Almost immediately after I hit the word “publish” on my post last week, my body was flooded by a very familiar feeling. I felt exposed, as though everyone was seeing
me, and in being seen, I felt ashamed. I felt as though an enormous, heavy
boulder landed on top of me. A heat rose up from within my chest, and an aching
pressure began to spread from the center of my body, throughout my limbs. I
wanted to crawl into my bed and feel instead the weight of comforting blankets
on top of me, bury my head in the covers.
Oh, hello shame, my
old friend. Here we go again.
One of my earliest memories, perhaps my very earliest
memory, is one of shame. I was only about four years old. A friend I’ll call Sara
was inside my family’s trailer to play. We were putting together a block
puzzle, a scene of Winnie the Pooh’s birthday party. It was tricky as the
pieces were all cubes, with different pictures on each side. My uncle was
there, watching us I guess. We were all sitting, cross-legged, on the floor. At
some point my uncle leaned forward and asked Sara if she would like to play a
game.
“What kind of game?” Sara asked.
“It’s a secret game,” my uncle answered, and leaned in
closer toward me to show Sara what he meant.
Sara said no, she didn’t want to play, and she needed to go
home and find her mom. I remember watching her leave, and feeling overwhelmed
that what my uncle told me all the time must be true--I was bad. Every time he
touched me, my uncle told me not to tell anyone, or I would get into a lot of
trouble. My parents would be very angry
with me, because I was bad.
I feel like that day solidified
that lie in my heart. Since Sara could tell her mom, she was obviously good. I
wished that I could be as good as Sara, but it was too late for me now. If I
told anyone about the game, I would be in trouble, and I hated to be in
trouble. Even more terrifying than being in trouble was realizing that if I
told anyone, then they would know how bad I really was. I stared at the chocolate
brown shag carpet, at the pattern of sunlight from the window on the floor, at
the colorful scenes from the Winnie the Pooh birthday party on the blocks,
while my uncle played his game.
Even now I can feel the weight, the ache, the pain that the shame of that moment
brings to me. Even now I am burdened that Sara was strong, and I was weak. The
voice in my head tells me I should have known better, I should have told someone;
I should have been able to stop it. Even right this second, shame would have me
believe that by telling my story, I am letting people know that there is
something hopelessly wrong with me.
That is what I have believed, in my soul, for years. I
frequently think of myself a bad mother, an awful wife, a terrible friend. Not
as a good person, who made a few mistakes or a bad decision, but as a deeply
flawed person who is somehow inherently bad. While it is painful for me to feel
that way, the greatest fear I have is that those around me would suddenly see
that I am no good. Part of the fear that keeps me from wanting to hit publish
on any story about my life is that same lie my uncle told me: “If you tell
anyone, then they will know how bad you really are.”
The truth is not that Sara was strong and I was weak, or
that Sara was good and I was bad. The
truth is that Sara was able to leave in part because she felt safe to tell
others around her. I did not feel safe at that time. But I do now. I am so
grateful to be surrounded by many family and friends who know most of my
shameful stories, and they love me anyway.
Now that I am safe, I can stop playing my uncle’s game. I’m not going to sit in my living room and
stare at the red and brown striped carpet, at the pattern of sunlight from the
window on the floor, at my dog and cat curled up together, while his game
continues to go on inside my head. The shame I experienced, the lies I
believed, they do far more damage in my everyday life than any physical scars I
may carry. I’m tired of listening to the same tape playing over and over. This
time I get to stand up and call out my abuser and say I refuse to believe your
lies anymore.
It’s funny that even after years of therapy and time,
writing these few posts has been where I finally realized the root of my
self-loathing. I did have a counselor one time ask me if I thought I was a good
person. I told her no, I didn’t think so. I think she asked me why I felt that
way, and at the time, I didn’t have an answer. Today I do. I think that I am a
bad person because I have been told that I am a bad person for as long as I can
remember by people in a position of trust. But
those people were lying.
I know that shame and believing lies about ourselves is not
specific to survivors of sexual abuse. All of us experience shame; it is a
universal emotion brought on by all kinds of circumstances. Shame would like to
keep everyone in the dark, to keep us from telling our stories. The truth is
that when we make our way out into the light by sharing a little bit more of
who we are with the world, we find out that we are not alone. We find new ways
to connect and to show grace and compassion to one another, which is a
tremendous gift. I have been so blessed by the kind responses to my previous
post, and the encouragement from so many to continue. That support is a large
part of what is motivating me to dig deeper and find the strength to share more
of my story.
I hope that as I continue to share more of my story, others
will join me and begin to be able to share their truths as well. It is in being
open and honest and truthful with each other that we take away the power that lies
and shame may have over us. Telling our own stories, receiving kindness from
others, hearing truth that challenges old lies, this is what gives us more
strength to throw off the heavy weight of shame that has been holding us down.
So, goodbye shame, you
jackass. Until we meet again.
“Shame derives its power from being
unspeakable…If we cultivate enough awareness about shame to name it and speak to it, we’ve basically cut it off at
the knees. Shame hates having words
wrapped around it. If we speak shame, it begins to wither. Just the way
exposure to light was deadly
for the gremlins, language and story bring light to shame and destroy it.”
- Brene' Brown, Daring Greatly
