I'm learning to be humiliated

It's okay to fall - you mostly end up on the ground.

Figure of a Crouched Man (ca. 3100–2650 B.C.).

Without going into too much astrological detail, my birth chart indicates a person who is inherently rather humiliated. I don’t think I’ve often allowed myself to be or look humiliated to others, but this fact makes a lot of emotional and social sense. I have been rigid about not being humiliated because I fear what I feel — I feel humiliated. This feeling is incredibly natural, even intuitive, to me.

I’ve gripped the reins on this horse quite tightly despite. Spent much of my life carefully analyzing the motivations of others and myself in order to develop techniques of harmony. Studied social rules to become agreeable, likable. To mask well my weirdness and appear as collected and complete as I can be.

This is how I have avoided the benefits of humiliation — the pleasures and functions of humility where one is lowly, low, close to the ground (Latin humus). How I love the ground — lying on it, released, supine, receptive, open & vulnerable but backed by what is solid and undeniable.

“And, so, what is fall or humiliation? It is a self consciousness and, with it, a self knowing. [...] Planets in fall understand the expectation of the planet and, in refusing it, understands disappointment.”

— Alice Sparkly Kat, “Planets in Fall”

Humiliation can be devastating and damaging to a mind or spirit which lacks solid grounding and confidence. That was me for most of my adolescence, and my ability to avoid humiliation grew impeccable as I entered adulthood. I was lucky, in a way. I had the intellect and sharpness to masquerade knowing when I knew naught, and to feign calmness and control when things went sideways. I know. I saw this coming. I’m always prepared. This is only a small hiccup.

I avoided confronting the full extent of my ignorance and my lack of skills, especially when it came to areas or tasks that carried a higher risk of humiliation — public speaking, administration, self-acceptance, asking for help, learning from people with more experience or talent. I got by with my puppet show.

It’s not that I didn’t work hard to grow as person — I did. Honestly, I worked like a dog. But in many areas of my life, I improved at performing that I knew and was in control, rather than developing real skills and knowledge that would give me more influence over situations.

More recently, though, I’ve been gradually unmasking with people I trust. Unmasking as in, letting myself be, with less vigilance and monitoring of other people’s needs and potential judgements of me. Less management of my impulses and honest thoughts. The more I do so, the clearer it is that I am fundamentally a rather clumsy, goofy, affectionate person. I bring my video camera out without the battery. I make the saddest expression when the bakery runs out of my favourite cake. I get sauce all over my glasses trying to pry off the tail of a prawn.

And then — I laugh. This part is new.

With strangers and acquaintances, my performances have almost always passed without further questioning. My acts of pride preservation have mostly been accepted, even admired for the equanimity they suggest.

With the people I’m revealing myself to, I’ve not been able to hide. They see through my bullshit, and they’ve discovered that it’s possible to call me out on my pretence. I’ve discovered that it’s possible to play along. I allow myself a mock protest, holding back the edge of a smile, to admit that they’re right: I messed up. I’m goofy af, and it’s okay.

The Ass at School (1557), After Pieter Bruegel the Elder & Pieter van der Heyden.

I’ve started to enjoy this kind of humiliation, this way of being humbled. I feel closer to the ground of who I am each time it happens, like a playful reminder that these people see me, find me funny, and I don’t have to be anything else. And that, in a big way, I simply am who I am. Fighting it doesn’t go very far.

Besides the silliness, a sharper dimension has revealed itself: a part that judges, discerns, and critiques. Unmasking has also meant hearing myself say potentially offensive, upsetting, or rude things in the company of others. And — discovering that it’s actually okay to express my opinions. That it’s okay to disagree. The relationships that matter to me are far too expansive and agile to be shaken up, much less harmed, by such small frictions. My subjective tastes and perspectives do not shatter the world like they used to, when I was smaller and lived in the worlds of people who kept me in constant, people-pleasing agreement and a flattening sort of harmony.

It was easy for them then, because I was so hungry for approval. Now, the more I embrace humiliation, the more confident I become in my goodness. Because humiliation makes me honest, and if there’s anything I love as much as lying with my back glued to the ground, it’s some plain, awkward, brave honesty. Honesty that is possible when one has done the work to know oneself — even if the knowing is knowing how little you know.

Being close the ground, I’m in a new phase of expansion, one that needs no witness — only the solitary, willing student. I admit my newness, my lack of experience, and ask for advice. I share work I’m not confident of to get feedback. I lay low and let my ignorance reveal everything I don’t know, which is everything I can learn. My desire to learn outstrips my fear of humiliation. I love this smallness, where I answer only to myself.

& there is pleasure in embarrassment, in laughing at myself. There is a humanness that becomes apparent. It is adorable and sweet and what I love about life.