Stepping Out Of The Shadows Of Shame

I have walked the corridors of shame my entire life. My circumstances had taught me to be very comfortable with being the one cast aside, the girl whose nose was pressed against the glass, watching all the cool and popular people gather in groups that I would never be welcomed into. With anxious breath fogging my view, I observed them, the shiny, confident chosen ones, certain that they possessed something I didn’t have, some sort of magical, inherent hierarchy that for whatever reason I missed out on. Intuitively, and with my whole being I knew that the home and family in which I lived was not normal, and just as certainly, I didn’t know what normal looked like. I just knew it was a thing. A thing that meant light and beauty and laughter. A thing my friend had that made her mother smiling and kind. A blinding contrast to my life, that was filtered through a lens of intermittent joy, darkness, comfort and pain, both insidious and unimaginable, yet as familiar as my favorite ragdoll. Something in me burned to be on the other side of that glass, to know what it felt like to be included, to belong, completely and totally myself. Whoever that was.

I spent years doing persistent, gut wrenching, soul searching work to uncover the truth of who I really was, years of reading other people’s words and hearing other people’s voices before I could find my own. Mine was buried. Buried beneath the rubble of a city burning down, a city that enrobed a life that should have guided me, but was never fully lived. All because the cycle of abuse had never been broken, and my stunningly beautiful mother would bear the brunt of that and pass it on to me. You cannot raise a healthy child if you are nearly shattered and splintering at the seams yourself. You cannot instill in a child the worth that they deserve if you do not first see it in your core. And ultimately you cannot do anything else but punish a child for their strength when you see yourself as weak and unable to survive in the life you’ve been given, a picture perfect, white picket fence fairytale you were expected to live even though you were never up to the task. My mother didn’t know what to do with any of the emptiness that plagued her or the weight of responsibility that slowly crushed her. A Leave It To Beaver society and the trappings of religion created no room for her mental illness, her alcoholism, the shadows of a father’s wrath, the heartbreak of being abandoned by a cheating husband and the residual effects of living a domestic lie, raising 5 children, mostly alone and uneducated. When life gives you sensuality and abuse brainwashes to believe it is your only value, it is what you use when all else fails. And she did. It is where you tell yourself you feel most loved, even as the revolving door of men strips away your confidence, your dignity, and ultimately, your being. So when you turn to a liquor bottle and pills, you hide it behind yet another label of untruth called migraines. That was manageable, acceptable, that was something people understood. She could black out for days and never face the reality of her choices. Everything else bubbling beneath the surface, brutal, undaunted and painful in a way you didn’t know you could overcome, had to hide behind that label too. I know how lonely it is to live behind pretense and deception, to hide in the darkness of shame so no one will know the truth you’re drowning in. I think that was the most heartbreaking thing for me to realize, to watch my mother disappear into someone unrecognizable, never truly realizing her potential or living a life that belonged to her. As a family, my three sisters, one brother and I lived the story of the lie as expected. We pretended to be normal. We had chores, we sang together, we went to church and vacation Bible school and celebrated Christmas like it was the happiest, most sacred day on earth. We posed for traditional pictures in our Sunday best, happy, content, hiding behind a facade of big hair, toothy smiles, creased trousers, shiny shoes and matching dresses. But we lived in fear. In sadness. We lived waiting for the other shoe to drop, never truly safe. Always mistrusting. We faced each day, surviving, looking for our way out.

You’ll never have to wonder what shame looks like because you will recognize it by its darkness. It sulks in the corner, shrouded in layers of desperate lies, the lies that they created to make you responsible for their depravity. The falsehoods you have to spend a lifetime unlearning and unbelieving. My sexual, emotional and physical abuse would find its way into every decision I made, every relationship I encountered, every narrative I would tell myself for years. But I was always the strong one and there was a flame burning in me, a fire that smouldered quietly beneath the bitterness and pain. I was not about to let any of those people steal who I was or take my god given gifts of trust, sexuality, or wholeness. I would fight like hell to make my way back, to step out of the shadows of shame that never belonged to me. 

It took me a long time to realize what I was feeling, that the fire in me was my actual authentic self, my voice and essence. The person I was before the joy robbers told me who to be. Before the labels. Before the expectations. Before the darkness. But there is a Knowing deep inside, a voice that consistently whispers until you find your way home to it. I was always in there. I just didn’t know where ‘there’ was.

My mother died 9 days before my 20th birthday. She was only 47. It was a standard ulcer operation that caused an infection. But I believe mostly it was apathy. My mother was tired, she had nothing left in the world, did not like who she had become and had nothing more of herself to give. I think she needed to rest. I’m glad she is.

I’ve come to terms fully with the way I grew up and the fact that those of us surviving in my family never or rarely speak. I’ve done my work and we’ve all made choices, and while it is sad, it is understandable and something they have chosen as a way to cope with those emotions they can’t face. I have, with intention and purpose, created a life of light, color and complete authenticity. It began as a journey I made for myself, then for my children. I knew if I was ever going to break the chain of the violence and fear I lived with, I would have to do the hardest work of my life and face every bit of it fiercely and without hesitation. Many people don’t do it because it’s brutal and it’s not something you do once. It’s a lifetime of growing, evolving, being open to change. Now, with gratitude and without anger, I am blessed with beautiful children, loving friends and a life I look forward to everyday. I spent so much of my existence feeling like I didn’t matter, like my feelings weren’t allowed, and my voice wasn’t welcome. My difficulties have made me kind, aware, and inclusive. I have, for as long as I can remember, wanted to make others feel like they matter, because it was not so long ago that I was that girl with my nose against the glass, hiding in darkness of shame. 

I will do anything in my power to prevent another person from feeling like that. Life should be experienced in the light! That is the power and moral of my story.