It is the shame after the explosion. The personal implosion. When the flames are dead and there is nothing but dust and the rust, that is you. You are nothing but a carapace. You only ever were. The fancy trimming, that new car smell. Necessary distractions to give you 
consumer appeal. For anyone to ever buy what you were selling.  You are just a rusting carcase on the road to nothing.

Once you are finally dumped. Once the gloss of the Duco has burnt off.  Once your ego admits you are just nothing but a rotting, dying wreck. No resale value. 
Not even salvageable for scrap. You are a corruption of who you always pretended to be. But that is okay. You hit a certain age you realise that what you are told you are, you are not. Get a new perspective on a lifelong problem. Rust and dents have a gloss of their own.

This is the most critical time in your life. This is where happiness lies. This is authenticity. You are what you are. Even if that is stripped back and raw and honest,  all the showroom bullshit taken away. You are happy with your place on that unpopular road.