Shame Culture

What does therapy look like for you? 

Am I doing it right? Is there even a right way of doing it?

Do people tell their therapists everything---like absolutely everything? Is that the only way to truly heal or figure your stuff out?

There are certain things I could talk all day about. Not necessarily easy things but things that don't feel shameful.

Shame culture runs deep around here. It does. And I don't even know where that started. Is it a religious thing or have I just learned to beat myself up about anything and everything that I can?

I went to therapy yesterday with one rule for myself---don't talk about sex. Don't talk about missing it or wanting it or thinking about it. Just don't. Because shit will get uncomfortable and your therapist will think you are gross and you will not feel better.

One rule. 

But here's the thing---it's one of the main reasons I used to refuse a specialized eating disorder therapist---my therapist has been in my life for 5 years. She was there as a marriage therapist and she was there to watch me as I went through my divorce. She gets me.

So I usually get in to her office with my set of rules---taboo subjects that I'm NOT going to talk about---and somehow those are always the things that get brought up. Partly because I start to feel safe and decide to throw out a hint (that sounds way dumber than it feels when I'm there...). Partly because she knows me really well at this point and there isn't much I haven't told her. So she figures out what my taboo subject is and dives in.

And I cringe and feel uncomfortable and stress about whether her perception of me has changed. But when I leave, I feel like I accomplished something huge.

Merely surviving the conversations that feel so absolutely shameful is such a huge deal for me. And I like being pushed. In fact, I need to be pushed. Because if it were up to me alone, therapy would be about only showing my best attributes and laughing and pretending that life is always awesome. [I'm kind of an idiot, guys...] 

So it's a good thing I'm not running the show. It's a good thing she knows me.

But this week, that hasn't helped me to pull out of the shame spiral where just the fact that I miss having sex makes me feel like a bad person. Like there's something wrong with me. Like I'm gross. Like I'm not a "normal" female.

And I hate that. 

I hate that the shame I feel seems to have ANYTHING to do with my gender. Because---why? Why is it ok for boys to feel this way but not girls?

I'm working through it, I think. And if I'm not, I'm going to try and continue this conversation in therapy next week, even though I will hate it.

The hours where I hate therapy are usually the best hours. I always leave feeling better. Because there is just something about pushing past my comfort zone that makes me proud of myself.

Bravery, y'all. 

Failure

I told her in a pretty rude way.

She asked about my eating disorder and I sarcastically gestured to my body. Because if you look at me, it looks like I have not been skipping meals at all.

That was just a short 30 seconds of how my first therapy session in 18 months went.

And it was mostly truthful. Because just considering purging every time I eat doesn't count, right? And sometimes having a day where I don't eat or a day where I do throw up doesn't count, right?

But when I left, I started to actually assess the past few months and how often I have snuck to a bathroom after eating a meal.

I don't like lying to people, mostly because I don't like liars. So when I left that session thinking I might've lied, I was pretty angry at myself.

I'm usually pretty hard on myself after therapy. It's always been that way. Because if I could just be completely real and comfortable and open and serious, maybe I'd leave feeling a weight lifted off my chest.

I've had a few sessions like that in my life.

But they're not often. Because most of the time, I leave therapy the same way I leave MOST situations in my life---thinking of all the things I should've said or could've done, reminding myself how I've once again failed and acted like an idiot.

Is there a point in my life where I'll stop being so hard on myself?

The Catch-22 of all of this is that I'm capable of believing I'm a failure no matter which choice I make.

For example, if I eat a meal and don't purge it, I am a failure for letting myself eat and letting those calories turn into fat, which will inevitably cause me to gain weight and make me less desirable to a possible future spouse.
And if I DO purge after eating, I am a failure for giving in to my eating disorder and being weak and not fighting hard enough to be the best mom for my kids.

So no matter what, I'm a failure here.

And that just plain sucks.

A Story of Shame

I can remember exactly where I was sitting on the couch when it happened.

I was angry at my father for annoying me and he was laughing and continued to pester me. He grabbed my fist and pretended to make me hit myself in the face---except I moved my arm and punched myself square in the forehead.

I looked up at him with wide eyes and screamed, "You punched me in the face!"

He laughed. My siblings laughed. I ran downstairs to my room to cry.

I looked in the mirror of my vanity and blood was running down my face. My thumb nail had hit my forehead and taken a good chunk out of it.

My mind was racing.

Abuse. I had such a horrible relationship with my parents that my first thought was that my father had abused me. This was his fault. I was sure he had done it on purpose, maybe subconsciously.

Because he hated me. My father hated me. Everybody hated me. I had never been good enough for them and as I replayed their laughter in my head, tears stung my cheeks and I let them continue to fall, refusing to wipe away a single one of them.

The next day, it had started to scab over and everyone at school was asking me what happened to my face.
There were a variety of stories. I don't remember any of them. I just know that I didn't tell anyone the truth besides my best friend.

I felt violated. My family continued to joke about it and each time, the pain would sting just as bad. I felt like I was crazy. I felt like my pain wasn't valid or real.

They were all against me.

It was this dark, scary cloud I could never get past. I hated that story. I hated that everyone thought it was so funny. I hated that if I ever stood up for myself and tried to explain that I felt like my dad had hit me, they would all gang up on me and tell me how dramatic and dishonest I was.

And then it all got worse.

I was sent away to a wilderness rehabilitation camp at the age of 17 and while out on the trail, I told my therapist this story that had been eating at me for a year.

And she reported it to CPS.

When she told me she had to do this because of the situation involving my father "creating a wound on my body" or something like that, I had a panic attack. I was working toward building a relationship with my parents again and then she had to go and ruin it by reporting my father.

Would he lose his doctor's license? Would he lose my siblings? Would my whole family hate me forever because I ripped our family apart?

None of that happened. My 17 year old mind didn't quite comprehend CPS and how all of that works but my dad is still a practicing physician and my younger siblings still live at home.

For years after that CPS report, my family would still bring up that story every once in a while, each time ending in laughter.

Each time it happened, I would feel like the family screw-up all over again and feel anxious and angry and extremely stupid. I would leave the room or tell them it bothered me.

Finally, I mustered up the courage to talk to one of my sisters about it and since that day, I've never heard the story again.

I don't know if she ever talked to them or if they all just figured out that I hated the story but I'm glad that story is no longer a staple because it still hurts me. I think it always will.

I love my dad and he isn't a child abuser. He took a joke too far and I got hurt. His big mistake was not apologizing. His big mistake was laughing and shaming me when I tried to tell him that my feelings were hurt.

His big mistake wasn't abusing his daughter.

But for some reason, that story still haunts me. It reminds me of how messy things were when I was a child. It reminds me of why I can only remember a handful of things from my childhood. I don't know why it all still seems painful but it does. It isn't pleasant. It hurts.

I have to remind myself that I am a different person now. I have to remind myself that my dad is a different person now. Trusting him is easier. It sure isn't easy but it has gotten easier.

I have been given a lot from my dad. This week, I received a letter from him telling me how proud he is that I was accepted to the university I had applied to. He told me how proud he is of me as a mother and how he believes in me. He told me he wants the first semester to be "on him" and also included in the envelope was a check. I cried and felt so loved.

Growing up, I lived for moments like that. I yearned for them and rarely got them. It wasn't often that I felt loved by my family.

But now I do. Now I get to experience moments like these where life feels complete and wonderful and I feel secure.

None of us are perfect but this seems to be the hardest we have ever worked to have a healthy relationship and for that, I am grateful.

Goodbye, Old Life

Today my life is forever changed.

Today my life feels ruined. 

I don't know if I'll ever pick up the pieces from today. 

Am I a Warrior?

I often think I'll never be able to do this.

Because this is just too hard.

Providing for my kids isn't easy. Having to rely on an inconsistent child support check is not easy. Getting overdrafts in my bank account is not easy.

It all makes me feel like I'm failing.

Because I am not this girl. I am not the girl who can't keep her budget straight. My first overdraft fee ever in my life was last year, the day after Thanksgiving. I had gone -$2.00 and my anxiety went through the roof. The second time was this summer and it was much worse. Both of those times, it was due to lack of funds from Peter. In November, he was refusing to pay me much. In July, he had moved to a different state and forgot to send the money for---you know---ten days.

But now I have a job. I should be able to keep us stable on my own.

I should be able to be an adult.

But when my eating disorder controls me and my OCD gives me severe anxiety, I feel like I cannot control anything in my life---and that includes my own damn bank account.

It really shouldn't be this hard. These are stupid, simple things.
These are things I don't like talking about---because they make me feel incompetent and whiny.

My kids are fed. We have a home. We have clothes and shoes and toys and extras that we are super grateful for.

I don't want to talk about this but it won't leave my mind. Shame has entrapped me into believing a lot of things lately. For example:
Eating 3 meals a day is bad.
Not saving money is something only idiots do.
In order to be happy, you should have an empty stomach.
In order to be happy, you need to spend money.
In order to be happy, you should never need help.

Lies.
I get it.
I see it when I write it down.
None of those things are truths.

Why am I still allowing myself to be the girl not in eating disorder recovery? Why am I fooling myself into thinking that I am doing just fine when my actions prove otherwise?

When did I become the girl who doesn't want to eat? 

Some days, I really believe I'm in recovery. I pat myself on the back and count how long it's been since I've purged and get all proud of myself...as if bulimia is the only type of eating disorder I'm supposed to have on my recovery radar. But I don't know if this is me being delusional or if I really have been fighting. Because eating a few goldfish crackers a day is not really classified as recovery. It just seems like I've found a loop hole.

As much as I like having an empty stomach these days, I function better and have a healthier body when I eat.

When did all of this reverse? When did I become the girl who doesn't want to eat? When did I become the girl who actually thinks that germs might kill her?

When I touch a door handle, I feel like I can't put my hands near my face for a while because I might just die from whatever germs I contract.

Death and OCD---never before was I the girl who actually feared anything specific when it comes to my obsessions. None of them had any rhyme or reason. And I don't like that they are starting to control things.

I wear sweaters because it's cold---I also wear sweaters because I can wrap the long sleeves over my fingers to touch things I don't want to touch.

I don't want to be this girl but I also don't want to fight her. I'm sick of fighting. I've done a lot of work this year and accomplished a lot of things---I'm angry that I am still having to fight.

I just want to feel good enough for myself. I get that other people like me---but I want to like me too. I don't want to be ashamed of myself.

Single mom life sucks today.
I feel alone within myself. I know that's confusing. It sure isn't easy to explain. I guess I just know that I have friends and family who love me but I still feel like I'm walking through life alone. I make all of my big decisions by myself. I fall asleep every night by myself. There is no one to pick up the slack and not have me feeling guilt over it. I cannot go out with friends without feeling guilt for the babysitters that save me time and time again.

Why do people have to save me?
I don't want to be saved.
I just want to be strong enough.

But what does strength mean to me?
Because today strength means patting myself on the back for not eating anything by 4:00pm. Today strength means ignoring all of the things my heart tells me and listening to my brain.

And that just doesn't really sound like strength.