What is shame? For me, it is a sense of being wrong, at the very core. Mistakes become treacherous. To say I am sorry can feel like I am dying. When I am guided by my shame, I do subtle things that hurt others. Shame creeps it's way in.
Some of my shame comes from my father. He was ashamed of his body. My Dad was run over my a city bus in Detroit on September 28th, 1960. And I was born, 10 years later to the day. The doctors told him he would never walk again, but he did. And that he would never have children, and he did. My Dad lived with several physical limitations, some severe, for the rest of his life. He was in physical pain a lot. And we never talked about it. Only when he was dying, did he share how it had been for him. My heart hurts just remembering it. But because it was not talked about, and because my Dad hated parts of himself and left them in the closet for many, many years, shame crept in.
Something is wrong with you, shame screams inside.
Shame is a slithery little
emotion. It just slips in and I don't know I am feeling it until I
notice I am judging myself. The other morning, I danced only with my
hips. And hips carry family stories and can carry, old, old shame. I
think I shook some of it loose so it could breath. What shook loose from inside of me? Jenny don't be all of yourself, you might hurt somebody. What if I am so grateful for Life that it is
snatched away from me? Maybe if I tone my joy down a bit, I won't be noticed. I don't want to hurt anybody with anything that feels true to me, so I might as well be what others want me to be. There are many God given birthrights that can feel wrong to me at various times: sex, eating, simply sensing life like a baby, opening myself to Love, being human.
In my Dad's dying, he was brave enough to unearth the shame and let it
breath. And now, he is my ally as I dance my way back through my shame,
to myself. He supports me now in ways that he just couldn't when he was
alive. I can hear him standing beside me saying,
Some of those are my stories you carry, Jenny. Set them down, they are not yours.
So, with some crying, screaming and stomping, and definitely dancing, I
am laying them down. And a lot of the time, I am grateful. Even for the shame. I am
alive to feel it and it is teaching me how to let the love in the darkest of closets. It is the doorway
to compassion.
