pain

the heavy weight of shame

I carry some extra weight with me right now. Some of it’s on my body, but that’s just the tip of the iceberg.

Recently one of my coaches talked about feeling stuck with weight loss—you might be doing everything right, eating well, exercising, sleeping, doing all the things that being health conscious asks of us, yet not making progress. I think that describes me pretty well. I can’t seem to lose the extra weight that has slowly crept onto certain parts of my anatomy over the past three or four years, so I related to what she was talking about.

At times I’ve been able to lose up to 10 pounds by what can only be called crash diets. They do work, but they aren’t sustainable, and my weight creeps back up. I can cut way back on alcohol and sugar, eat only low-fat protein and vegetables, work out every single day, and only see a small effect or no effect.

Of course, it could very well indicate some kind of imbalance in my body, thyroid or hormonal. But it could also be something more covert than that, in addition to, instead of or even a cause of the imbalance itself.

When it’s not affected by lifestyle, the coach brought up the idea of our extra weight serving us, in some way. To protect us, to cover a wound, to hide us, to make us invisible or bigger, to manifest an emotional burden. She suggested we first thank our body, thank the weight for serving us, and then spend some time asking it what purpose it serves and feeling grateful to that purpose. I do believe that our feelings, beliefs, emotions, repressions, fears and traumas manifest themselves in our bodies, especially if we aren’t conscious about releasing, feeling, addressing or accepting them. With that in mind, I started reflecting on what purpose my weight could be serving.

I’ve thought a lot about this. I now know that the weight, whatever its cause, is there to make me whole. In what way, I’m not sure, but that’s what it told me very clearly. Knowing that, the question I’ve opened myself to is why? Why have I felt it’s been necessary to create this extra padding in order to be whole?

Over a number of days of coming back to this, asking for guidance, and meditating about it, I realized this morning that I do have a heavy emotional burden, manifesting in the past few years, which I haven’t fully processed. This burden is a deep mortification, shame and anger toward myself.

While I’ve processed a lot of trauma in the last decade, I recognize that I’m still deeply ashamed that I let myself down, compromised, disrespected and betrayed myself by choosing to be involved for more than two years with an abusive, manipulative and dishonest partner. I take no responsibility for his choices or actions, but I do for mine. I allowed him into my life. I participated in the process of conditioning and manipulation. I knew it was wrong from day one, and I overrode all my instincts for the sake of a fantasy, instant gratification, the drug that he became to me.

Do I hold this man accountable? Absolutely. But I’ve spent a lot of years effectively dealing with my fury, resentment and contempt for him. I’ve purged him through fire and water, written angry letters and poetry, poured out my feelings in my journal and released his toxic presence from my body, home and mind. I came face to face with him earlier this year and felt nothing but a sort of glad gratitude that I felt nothing else—not fear, not anger, not even scorn. He’s nothing to me now, no longer the bogeyman that he was during and right after our relationship nor the dark shadow once I’d started to heal. That’s been the easy part.

The hard part is forgiving myself.

My closest friends know the truth about the relationship. They know—not during it, but now—that he stole from me repeatedly over two years. That I supported him and his children by other women and received no repayment of any kind, in spite of endless empty promises. That he emotionally abused me, using intense manipulation techniques from rages to coldness to accusations and word garbage to love bombing when he wanted something. They know that sex could be nonexistent or aggressive bordering on violent, depending on his mood, and that I believe that he was cheating on me throughout the entire relationship, going on late night “music drives” in my car in order to engage sexually with other women.

This was just some of it.

I’ve never told my family more than the barest shreds of these truths. I’ve been far too ashamed to admit that I allowed this. Not once, but for 26 months. I allowed it, allowed him to use and disrespect me, to violate my boundaries, my home, my body, my emotions. Not only that, I protected him, lied to my loved ones and made excuses for it.

I imagine most victims of manipulation and abuse, any kind of abuse, will understand this self-recrimination. It isn’t unique to me, and it’s very real. The trauma isn’t just that I was violated, but that I, in some measure, chose the violation. Invited it into my home. Offered it money, and more money. Said yes.

Said yes.

I wasn’t robbed at gunpoint by a stranger. I was robbed by my trusted partner—and robbed again, and again, and still trusted. I was so desperately attached I couldn’t see any other choice. I didn’t even end it. I was starting to become stronger and less tolerant, less emotionally flexible, and that set him off so that in a fit of pique, he broke up with me. Then demanded, and got, I’m sorry to say, a second chance, which he naturally blew by violating all our new agreements. When I worked up the courage—and it took great courage—to ask for an explanation, he suggested we break up. I agreed.

From that moment on, I’m not ashamed. I stood my ground. I said no when he asked me to get back together, two days later. I said no when he asked me for money. I was unmoved when he tried to manipulate me. When he wrote pleading emails, I saw through his lies and exaggerations.

From that moment on, I’m proud of myself. Proud that I took the chance offered to gain freedom and make the most of it. That I chose not to date for a year so I could focus on healing myself and figuring out what the hell I was doing with men who let me down. Proud that I worked extremely hard to make reparations to myself, to repair my home and finances, become a much better friend and partner to me. To understand why I’d been so vulnerable at the time we met that I was a perfect target for him, and heal those older wounds as well.

The choices I made from that moment on brought me here today, in a place of authentic contentment and alignment. I’m in a secure, loving second marriage, financially stable, firmly centered in self-respect and the practice of listening to my instincts.

I know that my growth required those 26 months of anxiety, pain and struggle. I wouldn’t be the person I am without them, and I’ve learned to be grateful for that. I see that it had a real and positive purpose. It’s helped me forgive (not to accept his behavior, but forgive) the man for his failures and transgressions and learn about the psychology of narcissistic personality disorders, sociopaths and aggressive personalities, leading to my growth in setting boundaries and recognizing manipulation. Without that relationship, I might very well not have chosen to date my husband, or been able to create our partnership. I wouldn’t have become so committed to following my instincts even when they don’t make rational sense, and to fiercely honoring my own needs and feelings.

I’m always going to be lugging some kind of baggage around. Life creates baggage, we never get rid of it all. And aging changes our bodies, there’s no denying that. Maybe my extra weight is purely physical and I just need to eat fewer and burn more calories, or cut out all cheese and chocolate entirely. (As if I could.)

Maybe. Very possibly.

But it’s also possible that this deep shame is a burden that’s manifesting in some extra pounds, or compounding an existing physical imbalance. It said its purpose is “making me whole”—perhaps it’s helping me understand that this trauma and mortification is still a part of me, a literal weight that I carry. And while I’ve done a lot of impressive work in processing and forgiving and healing, there’s more to be done.

I deserve it. I deserve to forgive myself as I’ve forgiven the man who abused me.

It’s hard to talk about this, to be honest. Even as I write this post, I feel the choking hand of shame at my throat, the tingles creep up my neck, as if something menacing is standing just behind me. But hiding it only gives it more power, which is why I choose to share my experience today and commit to bringing it into the open and the light.

I may never tell my family the full truth of what I went through. I may never share every sordid detail with my husband. And I don’t have to. I will find the support I need to let go of my anger, disappointment and humiliation, and to be whole in a healthier way. I will invest in the resources, the time and the honest reflection to come to a place of self-acceptance.

I’m ready to release this weight.

 

 

If you have any resources to recommend, books or support groups that have helped you through releasing shame and self-forgiveness, please share them in the comments.

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the richest lessons can be found in the darkest moments

It’s awful. Falling apart is awful.

No two crises are the same, even for the same person, but there are common themes and feelings that arise when life as we know it falls apart. The sick, sad, anxious knotting of the stomach that can’t possibly consider food. The hot waves of shame that come and drench us with disabling embarrassment and regret and guilt and fear, leaving us chilled to the very marrow of our bones when they finally pass. The aching feeling of being separated from everyone around us, imprisoned within our misery, unable to be wholly comforted. The choking sensation of tears, never far away. The conviction that we did this, we deserve this, we don’t deserve help and nothing will ever be the same again. No matter who or what bears the blame, everything in a crisis is overwhelming and distorted into an oppressively negative perspective.

There’s no way around this, the only way to get through it is through it. Through all the anger and shame and fear. It took me two years to finally feel the rage I had built up from my first, and biggest, life crisis—for two years it lived in my stomach and heart and mind, poisoning me, hiding in shadows and affecting everything though I didn’t recognize it. Once I allowed myself to actually feel and express the pent-up rage against my ex-husband, it was only the start of my true healing—and unfortunately I was all caught up with another, and very toxic, relationship at that point, which slowed me down by another two years. Five years from my crisis, I started to feel fully healed and actualized from everything it took and gave and taught me, all the loss and anger and sadness.

I know the worst thing we can do is hide it away. Make things OK because we NEED them to be, by force of will and deliberately turning our backs on the hardest emotions and the most upsetting truths, because we know we’re to blame and it’s easier to take accountability than it is to feel anger, or because we’re too afraid of the emotions that might come out if we let them. I hid it away and turned my back for years. I don’t regret that time. I made some extremely bad decisions, but I also found peace and began to make friends with myself. The biggest benefit from running from my anger and not processing it was that I learned how important it is to never do so again. How vulnerable we are—without realizing it—when we’re wounded. How resilient and strong we are when we give ourselves a chance to repair. But the wounds have to be opened and cleaned, they have to have that stinging exposure to light and air before we can begin to cleanse them out and stitch them up. And it hurts. It hurts A LOT. A different kind of hurt than the aching festering soreness we’ve hidden from for so long. Much more immediate, impossible to ignore, impossible not to feel.

But that’s the start of healing. The sharpest pain, when felt fully, invited in, given space, even honored, will ease, and will leave behind a more wholesome wound that’s ready to start closing. Forgiveness is the final salve on those itching, healing wounds, helping seal them cleanly forever. They will leave behind scars, reminding us of the hard-fought wisdom we gained. We won’t make those same mistakes again.

I look back at myself five years ago, shaking and bruised and overwhelmed, and I see how far I’ve come. I also see the same person I always was, the person I will become through future troubles and grief. I gained so much insight about myself, yet there are whole continents left still to discover within me. So much more to learn, to heal, to release. And the crisis helped get me here—through all the terrible choices and pain and tears, through losing things I once thought I couldn’t live without. And I survived without them, I survived the loss of them. My husband, my best friend, my married identity and my marriage, my beloved pet, my self-respect and self-trust. The exterior things are gone for good. But I gained back my self-respect and self-trust. I gained a new identity, stronger and rooted in self, not in other. I learned what boundaries mean. I found my partnership with myself, found my faithful, wise inner guide, found a way to be alone without fear or lack.

I hate anyone has to go through such a sad and traumatic time. I hate that anyone has to bear a burden of shame and loneliness, and be afraid of what’s to come.

But in another sense, without in any way lessening my empathy for their pain, I’m excited for what could happen. I’m hopeful. If they can survive the pain and fire and grief and more bad decisions and upheaval and anxiety and overwhelm, they have a chance to rebuild on foundations stronger than they’ve ever imagined, out of the ruin of what was. It isn’t a quick process. Only recently am I finally feeling healed from my crises, five years from the first, a year from the second. I know I have more growing to do in just about every way—but I don’t think I have much more grieving to do. I feel at peace with what happened to me. Bubbles of anger or shame still rise occasionally, they did this week, but they’re much easier to let go of now. The deep contentment I feel at the truth of my life, the grace of having even a partial awareness of this truth, was worth every moment of heartbreak.

I wake up happy and hopeful, and I go to sleep the same. The superficial passing of emotions—boredom, dissatisfaction with work, frustration with others or myself, stress, irritation, resistance, greed, hurt, worry, embarrassment—these are nothing. They have no effect on the deeper satisfaction, gratitude and gladness I feel at my life. They come and go in ripples across a still, calm, silent lake. The depths of me is satisfied, is conscious of that satisfaction and grateful for it, is hopeful and yet detached. I used to feel as if I couldn’t possibly make sense of anything. I was caught up in an unhappy dream of myself, dissatisfied and lost, riddled with fear, beset by lack. Madly running from man to man and solution to solution, using anything to make the pain go away—except facing it.

I’m not afraid to face my pain. I’m not afraid of my darkest, most shameful secrets, my most reprehensible crimes against others, my most foolish choices, my most excruciating wounds. There will always be more rocks to turn over, more dark secrets to bring out, more behaviors to recognize and address. But for the first time, I feel whole. Wholesome and healthy, all the way through me, nourished and secure. I know I’m thriving—I can feel myself doing so, even as road rage or envy ruffles my surface. I would never have gotten here if it hadn’t been for the worst moments of my life.

So while I don’t wish that pain on anyone, I do wish on them what can happen after the pain. The freedom from dragging despair, from the cloud of dissatisfaction and negativity that never quite lifts, from autopilot and hiding from our own truths, fearing who we really are, unable to love ourselves with unconditional abandon like no one else ever can or will. The freedom to thrive.