TW – child sexual trauma.
My uncle started molesting me when I was still in diapers. I don’t think it’s debatable that it is truly depraved to see a toddler as a sexual object. Yet by the time I was four years old, I understood that what happened with him needed to be a secret.
He told me that, of course. He explained that it was something I couldn’t talk about. I couldn’t talk about a lot of things. What happens at home, stays at home.
But this was different. He told me even if I shared, no one would ever believe me. Everyone would hate me for being a liar. I felt like I was dirty, but I kept our secret because to share would be even dirtier.
I was silent until I realized I wasn’t the only one. After a period of trying to figure out what to do, my 16-year-old self spoke up. Unlike some, I was not called a liar, but being believed didn’t erase how I felt. I’d been holding that shame my whole life, and I didn’t know how to let go.
Now that the story was in the open and I had what appeared to be a socially acceptable target, I took all the anger I’d been storing and erupted with rage. I hunted him, running him off the road and threatening his life. I ran poor soccer moms off the road for daring to drive the same model minivan.
Anger was easy. I felt that justice and God himself were on my side. I was righteous, and powerful. Power was a drug to a girl who had spent years feeling powerless.
Yet other feelings were impossible to go near – grief, worthlessness, and especially shame.
The predator wants your silence. It feeds their power, entitlement, and they want it to feed your shame.
Viola Davis
Just telling my story wasn’t enough. I heard someone say that telling our story is easy – we just dissociate and can tell it over and over, with no internal impact. For me, I needed to own my story, with emotions. All of them.
I’ve spent several years thinking I was running from the grief, because I hate to cry. Last fall I started to become quite weepy, even though I didn’t feel especially sad. New perspective on memories began to emerge. It’s not grief. I am coming face-to-face with my shame.
Is it even my shame? I’ve heard it said that often, when survivors of abuse feel shame, they’re carrying the emotions their perpetrators should have felt.
Remember that enraged kid? I’ll be damned if I carry my uncle’s shame for him. Oh no no. I want to put that burden down.
To face the shame means to stop keeping the secrets. I’m telling the stories. I’m not shouting them from the rooftops, but I am putting them on the Internet which in all likelihood is the 21st century version of being public.
If you’re feeling shame, is it because you’re holding onto a story that needs to be told? You don’t have to create a blog in order to shed your secrets.
There must be someone you can share with – a partner, friend, or pastor, perhaps.
There’s a lot I share only one-on-one. Right now I’m doing a lot of shame work with my therapist, sharing secrets I didn’t even realize I still kept. And earlier, when I shared my first fifth step with my sponsor, I considered it a catalog of my shame.
Shame burrows deep, causing infection that rots away any chance for joy.
Instead of being weepy today, my head is held high and I feel more comfortable in my own skin.
Stop hanging onto the secrets. Tell those stories. Give yourself the gift of freedom and joy.
