I'm embarrassed, and that's really all there is to it.  More than embarrassed - humiliated about the whole experience.  When I think about it, my heart beats faster, and I get that familiar lump at my throat, my stomach turns and twists with anticipation.  It gets harder to breathe.  My hands get clammy, and I feel my face begin to flush - it's like pins and needles all over me, and the sensation that I want to cry is almost overwhelming.  But here's the funny little catch.  I don't want to cry for anguish, or fear, or any kind of real sadness - I just want to hide and dissolve into tears because I am so embarrassed, so humiliated; I wonder and am terrified in those moments that someone will see right through me.  That someone will see that I am guilty for remembering.  Isn't it odd?  I don't even feel what really could be considered shame... it's only severe humiliation... as though everyone in the room could read my mind and view my memories as though viewing a home video.  And there is always that dash of frustration - that nagging irritation; the one that complains that I have dealt with this already, it is done, it is recovered from.  It is because it catches me off guard... I forget a little, like Matt puts it... and when, on those relatively rare occasions, it comes surging back through my memory; then it catches me by such surprise and when I am so unprepared, that for several days following I just can't seem to escape this funk.  Those days following when I feel like I am a stranger in my own skin, viewing the world through eyes that aren't my own, and with a spirit that is slightly crippled by embarrassment. 

-CuriousBlue