I think that, at the heart of it, the shame exists because I have an idea of what I want to be, an imagined ideal, and it is the only thing that sustains me.
I can't face harsh reality without it. I can't live without it. If I didn't have it, I wouldn't want to go on living.
But it also makes me want to die, because then I can't live with myself as I am.
Hope is the quintessential human delusion, I guess.