Tag: shame

It’s Not Your Fault

For most of my life, I carried the idea that the things that happened to me as a child were my fault.

I didn’t think I was a bad kid, but I knew and hung out with plenty of bad kids. My neighborhood growing up wasn’t a stranger to crime and drugs. Compared to many of my friends, I was an angel. But I was a child, and I did childish things as I experimented and explored the world. I swore, stole, lied, snuck out at night, and fought with my sister. But often the consequences of these actions were disproportionate to the severity of the infractions.

As a result, I began to blame myself for those consequences. It was a survival mechanism. I had to make it my fault because my developing brain couldn’t make sense of the idea that the people who were supposed to protect me and take care of me were hurting me.

As I got older, that behavior continued. It was easier to take responsibility for everything than it was to shift that responsibility to the other person. It was easier to feel that the work I had done wasn’t enough or wasn’t the right work, which is why the other person was angry or disappointed. The idea that I was enough, that I was worthy, and that I wasn’t to blame never seemed like an option.

The result was that I spent much of my life in unhealthy situations, convinced that if I could fix myself, everything else would fall into place. But no matter how hard I tried, it never worked.

I didn’t realize that’s what I was doing until a few years ago. There is a movie trope, “it’s not your fault,” that is a common line used to reassure someone who blames themselves for a tragic event. One powerful example is in Good Will Hunting, where Sean, played by Robin Williams, repeats the line multiple times until Will, played by Matt Damon, breaks down and cries.

It was a surreal moment to have that play out in my life. At the time, it was directed at my past. It took me time (and therapy) to realize it also applied to aspects of my present, too.

That realization is what will help me set my son on a different path, one where he doesn’t struggle with blame, shame, and worthiness, the same way that I did. I don’t want him to blame himself for his seizures, his condition, or especially the way the world reacts to him. I want him to be able to put the actions of others on them and not internalize them as what he deserves because of who he is. Most of all, I want him to know—now, not decades from now—that who he is is already enough.

As parents, we want our kids to have it better than we did. In many ways, that may not be possible given the challenges he will face. But if he can live a life without carrying the blame for others, whatever those challenges may be, he will have a freedom I never knew. A freedom to face what comes without the added weight of shame. A freedom to believe he is worthy of love and belonging just as he is.

And maybe, in giving that to him, I’ll learn to finally believe it for myself, too.

Shame, Consequences, and Leading with Love

“Come with me,” the security guard said.

I was ten years old.

My friend and I had ridden our bikes to a department store a few miles from my house and walked in with a brown paper bag. We headed to the toy aisle and filled our bag with Transformers and other loot, unaware that the security cameras were tracking us the whole time.

It was just as I stepped onto the pressure pad to open the automatic door that our heist was thwarted, and we were escorted back into the store, up a stairwell, and into the security office.

The security guard, an off-duty cop, rewound the security tapes and showed us his view of our activities. I watched myself from multiple angles walk shelf to shelf, pick an item, and place it in the bag. It was terrifying and embarrassing.

The guard asked us for our information and, when he heard my last name, he paused. “Wait, ” he said. “Is your dad a cop?”

My heart stopped. Every muscle in my body froze, but I managed to eke out a soft “Yes, sir.”

My captor let out a hearty laugh. “Oh, he’s going to love this,” he said, as he picked up the phone to call the police.

My friend and I were taken to the police station in the back of a police car, our bikes tucked away in the trunk. I thought about what my father would say. I thought about having to tell my mother and my stepfather. I thought about going to jail. It was and still is the longest car ride of my life.

At the station, my friend and I were separated into different interrogation rooms. I’m not sure if it was intentional, but the lighting allowed me to see the silhouette of my father on the other side of the one-way mirror. The officer in the room with me asked me questions and created a very Scared Straight experience that had its intended effect.

My father didn’t say much to me as he drove me home. I remember him telling me to have my mother call him as I stepped out of the car, and I walked up the stairs to face the consequences. Except no one was home, and I had to wait an agonizingly long time, staring out the front window, until I saw her car pull into the driveway.

Immediately, every emotion spilled out of me, and when the door from the garage opened, so did a stream of words explaining what had happened.

At the time, the consequences were predictable, if exaggerated. I couldn’t hang out with my friend again. I was grounded and lost some privileges for an unspecified amount of time. But the worst consequences were the feelings of guilt, shame, and fear that permeated every cell in my body.

I wasn’t told that I wasn’t a bad person, or that people make mistakes. I wasn’t made to feel like my actions wouldn’t define how I felt about myself for the rest of my life. I wasn’t comforted, and my feelings weren’t acknowledged.

Instead, those feelings of guilt, shame, and fear were amplified. My parents were mad and disappointed. It was one of the worst things that I could do to them. Their feelings were the only ones that mattered, and I was left to hold and figure out mine. I felt very alone.

At ten years old, figuring out my emotions by myself wasn’t possible, and so I carried that guilt, shame, and fear for the rest of my life. To this day, I’ll sometimes swing a bag of purchases through the metal detector ahead of me so that, if it does alert, everyone will know it was the bag and not me.

I think about that experience when my son makes a bad choice. I try to find that line between consequences, learning, and growth, without internalizing a destructive self-image filled with guilt and shame. Most days, it seems impossible, even without considering his mental and emotional challenges. And I can’t help but see myself at his age when I look at him, and that fear of doing it wrong and causing damage to him makes me feel unsure and indecisive.

But seeing him that way also makes me think about what my younger self needed in those moments when I was teetering on the edge of emotional collapse. What did I need? What do I wish my parents had done? Can I do that for my son now?

Often, it comes down to seeing him and asking more questions instead of projecting more statements that make the situation only about me and my feelings. It involves understanding that each of these moments has the potential to help him learn and make better decisions in the future, or shame him into destroying his sense of worthiness and self-compassion. Simply, it involves leading with love.

Remembering that can be difficult in those big, emotionally charged moments, especially considering how they played out for me. But I keep trying. I try to quiet the echoes of my own childhood long enough to truly see my son—not just his behavior, but his needs, his struggles, his heart. And in those moments, when I push past fear and into empathy, I find the thing I needed most when I was ten.

Not punishment. Not shame.

Just someone who was willing to stay beside me in the mess.

Someone who believed I was still good.

Someone who was leading with love.

Guilt, Shame, and Fear

I recently stumbled upon a reference to how cultural anthropologists categorize societies based on how they control behavior in those societies as guild-shame-fear.

I pulled these descriptions from the always dependable Wikipedia:

Guilt Society

In a guilt society, control is maintained by creating and continually reinforcing the feeling of guilt (and the expectation of punishment now or in the afterlife) for certain condemned behaviors. The guilt worldview focuses on law and punishment. A person in this type of culture may ask, “Is my behavior fair or unfair?” This type of culture also emphasizes individual conscience.

Shame Society

In a shame society (sometimes called an honor–shame culture), the means of control is the inculcation of shame and the complementary threat of ostracism. The shame–honor worldview seeks an “honor balance” and can lead to revenge dynamics. A person in this type of culture may ask, “Shall I look ashamed if I do X?” or “How will people look at me if I do Y?” Shame cultures are typically based on the concepts of pride and honor. Often actions are all that count and matter.

Fear Society

In a fear society, control is kept by the fear of retribution. The fear worldview focuses on physical dominance. A person in this culture may ask, “Will someone hurt me if I do this?”

I was interested in the topic because I have lived at the intersection of all three.

Until sixth grade, I went to an old-school Catholic school and church, where the nuns still wielded rulers as weapons, and God was always watching and never approving. I can still picture one of the sisters with terrible arthritis, and her hand contorted perfectly to wrap around one of the long wooden chalk sticks. I remember feeling that everything I did was a sin, deserving of punishment, and wrong, deserving of exclusion.

I also grew up in a household with a single, frustrated, angry mother and an older, equally angry sister. I spent a lot of time trying to be and keep everything perfect to avoid getting punished, always fearful of the hand and the wooden spoon.

I thought this was normal. As I got older, the voice inside my head would take over for the nuns, my mother, and my sister, reinforcing the messages of guilt, shame, and fear.

It wasn’t until after I was married and we had our son (and a lot of therapy) that I started to see and understand that my childhood was traumatic and how it affected me as an adult.

Guilt is what kept me feeling wrong.

Shame is what kept me feeling alone.

Fear is what kept me feeling small.

The behaviors that I developed to help me survive in a state of guilt-shame-fear became toxic in my adult relationships, closing me off to the people I desperately wanted to be close to and spreading out to every aspect of my existence: relationships, love, intimacy, sexuality, self-esteem, friendships, goals, expectations, happiness, comfort, safety.

What got you here won’t get you there…

I am on a journey of recovery and untethering myself from my old patterns and beliefs. However, as I go through this process, I want to ensure that my son has a different experience. While we’re not religious, and there (probably) aren’t nuns waiting around the corner, the most likely transmitter of the guild-shame-fear burden is me.

I still wrestle with my lingering expectations of perfection and fear that I will disappoint the people around me. I still feel the grip of guilt and shame for my actions and who I am.

While I am very conscious of the words I use when I engage in these topics with my son, it’s not only the words that influence how he interprets these messages. It’s how he sees my relationship with these feelings that will demonstrate what his relationship with the feelings should be. Even when I think I successfully internalize or hide these feelings, I know I am not that good of an actor. Their effects are visible on my face, body, voice, and how I present myself to the world.

In many ways, the work my wife and I have done has created a very different environment for our son than either of us had. I can see that in how he interacts with the world. He isn’t fearful like I was and is one of the bravest people I know. He feels guilt when he does something wrong, not thinking everything he does is bad like I did. And his relationship with shame is much healthier than mine, and he can also feel dignity and positive self-esteem.

It’s not perfect, and we’re continuing to equip ourselves with the knowledge and tools we need to continue to develop a healthy relationship with these feelings in ourselves and him. But I see such a difference in him compared to what it was like for me growing up, and seeing that difference gives me hope that I can continue to make changes for myself, too.