Many years ago, I apparently passed a school bus as it let kids off. A few days later, I got a letter telling me about my infraction and warning me not to do it again.
I was a good girl (of 32) who was supposed to know what the right thing was and do it. Always.
I felt flooded with shame; self-loathing roared through me in a frenzy of Annie-badness.
Not even a little bit fun.
Sometimes when I'm gardening with my bare hands I pick up a nice wholesome dirt clod that turns out to be something else. Like cat poo. Or a critter carcass.
My response is to scream, fling it away from me, run around and loudly announce to Barbara what just happened.
Not especially fun, but compared to those feelings of Annie-badness, which mental health people call toxic shame, handling animal business with my bare hands is almost delightful.
My impulse with both is to distance myself from them as quickly as possible
So, within seconds of reading that letter, I engaged in some truly convoluted reasoning: my driver's ed teacher-or maybe my parents!- must not have adequately taught me that law. And how was I supposed to see that stop sign on the side of the bus? It wasn't big enough. Why were kids being let out there, anyway?
I knew it was nuts.
But I was in the clutches of toxic shame: the overriding feeling of being inadequate and unworthy, and until I mastered it, the only way out was to blame someone.
The more I understood shame, the more I saw the dynamic; someone feels shame, they look to blame. Often with no awareness, at lightning speed.
I call it the Shame-Blame two-step.
A few weeks ago, I started to pass a school bus that had its stop sign out. I leaned against my car
window and felt regret and relief: regret that I had been a distracted driver and relief that I had caught myself before hurting any kids or breaking the law.
I don't know if I've mastered shame, but I've certainly learned to decline its invitations to dance.
Tune in to my next post if you want to learn the difference between nice girls and kind women!
I was a good girl (of 32) who was supposed to know what the right thing was and do it. Always.
I felt flooded with shame; self-loathing roared through me in a frenzy of Annie-badness.
Not even a little bit fun.
Sometimes when I'm gardening with my bare hands I pick up a nice wholesome dirt clod that turns out to be something else. Like cat poo. Or a critter carcass.
My response is to scream, fling it away from me, run around and loudly announce to Barbara what just happened.
Not especially fun, but compared to those feelings of Annie-badness, which mental health people call toxic shame, handling animal business with my bare hands is almost delightful.
My impulse with both is to distance myself from them as quickly as possible
So, within seconds of reading that letter, I engaged in some truly convoluted reasoning: my driver's ed teacher-or maybe my parents!- must not have adequately taught me that law. And how was I supposed to see that stop sign on the side of the bus? It wasn't big enough. Why were kids being let out there, anyway?
I knew it was nuts.
But I was in the clutches of toxic shame: the overriding feeling of being inadequate and unworthy, and until I mastered it, the only way out was to blame someone.
The more I understood shame, the more I saw the dynamic; someone feels shame, they look to blame. Often with no awareness, at lightning speed.
I call it the Shame-Blame two-step.
A few weeks ago, I started to pass a school bus that had its stop sign out. I leaned against my car
window and felt regret and relief: regret that I had been a distracted driver and relief that I had caught myself before hurting any kids or breaking the law.
I don't know if I've mastered shame, but I've certainly learned to decline its invitations to dance.
Tune in to my next post if you want to learn the difference between nice girls and kind women!
Oh, I know this dance all too well. And I'm thinking that even blaming yourself (being dramatic about it, making it mean stuff about your worthiness) is just an excuse not to simply accept responsibility for your actions. (I'm using "you" in the "everybody" sense here - which means me!)
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