognizing that it's okay to be in a tough spot and still deserve compassion and support. It’s okay to have regrets and be kind to myself despite them. By accepting my humanity and embracing self-forgiveness, I’m making room for growth, love, and healing.

I deserve to be here—messy parts and all. Saying that is one thing; believing it? Whole other story. Honestly, writing this down is way easier than actually convincing myself it’s true. It's still a work in progress, but aren’t we all?

My journey to overcoming shame, finding support, and practicing self-forgiveness is ongoing, and it’s okay if it takes time. I’m learning to be kinder to myself, to seek the support I need, and to recognize that it’s okay to be imperfect.

There is no shame in being a messy human.

Love,

Messy Jessie

Hello Beautiful Human

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