Guilt Or Shame?
SHE SPEAKS HER TRUTH
Written by: Nancy Blackman
“I wish you were never born!” she screamed.
The words ripped through my brain and rushed to my heart as I kept my hands steady on the wheel. It was a typical drive home from work that turned into a nasty truth serum — the kind where a frustrated mother speaks her truth.
It wasn’t that I hadn’t known this throughout my life. It was that, at age 18, she said it. The truth was out. There was no more hiding from it.
It was a summer when I was home from university, staying with my parents and working at another local university to make some summer cash. My mother also worked at the university but in a different department, so commuting was a no-brainer.
Until that day.
Silence became the pre-emptor for the next 30 days. I had to get to work, so I took the free ride in silence.
As that shame and truth ravaged my body and heart, I stole away to quiet moments during my workdays to not let anyone know that anything was wrong. I met for my rides at the designated meeting spots and kept my mouth shut.
Why? Because how do you respond to that? With an Oh, I’m sorry? Nah.
After 30 days, my father, the dude who I thought was my bestie, stepped outside one morning as I waited at the car and said, “I think you should apologize to your mother.”
And there it was. The torture was too much, the shame eating away at my soul, and not in a good way.
I looked at him, stunned. “What am I apologizing for?”
In a quick instant, he looked at me and realized that his wife had placed a boulder of confusion between his daughter and himself. He shook his head and walked back into the house.
The summer could not come to an end fast enough.
If we share our shame story with the wrong person, they can easily become one more piece of flying debris in an already dangerous storm.
Here’s how that shame played out in my life. I became a perfectionist and overachiever. There was something about this new all-white pool I had been swimming in since coming to the US. People kept coming by, pushing me under the water, holding my head under while I was struggling to breathe, struggling to find air, my space, and my voice. Pretty soon, this once straight-A student was flunking out of college as my mother’s words seemed to carve a path into my soul that did not quickly mend. Imagine that.
I turned to alcohol, hoping it would calm the pain. Good thing I’m a lightweight because I imagine my liver would be in bad shape today. I also dabbled with some drugs. But let’s face it. Alternative substances never numb you towards self-awareness. They numb you into oblivion.
Eventually, I used my long-distance running to keep me from alcohol and drugs. Baby steps. Moving from one obsession to another was the baby steps I was making towards a healthier me. A year after my father passed, I ran a marathon to commemorate our relationship, all the while feeling the wind at my back as I took each step.
It took me a long time to ease my way out of perfectionism and the need to be an overachiever. Okay, the truth is, I am still a work in progress, so let’s say I’m more aware, but my need to show the world that I have a place sometimes shows up in my need to be perfect. Those are also false facades, but you know that already.
The thing with bad shame is that it dulls your senses to the point where you either self-destruct or become very successful. At this point, your success hinges on whatever shame propped you up in the first place.
My shame shows up in the least expected moments. I love to cook, but there are moments when my cooking becomes a shameful event. I was thrown into the kitchen at age 14, told to cook for my family without knowing what I was supposed to do. The first meal was ok, but, according to my narcissist mother, it was horrible.
That imposter syndrome can paralyze me. Every once in a while, that silly shame drops onto my left shoulder, whispering phrases like, “who do you think you are?” “Do you think this is going to taste that great?”
So, the work I have been doing over the last 20 years is turning that shame into joy. Let’s take cooking. When I hear stupid, stupid things in my head, I keep going. I don’t let the subliminal shame ruin who I am meant to be.
As a creative person, I like doing many things:
painting canvas, watercolor paper (and walls)
graphic design (spent a whole career doing that)
cook
create recipes
write
make tea blends. Yes, I do that, too.
If we can share our shame story with someone who responds with empathy and understanding, shame can’t survive. —Brené Brown
If I learned anything from seminary, I realized that I am here for a reason, so why not make the best of it? I am created to be a writer and creator of things that bring joy for myself and others. That’s where the grace for my shame steps in. That’s where shame gets turned on its head. That’s where all that head bobbing I did early on in life becomes me rising to the occasion and using my voice for good.
Connect with Nancy Blackman on Twitter and read more of her stories on Medium.