It’s a Real Shame

As I’ve become more self-reliant through recovery, I’ve gained freedom to dedicate time to uninterrupted reflection. This time of year I use up a lot of head space. Now it feels like it’s going to good use.

We all have an intimate relationship with shame. I’m really not here to dive into yours. So, let’s talk about mine. I grew up sort of enveloped in shame. I was taught shame, embarrassment, guilt, as we all are. I was ashamed of abuse I endured, and why it must have been happening. I was ashamed that only one of my parents wanted me. I was ashamed of the words I was deemed in cruelty, by people who were, by all societal assumptions, meant to love me unconditionally. I was ashamed for the ways I fell short, when I didn’t place in competitions, or I made my mother cry with my honesty. I was ashamed of why my friendships were limited and how the police knew my family. Then sexual violence entered my life. I was ashamed of that too. I was taught to feel guilt from a young age about what was being perpetrated against me. I sat on it, in it, and let it stifle me. As my experiences with sexual violence increased, by 14 I was essentially begging for help. I knew that shame was swallowing me whole, as the formal term PTSD entered my life for the first time. When I would share, I was taught not to. Every person I turned to, whether it be family or friends or mandated reporters, swatted me back.

Those aren’t the things we share aloud. We don’t give voice to pain. We sit in it.

That didn’t sit well with me. Still, much of my space was crowded with it all. This shame I carried everywhere for actions against me which I had somehow deemed myself worthy of. If nobody addresses it, then nobody fixes it, and if nobody changes the cause of the pain, did I earn it? I guess that’s what led me to push. I couldn’t answer the questions of what kind of person I am or what sort of behavior am I worthy of, but what I could do was be better. Fortunately, I associated education with being better. I looked around me, at people floundering and wallowing, and I saw a lack. I noticed how not one of these people knew how to get out of their shame and the circumstances that led to it. I’ve since, of course, learned that formal education is not an education on the self and on options in this life, but it can be. And as a teenager, “can” was all I needed. Just a chance at better was enough, because it was better than nothing already. So I tried. I tried really hard to be better by learning. If I learned enough, if I had enough knowledge, enough insight, I’d get out. I would know how. I’d step outside of the cycle of abuse, permanently. I would erase opportunity for addiction within myself. I’d see the world in a different way, and see parts of it that feeling stuck doesn’t allow us to. I’d experience light and prioritize boundaries and kindness would come easy and that was what “good” meant to me. Chalk it up to Catholic school, or a desperation for safety, but there it is. There it was. I had a plan. Be better, get good, deserve good.

There’s that shame though. How dare I, as a human being, believe I need to earn the right to be treated as a human being? Anyway, I pushed. Somewhere along the way, whether it was in exhaustion or enlightenment, I swallowed my silence. I did not verbally vomit my truths all at once. It started small. I had a best friend in college who did not befriend any filter. When he casually explained an instance of domestic abuse, I quietly decided I was safe enough to say, “that happened to me too.” He just nodded and continued on. The earth didn’t split. He didn’t swat me back. Life kept going. It was my first taste of that feeling of power when a little dribble of shame exits the body.

My final years in college were my most honest by that point. I didn’t share my experiences of sexual violence lightly, or often, but sometimes I was brave. By graduation, I would casually discuss domestic abuse, drug and alcohol addiction, inter-generational trauma, and all the toxicities by which I measured my life. I had become comfortable with the uncomfortable, and it eased my burden. My voice diminished my shame. Honesty offered me power over my own experiences.

Backpacking came next. Travel was, like formal education, “not for us,” according to my family. I had worked so hard between multiple jobs and finishing college, that I knew I needed a physical step away. I took that step. I treated myself. I left, for a while. I learned about people and places and things through interactions I had spent my college years learning to believe myself worthy of. All my truths came out. There is an unfiltered sense of self to be gained from solo travel, and such a willingness to be brutally authentic when meeting other travelers. When all you have to be familiar with on the road is yourself, your backpack doesn’t offer enough space for shame to be carried. I dropped what was left of my shame somewhere in Berlin, and carried on. As it turns out, I learned that I am a good person, that I’m somebody I like, and that that’s enough for me.

A few weeks after I learned to fully embrace myself and my story, a few novels-worth were added. I was taken. The psychological torture of hearing two people fight over who would get to kill me was accompanied by acts that were shameful. I was drugged and beaten, dragged through streets of strangers in a country far from home, urinated on, strangled, raped. I was changed. I was permanently altered. I’m not referencing the traumatic brain injury I suffered or the new blazing struggle with PTSD. I mean me. The attack, my escape, the aftermath, left me different. I remember the day I escaped. I was certain, even in my escape, that I was going to die. I was laying in a hostel bed, contacting my mother, waiting for the authorities, and then there it was. I felt shame. For the first time in so long, I was flush with pain and shame and embarrassment. I hadn’t broken the cycle. Sexual violence still found me. It didn’t matter how many books I read or essays I wrote or concepts I learned. Sexual violence had protruded into my very sense of self, again. I felt stupid. I felt like I had learned nothing, like I had changed nothing. I felt this all-encompassing curiosity: Why me? What did I do this time? What could warrant this? What logic could even be applied to this so my mind can wrap around it? The answer never came. The answer does not exist. I remember realizing that, at some point early on, after I got back to the states.

I did not invite tragedy into my life. At every point, as a child, as a teen, as an adult, I was a human being deserving of humanity. Nobody needs trauma thrust upon them as a means of learning, or for any other reason either. I did nothing to warrant being taken, or being beaten, or being raped. I did not attack anybody in any way, least of all enough so they may feel justified in ending my life. No logic can be applied to why I have suffered at the hands of sexual violence. I did not ask for this, or signal the universe for this, or wrong anybody involved in this. The shame is not mine to carry. The shame of the attack rests solely on my attackers.

I had learned who I was by the time of the attack. I was proud of who I was. I was proud of the person I had built myself into. The attack changed that person, and I resented that for a long time. I resented brushing against shame again. I resented the disabilities and long physical recovery it left me to face. I resented the way it landed me back where I didn’t want to be, in a lot of ways. More than anything, I resented how I needed to learn who this new me is, from scratch, and then learn to love her again. Here’s what I’ve learned: I don’t trust anybody, but I trust myself to get through whatever damage people can inflict. I avoid crowds. Men terrify me. The ocean smells like home. I get frustrated with pacing, and understanding the changes in my body and brain and feelings. I will only hug people I have accepted fully into my support system. Shaking hands upon meeting somebody puts me on such high alert that it triggers migraines. I only like two podcasts. Music doesn’t feel the same in my ears. All dogs are good dogs. All humans are worthy of a smile, but I owe only myself my time. My mother is still my best friend, if not more so. Anybody who has ever violated my basic right to consent can send me into a rage by existing. Rage, that’s a new thing too. I feel anger now, which I don’t know how to feel about, and I understand hatred, which I fundamentally dislike. I don’t like church because I’m religious, I like that I remember that being part of my upbringing, and the power of memory brings me peace now. I drink a lot of water. Football makes Sundays better. Yoga still helps. I will not initiate physical affection. Conversations about the government make me so anxious I get physically ill. I ramble when I get excited. I have no filter, or any need for one. People have been helped by my honesty. I’d rather wave my freak flag at all times and be ostracized for intensity than meander through interactions with dishonesty. I’m intense. I cook well, still bake better. I answer messages as soon as I receive them so people know they matter to me, but also so I don’t forget and accidentally give them the impression they don’t matter to me. I worry a lot about my nieces. Taking photos is fun. Maybe I could live in Florida, but then, it’s Florida, so nah. I like hiking. I like warm socks year round. Snow is still my favorite, but I get cold really easily now. I embrace simple joys. I honor people for their grace. I practice gratitude. I’m strong. I’m honest. I’m a survivor. I’m a writer. I’m a good listener. I will not continue a cycle of violence. I have a lot to say. I have no shame. I kind of like myself. That’s what I know so far. It may not seem like much, but it’s a lot more than I would know if I was swimming in undue shame rather than speaking my truth to anybody who will listen. My voice has power. Shame does not belong to me, but to those who have committed violence against me. I am a work in progress, and I am worth changing the cycle of violence.