Shame was the dominant feeling during my childhood and into my twenties due to the trauma I experienced as a child. I called feeling this shame a shame wave. A wave that washes over me again and again, causing self-loathing and disgust. Childhood trauma and shame go together.
When I was young, shame was like a cloak I wore and couldn’t shake off. I walked around all the time, knowing in my heart of hearts that I was less than, not good enough. I didn’t do things I wanted to do. I was trapped in my mind, thinking negative thoughts about myself, filled with self-loathing as thick as pea soup, which meant I was constantly thinking about myself. A therapist diagnosed me with PTSD in 1986. I read about it and decided she was wrong that it only applies to veterans.
Emmet Fox says if you want to feel bad, go into a room, think only about yourself and how you aren’t getting what you deserve, and how no one treats you with enough respect. He says that you’ll be miserable in no time. It’s true. Every time I go on a “Poor me. Look how bad I’ve got it” bender. I feel unhappy quickly.
I didn’t see the happy people in the world. I rarely wrote. I’ve wanted to be a writer since I was five or six. I wrote poems to my mom. I wrote a particularly nasty one at thirteen because I wasn’t getting my way. I found her crying after she read it. At that moment, I knew words had power. H.A. Ogden said in 1892, “The pen is mightier than the sword.”
Whenever I write, I think, “Why would anyone want to read my words?” I wrote about sexual abuse over and over and over. I was also gang raped, but sexual abuse was more personal and destroyed my self-esteem, my hope. Plus, I was drunk when I was gang raped, which made me feel like it was my fault anyway. I’m not belittling anyone’s struggle to recover from rape. It’s difficult too. I thought I was responsible for sexual abuse as well. I’ve since learned better.
When I got sober, I thought about the abuse all the time. Giant movie screens opened before me, playing the whole sordid experience live on the big screen for me to cringe at and sink deeper into despair over. My shame originates from these acts. Shame is also a pile-on feeling for me. If I do something stupid at work or with a friend or boyfriend, I berate myself in my mind for hours. “Stupid, stupid, stupid!”
In the past 15 years, shame has been rare. I’ve done loads of work on myself. I went to therapy for the first time when I was five. As an adult, I did intensive treatment for ten years, shared my experiences, wrote a letter to my childhood abuser (and received a response), worked to maintain my sobriety, and participated in EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing) therapy.
Let me break them down. I went to therapy and talked and talked and talked. I quit therapy to try it on my own for a while. Sometime later, I realized the shame was overwhelming me. I went back to therapy with a therapist who did EMDR. She had me hold these two vibrating plastic pieces, one in each hand. I was to think of something disturbing, close my eyes, and breathe. I thought it was silly, but it worked. It brought up many other alarming experiences. I couldn’t handle it. It was like drinking from a firehose, only, instead of water, memories were pouring out.
My experience writing to my abuser was life-altering. I wrote a letter that said, “I hate you. You ruined my life. I hope you rot in Hell.” That was the essence of the two-page letter. Then I remembered my favorite quote, “Hating people is like burning down your own house to get rid of a rat,” Harry Emerson Fosdick. I didn’t revise the letter. I continued, “I can’t hold on to this hate. Something terrible must have happened to you, too. I forgive you and release you. I hope you can find some peace.”
Some time passed, and I received a letter back. There was no return address. The street address for my apartment was wrong. He spelled my name wrong. And still, it got to me. He said, “I received your letter and wish to apologize for any pain I caused.” That’s all that mattered to me. He went on to say that his family experienced great pain over the incident, which is the exact opposite of the way I was taught to make amends. But I give him a pass. He owned it. He also signed the letter with his name, not a scrawled unrecognizable signature. How many abuse victims ever get an apology? I’ll take it. It made me feel less crazy. Before that, he denied it when confronted, and I wondered if it really happened. I have the letter I wrote to him, too. Typed on a typewriter in 1992. I can’t read it, though, not today. Some bodies are best left buried. Too macabre? Sorry about that.
Recently, those waves of shame started happening again. I think I’m in a growth spurt. I got laid off from my job of eight years. I decided to start my own business. I got about five or six inquiries, and only one paid me to do any editing. When he said he wanted to hire me, I felt excited, and then, I felt ashamed. It has always been my dream to be a writer and nothing else, not a technical writer, but a real writer, and get paid for it. It was as though I didn’t deserve to fulfill a dream. So, I’ve given up on it, stymied by self-doubt. I also need good health insurance.
Everyone keeps telling me I need a social media presence, and I refuse. I don’t want to be seen. Don’t want people looking at me. Want to live under the radar? Don’t attract attention. I think my self-esteem and ego are too fragile for a business and social media presence.
Why would anyone listen to me? I’ve been writing since I was a little kid. I’ve sent maybe seven pieces for publication but couldn’t tolerate the rejection. I sent a short story disguised as a fiction story about sexual abuse, very detailed. The editor returned a handwritten note saying I should keep writing. I’ve published four things in my long life. Whoopdeedo!
I finished my first novella recently. I’ve only ever written essays and short stories. When I got my story back from the editor, it was suddenly a hot potato. I took it on vacation and didn’t pick it up once. There I was–the imposter again. I’ve come to believe that deep down, I think I don’t deserve to have dreams come true or that I’m too big for my britches. After each of these experiences, I woke up feeling shame waves. These waves color my days, spreading like blood in a TV murder scene, whispering, “You’re not good enough. You should quit.” Even worse, sometimes I hear the refrain, “You’re fat. You’re ugly. You’re stupid,” on repeat, like a torrential rain storm pouring down on me. It’s hard to achieve any goals with this crap rolling around in my mind.
I have a fear of failure. In writing this blog, things to write poured out of my mind. I realized I have numerous mental health issues: PTSD, bipolar disorder, and alcoholism. With medication and introspection, I can learn to manage bipolar and learn to live with the wreckage of PTSD. I also use prayer to quiet my mind.
Most of the time, I treat my shame with mantras and prayers: “All is well. All is well. All will be well.” I wake up in the middle of the night with dread–oozing shame. I chant in my head, “God is love. God help me.” I try to be spiritual. It treats the shame.
Another treatment is helping someone else: an elderly lady crossing the street, a friend in crisis, a family member who feels lonely, smiling at people at the grocery store, gas station, or work, and calling up a friend, asking how she’s doing, and not talking about myself. It doesn’t matter who or what. It just matters that I’m not thinking about myself: my shame and troubles. I also try to help other people like me—people who have PTSD, bipolar people, or people in recovery from alcoholism. What matters, though, is that I help someone else.
I got the idea to publish this website and share it with as many people as possible. I finished it to the best of my ability. I know it’s not perfect. I emailed 35 people from my contact list–some of whom I hadn’t seen in over five years. When I woke up the following day, I felt like I was waking up after a hard night of drinking in a blackout with no idea where I was or what I’d done. Shame washed over me like paint, thick and gooey, covering me in such a thick layer I couldn’t see through it.
Since my first experience with my most recent shame, I’ve been toying with the idea of going back to an EMDR therapist. Thank you, everyone. Writing to you solidified my decision. I emailed my shrink lady and asked her to refer me. I will share the results.
When I got sober, I felt so alone, isolated from everyone by what my mind was telling me. I heard, “You’re fat. You’re ugly. You’re stupid,” for many years. I didn’t meet anyone with my history for a long time. I talked about being sexually abused and gang raped. Reactions were mixed, and I shut up. I felt alone because I hardly ever heard anyone with similar experiences. When I started talking about it, people would come up to me and say, “I didn’t know anyone else felt like that.” “I didn’t know anyone else had experienced that. I always felt so alone.” That’s why I’m writing this blog. I have experience. I’m not that scared to share it. Yeah, I’m not that scared. But it’s important enough that I speak anyway.
I really enjoy this relationship with you, dear readers. I can write anything I want. I don’t get subjected to ridicule or rejection. I can go on my merry way thinking you all love me and enjoy my writing. It’s a happy place, this writing cave. I hope someone is getting something out of it.
Shame is a terrible, icky feeling. It doesn’t need to control me. I’m still writing. I’m still the owner of a fledgling business. I refuse to let shame run my life. I hope you won’t either.
For more information about coping with sexual abuse, see Six Self-Care Tips on Overcoming Abuse-Related Trauma, and You can heal from sexual trauma — even decades later.