Everything I know* about shame

Poems from a recovering perfectionist.

Shame is a sticky and tricky topic I've been writing about for years. Looking back, most of this writing is in poetry form, which today-me reacts with "ohhh of course" – because shame is such an intense and elusive emotion that I need the abstract bridge of poeticism to help me cross into the realm of understanding it.

This brings me to the asterisk in the title: when I say Everything I know* about shame, I caveat this with the knowledge that I can 'know' about shame only as much as my internal shame mechanisms feel safe to reveal to me.

It's a perfect (non?) ironic inbuilt protection process, (definitely) ironically fuelled by perfectionism.

And here we are at the segue to the first of three poems from my archives. The psychology world says that perfectionism is a cover up for parts of us we have learned to be ashamed of. (Important note, perfectionism isn't the only defence process to avoid being seen, others include internal withdrawal, rage, contempt and blame.)

As a recovering perfectionist, I can barely tell you what I'm covering up. But the first step is honesty, right? I can only work with what I am prepared to see, so I'll start by getting real with myself and observe this process of perfectionism:

The recovering perfectionist

The perfectionist monster in me
loves to pretend it’s quietly
backstage, but really —
it’s centre stage, keeping at bay
the sticky, yucky, perceived to be:
unruly, inconvenient and messy. 

Leaping in from the wings
are the dancers of acceptance and belonging. 
Twirling, laughing and singing,
they tempt the monster to begin:
to play, to move and shake with monstrous joy
that lingers
on the fingertips of pleasure no longer sin. 

Their courtship; a performance. 
A romance,
a coming together of fighting lovers who forgot
they were born to dance 
the dance of each other in perfect balance. 

Their partnership; a forgotten song,
a remembering of friendship; two sides of the
same coin. 
A relationship, with no right or wrong,
a harmony of honouring
revering and welcoming,

the dance of the perfectionist recovering. 

---

I am sure my perfectionism doesn't appreciate being called a monster. But it's hungry and scary and feels insatiable. I admit, that the monster label is kinda shaming my perfectionist self for protecting my shame.

Is that why it's called a shame spiral? Mmm, yes. Previous me accidentally prepared more on this to come later, as the third poem is called Loop of Shame.

But next, I want to gently pull the perfectionist thread a little further and see what is revealed in the unraveling.

Deep imperfection (not neat imperfection).

I can see the limits I place on my imperfect self:
all that lives outside the box
of perfectly, appropriately imperfect
is regulated and relegated to the underworld.

Spelling mistakes? Allowed.
Stumbles and fumbles too.
Cute wonky bits, and bleeding watercolour lines 
or big-ish / cute-ish emotions
like sadness or jealousy –
all deemed 'acceptable' levels of humanness.

But what about those deemed too ugly?
The tantrums and the too big reactions
that have me flawed, curled up on the floor begging to be held
and screaming for specific love
but no-one comes

except shame.

Deep shame, certainly not neat shame.

Not pleasant nor palatable
not helpful nor hopeful,
just loops of debilitating pain
that keep me curled up in a ball
begging again.

“Help me, help me, help me“ I say.
Never in my life have I received
the adult love I crave
that is desperately specific and delicate
to this emotional state.

“Help me, help me, help me” I plead
knowing some deeper part of me is listening
who just might have the capacity
to extend a hand into this misery
and tell me they believe
in a way out, and if I am willing to follow,
they will take the lead.

---

Far out, rereading that is confronting. When I ask myself why I'm here dredging up these painful moments from the past, what arises is my desire to share the human experience. I've come to know that one of my superpowers is putting words to emotions in ways that people can see and learn about themselves. As you can see, writing and sharing is a way for me to be seen and learn about myself too. This is group therapy, folks.

Speaking of public explorations of shame, I recently went to see a brilliant play my brother's partner produced called Sneaky Little Bugger, all about shame. Upon arrival, we each got a raffle ticket and I ended up with the prize – a bracelet that included the words "shame is having hairy armpits".

Ouch. Yes I have hairy armpits, and yes I sometimes feel self-conscious about them. Is this this my shame? Or society's shame? I think when exploring this topic it is very important to remember that most things that are tabooed, over-regulated and ridiculed come from very white, Western societal standards and norms rooted in colonialism and capitalism.

Pic and poem produced in Mparntwe on Arrernte Country

So if the roots of my wounds are not mine, yet they are mine to heal, how do I break these cycles of shame?

To leave us on a more hopeful note, this final poem goes in deep at first, and has some ideas at the end.

Loop of Shame

Red hot shame
flushes through my chest
again and again
pumping blame
into my nervous system
until my face screws up and tears well
and I collapse under the weight of self-criticism.

The strength of this poison
is potent
as I dose
myself willingly,
forcing mouthfuls of toxicity
into my body, storing it for a later date
when my handwritten story
calls for more shame
again and again.

This path is a well worn cycle
perpetuated by guilt
for existing in the first place -
how do I get out of this loop?
The shame program shuts down logic
in pursuit
of a takedown,
a lockdown
of language, of mobility, of movement
again and again
it renders me helpless
begging for kindness.

I place one hand on my belly
and one hand on my chest
and remind myself that I am doing my best,
that I don’t have to be perfect
and mistakes are ok
and tomorrow’s a new day
and I always have my breath
to connect
me to a place of nurture
with forgiveness,
sweet forgiveness
always ready to welcome me
again and again.

The relief takes a while to sink in,
forgiveness feels foreign
and it’s hard to believe
I’ve truly been released
from the self-imprisonment
of shame.

Breath by breath the reality
of being free
calms me
and calls me into peace
with sweet relief
following my breathing
again and again
as my chest releases grief
for the mountain of self-criticism
that has been weighing it down
waiting to be told:

it’s time to leave
it’s time to leave
you are free.

---

A note about the process of writing this post: For the past few weeks, I've had a niggling readiness to explore some of my layers of shame. I knew I had written several poems on the subject and I wanted to revisit the moments they arose. My poetry writing process is very in-the-moment – fuelled by raw emotions, I generally write it all in one go and rarely edit – so they become a metaphysical therapeutic time capsule. I chose three poems on the subject, briefly re-read them and then started braiding them together by writing all the in between bits. I had no particular moral, lesson or ending in mind. I let the divinity of poetry weave these words with no agenda.

As much as shame desperately tries to keep things hidden, I also know there is a yearning to be seen. This is a gentle coaxing and a soft spotlight on this deeply personal, and universal human experience.

A note of care: I've gone pretty real and deep in this writing. Please check in with yourself after reading to see how if you need support, water, fresh air, a stretch or something else to process it and move on. Go gently.