The shame monster

And it’s seemingly impossible antidote

Somewhat unknowingly, my plan A has been to shame myself into success. Unfortunately—this has proven ineffective. I am well versed on Brene Brown’s books and Ted Talks. I am cognitively aware of the power of shame and how it grows and becomes suffocating when it is kept inside. And yet—for some reason when my therapist told me that I couldn’t bully myself into a better version of me, that I had to like myself into change, it felt like a punch to the stomach. I don’t know how to evict shame. I don’t always even know what it looks like or how much space it takes up. I don’t know when it started to build a home in me and I don’t know really know who I am without it. The antidote? Apparently self compassion.

Before we get to that, I think it would be helpful to personify the shame—A monster— but not the kind who scares you at first. Grey on the outside, stretching and shape shifting—almost inviting, like the sky before it is about to rain. So, you move closer to get a better look only to find out that it turns darker and sharper and uglier until you can’t look away. And the longer you stare—the more you forget where you begin and where the shame ends.

When did the seed of shame begin? What happened between kings and queens of playground castles and wishing to be invisible?

Behavior Charts

Was it elementary school behavior charts when quiet and still were rewarded and loud and disturbing warranted a color change? I learned to color inside the lines of “good”. I can only remember one color change—I was talking in line because I was excited that I finished my fast fact sheet. “Keeley, change your card to yellow.”—I can feel my stomach drop and the heat cover my face to this day—the desire to sink into the floor. That feeling is great marker for the presence of shame for me.

Sinner

I think it really sunk in around 4th or 5th grade that I was a sinner, innately bad, who deserved hell. Of course, there was a silver lining. Jesus could make me good and forgiven and holy. That was supposed to cancel out the shame of sin. But, the innately bad and doomed feeling never really left. I was never forgiven enough, saved enough, holy enough, good enough. I definitely didn’t deserve grace. So why would I give it to myself now?

Barbies and Beauty Standards

I saw the Barbie movie last night. (It was really something) I had probably 50 Barbie dolls and 30 Bratz dolls, all of whose bodies defied science and anatomy. I measured my body against the seemingly identical and conventionally attractive bodies of actresses on 2000’s romcoms. The yellow polka dot bikini commercial lived rent free in my brain—you know, the one where the girl wants to fit into the bikini hanging on her wall so she eats low calorie yogurt. This guy⬇️…trigger warning, maybe?

The 2000’s were really something. There was certainly shame there—or at least the guide post for it. If you can’t fit a swimsuit, definitely don’t buy a new one—change your body.

Yoga Pants

Or, did shame trickle in when I was taught in middle school small group to cover my pre-pubescent body so that none of our brothers in Christ would stumble? I didn’t know that my body’s simple existence could cause such destruction before that. So, then I wore shame with my yoga pants and two piece bathing suits and exposed bra straps.

Unloved

And perhaps shame was amplified when I declared love for people only for it to be unreturned? There is something sinking and achy about being in love alone that begs “What did I do wrong?”—“What is wrong with me?”

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I’d say it is a little of all of that and a lot of other things, too. I do wonder about the impact of religion on shame—if people that grew up in the church are predisposed to be filled with more of it…is anybody researching that?

So, the antidote— self compassion. Let’s personify it. She is shaped like shame—but lighter. cloud like, moldable and soft. She is colorful but holds bits of the grey of shame in her so she can understand. She sparkles and invites you to simply sit and rest.

I am supposed to talk kindly to myself and give myself grace—a grace I was taught I did not deserve. And as much as I believe that I do today, the shame monster tells me that I do not. It tells me that if there is a problem, it is me—my wrong doing, my misstep, my moral failing. So, now I find myself feeling like I am failing again—and this time at self compassion. Maybe instead of trying to believe the complete opposite, we start with something like—“I’m so sorry that you were taught that you don’t deserve grace—that must be so hard.” More of an empathizing and less of a correction.

One of my journal prompts this week was to write a note to myself as if I was writing to a friend and after some mental gymnastics, I wrote this:

“You are brave to try big things, to not follow the path that you thought you would. I know it feels like you are floating, unable to find the ground—It would be easy to give up and I’m so glad you haven’t. It’s not stupid to dream and it’s not stupid to let a dream go to save yourself. You haven’t wasted your time. I’m so proud of you for continuing on–I know how dark it can get and I’m here for you when you just need someone to sit in the dark with you. I won’t try to fix it. You deserve to feel good.”

Self compassion feels like the slack you never thought you deserved, like a compliment that you half believe. But I think we keep trying it. Even if it just starts as a gentle acknowledgement. Maybe eventually it seeps in, maybe we start to assume the best about ourselves.

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Writing prompt: Think of something you feel shameful about. Write a note to yourself about it as if you were talking to a best friend.