It isn’t your fault, you know. I know somewhere deep inside, you still believe that it is. It doesn’t matter what we’re talking about. You have shame about something – there is something you are afraid to tell people because you worry if they knew the whole truth, they would think you’re disgusting or pathetic or unworthy. They might stop loving you.
Shame. Shame is that dark place that we hide, where it festers and grows and causes that pit of anxiety in our guts or in that place right behind the breastbone that gets tight and makes it hard to take a deep breath.
Your shame is your own, I’m not saying it isn’t. But friend, let me tell you, it isn’t unique. Whatever you are hiding, I promise that one of us is hiding the same thing.
Sometimes, despite years of self-work and activism and self-love, a small, still voice inside of me says that if I had behaved differently, I wouldn’t have been raped. And again. Is that the scariest contradiction? I no longer have shame around being raped, but I have shame around the fact that somewhere deep inside, I can’t let go of the possibility that it was, on some level, my fault. That’s shame.
Sometimes, when people ask me about money, I lie and tell them that everything is all right. Really, I am drowning, and when I try to figure out what to do about it, I get such anxiety that I have to stop and ask myself if I’m having a heart attack or just a lot of anxiety. That’s shame.
Sometimes, I eat way more than I wanted to, and after, I feel sick, not physically, but emotionally, as if there’s something seriously wrong with me that I am still fighting with my demons surrounding food.
Sometimes I have panic attacks so bad that I can’t breathe and in the depths of those attacks, I start to wonder if anyone really loves me, *really* loves me, just the way I am. Sometimes those panic attacks are so horrific, I think I’m actually dying. And I think there’s something wrong with me that I can’t control them, so I’m afraid to talk about them because I think everyone else will think there’s something wrong with me, too.
Sometimes, I remember those voices of all of the people who have called me fatty, lardo, pig, disgusting, sick, whoa-my-god-she’s-coming-toward-me, and know that somewhere deep down inside, I still carry them. Shame means I’m afraid to talk about it because I think that if I tell someone about it, they’ll start to see it, too.
Your shame may not be the same as mine. Maybe you carry shame about alcohol use, or things you did when you were addicted to drugs that hurt other people. Maybe your shame is about how you wet your pants in the second grade and everyone laughed and sometimes, you still hear the laughter, and while most of the time, you remember that it’s just one thing, long ago, in the deepest, darkest parts of your soul, you shrivel up remembering. Maybe your shame is getting so overwhelmed by all that you have to do that you do nothing but sit at the computer and play solitaire and then go to bed crying because that means so much more to do tomorrow.
Your shame may be about being abused, about wondering if there was something you could have done, if you had locked the door, if you had behaved yourself. Your shame may be around your body or your intelligence or your very existence. You may have shame about your education or your upbringing or about your failed relationships.
Maybe your shame is simply that everyone thinks you are such a together person and your dirty little secret is that you have self-love meltdowns just like everyone else.
Your shame is your own and it’s not my place to tell you what to do with it, except that I am going to tell you that until you talk about your shame with someone, it’s going to hide and it’s going to bubble up in your darkest hours, and it’s going to grow bigger until you think you can’t possibly bear it anymore.
Friends, let me tell you this. You are not alone. And it isn’t your fault. It isn’t your fault because we have all of this pressure on us from birth to death and sometimes the weight of that is too much to carry. It’s not your fault because you’ve been called names or told you weren’t enough and it’s hard to hear all of that all of your life and not let it absorb into the core of your being. It’s not your fault because your parents told you that no one would ever love you unless you (fill in the blank) and it’s probably not even their fault, because someone told them the same thing. It’s not your fault because even if you were drinking, you still didn’t deserve to be raped. It’s not your fault because even if you were yelling and out on control, you didn’t deserve to be punched. It’s not your fault.
It’s not your fault.
Your shame is your own. But I am giving you mine, right here, open and laid out before you. It may not be your shame, but it is still yours. You are not alone.
15 thoughts on “Shame”
My shame is that I want so much to find love and approval in others, I agonize about it all the time, When they disagree with me, I take it as rejection until I sit on it and realize it for what it is. My shame is I feel that everyone will see me as an impostor.I am not beautiful, I am overweight with a massive chest that makes me self conscious. My shame is that I am ashamed of who I am because of where I came from, Because all the illness my parents had in their mind and hearts was transferred on me. I am ashamed that I had to leave behind my youngest siblings in order to look out for myself, or else they would have held me back forever…
My shame is that I am traumatized from being abused as a child, sexually, mentally, and physically, and I tell myself, was it so bad that it still effects my life?
My shame is that I feel alone, isolated, like some alien creature. I am desperate for a real family, but what i have is broken bits I can’t fix.
My biggest shame? I can’t fix it. I have to live with it, and just be the best me I can be. Yet, I always feel like no matter how hard I try I am not good enough. The taint is on my soul.
I see you, sister. I see you.
❤ Brave Beth
❤ Brave and terrified. Like all of us.
This is so beautiful and true, like you. ❤ I see myself here like I'm sure others will too. ❤ I'm getting better, because of you and the hard work it takes! ❤ These were things, I hadn't told you…so how could you read my mind and see my shame? ❤ Thank you ❤
I love you, sister.
❤ Thank you.
Thank you, too. I see you. ❤
Thank you for this. Sometimes we are so isolated by our feelings we lose sight of the fact that others may feel the same way and could understand exactly what we feel.
Whatever we think, we really are not alone. I promise. ❤
Your sharing is beautiful and vulnerable. I am resonating with so many things that you shared. The bravery that it took to open up so authentically is beyond the words I can convey. I am so thankful to be in my life during this time and have such wonderful people in my life, one of which is you. Your spirit is more than that of a survivor much like myself l, but a warrior of words and heart. I wrap my hands around you my friend and gladly share that shame with you. We can Be Amazon Warriors together.
Thank you so much. I, too, feel so blessed to have you in my life. We are warriors. We are strong. We are opening up to heal ourselves AND each other.
Beautiful. Thank you.
I am a rape survivor. I raised a daughter who was the result of rape. I fight always with the self-blame of not only the rape but of the way my daughter now struggles with bi-polar demons, addiction, PTSD and self-doubt.
I have a son who went to prison for selling drugs to an undercover cop. He is now an amazing chef, father, and husband, and those horrible eighteen months from his youth are behind him. Yet I still carry blame in my heart for not noticing the signs, for not paying for a lawyer who could have avoided jail time for him, for not being a better mother, for marrying the first man who paid attention to me after I was raped and having another child immediately.
I was raped, had a child, married, had another child, had an affair with my first lesbian lover, and divorced, before I was old enough to legally go to a bar. I carry the shame of all of this thirty plus years later. The difference? Today I talk about it with anyone who needs to hear. Today I own it as a part of me. Today I challenge the shame, over and over and over, to remind myself that I am not responsible for being raped, for my daughter’s illness, for my son’s decisions.
I am good enough.
I am strong enough.
And so are all of you.
I love you, sister.
This is painful and lovely