In grade one, I had the grooviest desk in the whole class.
Mint green metal with a faux wood top that lifted and locked into place when pushed up at a right angle.
The desk was a monster, and sat a good five inches taller than the teal-coloured-press-board-sans-lift-top-desks
of my classmates.
It and me sat at the back of the last row. The bowed legs crowded the aisle where Miss Brown liked to pace.
Sometimes kids would come by to borrow an eraser or a black crayon and say...
“You have the grooviest desk in the whole class.
You’re so lucky.”
“I know”, I would reply smuggly, my leotard legs dangling down from the molded, metal seat.
It was obvious to me that I was a very important kid.
One sunny, spring morning in April, when all seemed right in the world, I entered my
grade one classroom to find my teacher, the janitor and a few kids standing next to my desk.
“I don’t even know where the thing originally came from” said Miss Brown.
“It might have been brought here from the high school,
it’s a monster” said the hateful janitor, taking a step back in order to get the entire desk into view.
“Well, let’s get it out of here, get the new one in its
place. All the desks should be exactly the same.”
I let go of my lunch pail, an apple bounced and rolled across the floor. I ran to my desk and dropped onto the cold seat.
“It’s my desk” I said.
“Jamie, we are getting you a new desk, then you can have the same one as everyone else, said Miss Brown. Please get out of the desk so it can be moved.”
“I don’t want the same desk as everyone else. This is my
desk and I only want this one.” I refused to move. I laid my head down and stretched my skinny arms out to the corners of the faux wood desktop that lifted and I hung on.
What did I do wrong? Had they forgotten I was special? Why was I being punished? Why don’t they like me anymore? Why was this happening to me? My classmates were probably happy my desk was being taken away. They were probably laughing at me.
I felt embarrassed and ashamed until anger started to bubble to the surface. In the end Miss Brown won and my desk was taken away.
Yesterday, I was told that I am moving offices at work.
The mint green metal desk and all of the same feelings came flooding back.
A feeling of shame is what I felt that day and today. In a form of self preservation, my feelings of shame quickly move into anger, then pessimism, hoplessness and finally depression.
Shame I have recently learned can be connected to depression. Shame can grip your psyche and your very soul. Have you experienced shame? Have you noticed a connection to your depression?
