Where Does Shame Go

Unsinkable Storyteller: Rafella Mancuso

Who I am is wrong, and it’s all my fault…

…. At least, that’s what I believed my whole life….

……..

One of my earliest memories of experiencing shame was when I was five years old. A kid told me I wasn’t invited to their birthday party because I was fat….

….It hurt, but it wasn’t a shock.

I already knew my body was wrong.

I already knew it was all my fault.

I already knew that I wasn’t good enough.

This was just the first time I heard it outside of my family….

…..

Growing up, it was completely normal in my household to be called lazy, useless, a slug.. I mean, it was normal for my family to say that to “me”.

And of course I believed them.

 I didn’t have any reason not to.

So I accepted that that’s what I was. Useless….

……..

I didn’t really get a chance to form my own identity….

….Instead I was a mosaic of chewed up gum that my family had stuck to me, each with its own flavour of shame….

….And the strongest flavour was about my body.

….

If my body was bad, then it became MY job to make it “good”- thin.

That was the answer. If I could just fix myself, shrink myself, make myself smaller….

Maybe then my parents would finally be proud of me.

Maybe then I’d get the love and compassion I always wanted.

Maybe then everything would be okay….

….

I did everything I could to be thin, thinking it would make everything better, which it doesn’t— but that’s a story for another time.

….

Maybe it was never really about my body, but maybe it had to be….

At least if it was my body that was wrong, I could tell myself there was hope.

That I could fix it.

….But if the problem was me, who I am as a person, …. How could I survive that?

What else would I hold onto to keep my head above water?

….

I pushed through school and the early years of university, just trying to survive.

But it all became too heavy, and I just.… couldn’t…. do it anymore….

I didn’t want to die…. but if that was all that life was, then I didn't want it….

….I knew that if I wanted to choose life, then things needed to change. Radically….

…….

I took a break from university to enter a full-time, intensive, group-therapy program.

— Imagine doing therapy from 9am to 5pm, every day, for 8 months straight….

 It was ….a lot.

……..

And that program changed my life….

I learned that the shame I was carrying around wasn’t even mine….

It was a family heirloom that had been passed down from generation to generation, and I had welcomed it with open arms and called it my own….

……..

….So I began to peel back each layer of shame, wondering who its rightful owner was

….But what happens if they refuse to take it back?

What happens when they say, “Nope, that’s still yours,” and sprinkle more on top?....

….Where does shame go?....

Does it flow into the air around you as you exhale? Drifting further and further away with each breath?

Or does it sit on a shelf like an old trophy, a constant reminder of who you used to be?

……….

I hold less shame now than I used to, but it’s not gone. I don’t know if it ever will be.

This isn’t a story about how everything used to be hard, but now it’s magically perfect.

My story isn’t over yet. I’m still in it.

I’m not “fixed” or “healed”, as if that’s a destination we’re supposed to arrive at.

Like there’s some finish line I just haven’t crossed yet.

….

Right now I’m really trying to build a life that’s softer; one where I don’t need to shrink myself to avoid bumping into the sharp edges around me.

I’m reminding myself that there was never anything wrong with that five-year-old girl who wasn’t invited to the birthday party.

She was perfect just as she was.

And I’m trying to remind myself that she still is.

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