“When our instinctual life is shamed, the natural core of our life is bound up. It’s like an acorn going through excruciating agony for becoming an oak, or a flower feeling ashamed for blossoming.”  – John Bradshaw, Healing The Shame that Binds You.

You’re back!

Thanks for joining me on Day 3 of this journey of walking away from Shame and its grip and impact on our lives. A journey into hope and freedom and a thriving soul.

I saved you a spot on the couch.  Grab that steaming cup of coffee or tea (cream and sugar?), your favorite and coziest blanket, and I’ll tell you a short story.

Then, if you want, you can tell me yours.

They won’t be exactly the same, but I’m betting there are similar cords in both.

Yesterday we talked about how it can be tricky to find the beginning of our Shame stories. But there is always a beginning. Often, it requires us to follow a consistent thread of memories and thinking that have run throughout our entire lives.

For many of us, it started at a young age.

For me it was age 4 or 5.

The picture you see is me right around that age. Awwwww….

As most little girls do, I enjoyed life to the fullest!  Trees were made to climb, dolls were made to cuddle and dreams were meant to follow. The world still seemed magical and held every possible dream that ran through my thick-haired little noggin.

I laughed and played and loved hard.  My entire heart freely followed me into every experience like a welcome companion.  I felt things deeply and had no idea that there was any other way to live.

Until…

One summer we went to a family reunion.  Oh the fun!  Sleeping in a cabin! Swimming in the lake!  Soaring evergreens to gaze at!  Cousins to play with!  Campfires complete with marshmallow roasting!

The perfect setting for me to get enjoy and make memories with my extended family.

I woke up one morning, eager and ready to go out and experience every part of what seemed to be an enchanted forest of possibilities, with more than enough adventures to fill my day.

But something wasn’t right.

My mama was still lying in bed.

The most important woman in my life was down with one of her frequent migraines. These headaches terrified me. I hated what they did to her, making her so ill she couldn’t function.  Causing her to be so violently sick that I would plug my ears to avoid hearing the frightening sounds of her wretching.

The worst part was that I couldn’t help her.  I couldn’t do anything to relieve her awful pain.  I felt powerless against the situation.

I ran outside to find the first person I could who might understand my mother’s pain and help me sort out my own feelings of helplessness.  I was certain that anyone I found would be deeply concerned as I was over my mama’s crushing pain.

The first person I saw was my older cousin.  He was smart and had much more life experience than I did  and I adored him.  He was a 10-year-old boy who was doing all the things that a normal prepubescent boy would do at a campsite.  Throwing sticks.  Chasing his brother.  Rummaging through the dirt and poking at the ashes in the fire pit. Anything he did was amazing from my perspective.

“My mama has a bad headache,” I blurted out, looking for his comforting, sensitive reply.

But instead of the response I expected, I heard this:

“Who cares?”

Those two words felt like a kick to my gut that almost  knocked the wind right out of my little body, and metaphorically out of my 5-year-old heart.

He didn’t care about my mom?  He didn’t hurt for her like I did?  Her pain didn’t affect him?

(Realistically, of course, “Who cares?” is a perfectly normal response from 10-year-old boy toward his annoying little cousin, but I had never heard such a phrase before.)

I ran back inside our small cabin to report to my mom what he’d said, sure that she would be hurt or angry or both. Mortified, even.

But again, the response I got was not the answer I expected.

“Oh, honey.  No one cares if I have a headache!”

She stated it nonchalantly as a well-known fact.  As truth.  As if this was the normal way that the world worked.  She was neither offended nor disappointed by my cousin’s reaction to her pain.

And suddenly a frightening reality hit me.

The world wasn’t what I thought it was and I didn’t fit in it.

I learned three things that day:

 1. CARING SO MUCH IS NOT NORMAL. It’s embarrassing and shameful and childish.  Because “nobody cares”.

  2. Since “nobody cares”, then I HAVE TO CARE, shameful or not, FOR EVERYONE.  Because SOMEBODY  HAS TO CARE.

3. If “nobody cares” then I CANNOT SHARE MY FEELINGS/PAIN/STRUGGLES WITH ANYONE. Because they just don’t care. And assuming they did or could was embarrassing, shameful, childish.

Many of you are probably saying, “Really?  THIS is where Shame started for you?  How anti-climactic!”

Sorry to disappoint, but yes.

Not because the circumstance was extreme, but because it helped form my image of myself (I was too much, too sensitive, odd, naive) and the way I saw others (no one cares).

My cousin said something that was completely age-appropriate.  My mom had said something meant as a passing comment so that I could get on with my day.

The problem was that, at 5, I took what they said very literally and as gospel truth.

Shame left me with a boatload of lies that day, the greatest of which was that I was created abnormally.  Too sensitive.  Too intense.  Too much.

It started with just two simple words, but you can probably guess that dragging that thread of thought around with me for the past 50 years  resulted in some issues along the way.

And you’d be right.  But we’ll save that for tomorrow because my short story has turned out a little longer than I expected. 🙂

Question:  Can you pinpoint your first memory of feeling Shame?  Has it affected how you have come to see yourself, others, the world?  In what ways? 

If you would ever like to share your story with me,  or have questions you’d like to ask privately, feel free to email me at janajarvis82@gmail.com

See you tomorrow!

xoxoxo

j

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