The Soul Eaters - Chapter 18

“Shame is a soul eating emotion.” 

- Carl Jung.  

“Shame is a soul eating monster. Voracious. Insatiable. Blood thirsty.” 

- Me.

I have voices in my head. Not the Schizophrenic kind. No, these are the Shamers. They are loud and obnoxious. Vicious and unrelenting. Rude. Condescending. Highly abrasive and invasive. Merciless. They are the ones who, when you are trying to walk a reasonably normal path in life, sling garbage at you. And not just wads of paper and the dried-bits-of-things type of garbage that bounce off you, or that you can dodge or easily swipe away. Nope, they sling the rotten, slimy, stinking garbage that sticks to you and seeps into your being and stain. They also hurl the tin cans with the lids still attached that cut and slice you. Sometime they throw full cans (or packages of ground beef. True Story.) aimed at your head and if you’re not quick enough to catch them, you’re left concussed and confused. They throw it in massive quantities and like a t-shirt cannon at the football game they fire it at you with force. The Shamers tell me, over and over, that I am not normal. That I am defective. Deficient. Stupid. Fat. To blame for everything. That I don’t know how to be in a family. That I am shameful and worthless because I am a bastard. The Shamers tell me that I can never make up for this defectiveness - it’s who I am - and who I am is not, nor will it ever be, enough.  

Ugh!

When I talk about shame I feel like I need to be wearing gloves and protective gear. A Hazmat suit. And maybe I should. Because shame is toxic. Radio-active. It destroys whatever it comes near. So, let’s pull on our Hazmat suits while I talk about this toxic slime for a minute.  

The Shamers, primarily, were not Granny and Grandad. Although my realization that I was illegitimate told me that I was part of a shameful experience, I didn’t necessarily feel shame as I grew up, but I did know I was expected to make up for this shameful experience. That being said, no one really made me feel bad about it. No one ever called me names, or even hinted that I was a bastard. That label, in any form, was never something I wore or that anyone put on me until later. I grew up in a very conservative church, so you might think the possibilities were high that someone might have pointed that finger of blame at me and shamed me. Quite the opposite. They were the first people who were Jesus to me. Like a pudgy cheeked new baby, they scooped me up and bounced me on their knees; fed me, kissed and pinched my cheeks. (I’m speaking figuratively of course…mostly). What I mean is, they rejoiced over me.  

Carolyn did not shame me either. She guilt-tripped me for sure, and laid responsibilities on me that weren’t mine to bear. (You know, that whole emotional proxy thing…all guilt based). But she never shamed me. 

My ill-fated marriage however…that’s where the Shamers resided. Meet Mr. and Mrs. Shamer, who are experts from way back. They shamed their own kids then taught them the ropes. I married their eldest little apprentice. He told me (and showed me), over and over again, in so many different ways, that I was not normal. That I was broken. Defective. Then Mr. and Mrs. Shamer would swoop in to rubber stamp their little apprentice’s assessment of me. It soon became clear that this shame they all accused me of was not simply a matter of the situation I had been a part of (you know - the whole child out of wedlock thing), rather, the problem was that I myself was shameful. I was the bastard. I was irredeemable. For the record, this was not a religious pronouncement of any kind. They were nominal Catholics at the best of times. Rather, this shaming was its own religion to them. They believed it. They practiced it. And they sacrificed me on the altar of it. They clothed me in shame that was not mine then tortured me for it. For over 34 years - more than half my lifetime - Mr. and Mrs. Shamer were, as was their little apprentice, relentless and single-minded in their messages to me. From time to time they would employ other relatives to partake in the shaming. The Shamers made me feel dirty. Violated. Worthless. They knew how to de-humanize me. They knew how to attack every vulnerable part. And I had a lot of vulnerable parts. They knew every wound to stick their fingers in.  Infecting them and worrying them until they were weeping pus; then they would shame me for having a festering wound. They would sometimes show off to their guests the ways in which they could shame me. And they taught my children how to shame me too. They felt entitled to their behaviour. All because I was a bastard.  

The first dinner I had with my dad and Norma that evening of December 2012, I brought my husband with me. I didn’t want him to be there but it was too complicated to explain to everyone why he shouldn’t be there. So John came with. I told him, several days before the dinner, then reiterated it again to him the night of the dinner - “Do not tell The Story!!”  

Yeah - he had a story that he liked to tell people. While I sat next to him of course. Can’t shame someone effectively if they’re not there to hear it and be humiliated by it. The first time he told “The Story” was at his uncle’s house at the breakfast table.  

We were on a family vacation, heading to the west coast from the prairies one summer. John told me he had arranged to stop for the night in Calgary. We would stay with Carolyn. According to him, it was time to visit and build a relationship between me and my mom, as well as between her and my kids. When we arrived in Calgary it was cold and rainy and around supper time. We walked to the front door and rang the bell. No answer. Perhaps the bell didn’t work. We knocked on the door. No answer. We rang and knocked some more. No answer. We tried the door. Locked. We peered in the windows. Perhaps they had stepped out for a quick errand. We waited. No one showed up. Perhaps they were in the house but could not hear us knocking. No cell phones in those days so we found a pay phone and called. No answer. We left a voice mail. It was now nearly 7 pm so we found a McDonalds so the kids could eat supper. We sat next to the fire place and warmed up while we ate. We took our time then traveled back to Carolyn’s. Perhaps they were now home. Nope. The place was dark. Empty. Quiet. No answer. It was now late - too late to try and find a campground - so John phoned his uncle who lived an hour away. Can we stay with you tonight? Of course. We drove out of town and got the kids settled, very late, into bed. The following morning, the adults around the kitchen table, Uncle “I-have-no-filter” asked why my mom wasn’t home last night. Wasn’t she expecting us? Who would not be home when they know family was coming.  Why wouldn’t she leave a note? Or a key? I had no answers for any other those questions until later that morning, when Carolyn called back and spoke with John. She and my step-dad had gone to an Everly Brothers concert. Simple as that. She was oblivious to the fact that she had stood us up. We did not head back into Calgary for the missed visit. Ever.  

I was feeling embarrassed enough at this point when John launched into “The Story”. He told the adults at the table that my family was kind of sketchy. And to illustrate that point, he told them how my half-sister had been a prostitute in downtown Calgary for a while. Screech!! Say what?! I was in shock. I had never been told this before nor did I have any knowledge if it was true or not. Furthermore, I was in shock that he felt it was OK to tell it to anyone else, truth or not. I was speechless, confused and humiliated. It was in the car, after we had started out on the next leg of our journey, that I challenged the truth of this story. I had never heard such a thing. He swore it was true. That Carolyn had told him. He seemed to feel quite superior that he knew this story and I didn’t. He felt superior because of his belief that I was too emotionally fragile to know such a thing.  I worried over that story for years, particularly since it was not the last time he would bring it up and randomly launch into it while in a group of people. I had told him repeatedly, that even if the story was true, it was not appropriate to be telling people. I told him the telling of it humiliated me. He seemed oblivious to my concern and feelings.  

So, on the way to dinner that night in Regina, I reminded him that he was not to tell The Story.  “Of course not” he said.  

It was during the main course that we were talking about Carolyn and where she was at in her life currently. Married. Had 3 kids. Lives in Calgary. And like a heat seeking missile, John launches into - yes, you guessed it - “The Story”. I have never done this before in my entire life, but I abruptly and aggressively slammed the high heel of my shoe into his foot, turned to him, my eyes spitting fire, and firmly and succinctly told him, “That story is not acceptable.” He shut his mouth and we all moved on. Why he insisted on fabricating and/or retelling that story over and over again is but one of the reasons I am no longer in that marriage. But it illustrates one of the many ways in which he felt he was entitled to shame me. It was purposeful. The intent was to destroy. Humiliate.  

Intellectually, I know, they were all projecting their shame onto me. But even after I walked away from them all, the Shamer's still resided in my head.  

All those fears I had - the fear of attaching myself to others, of abandonment, or ultimate rejection - were all lightning rods for shame. And it’s when I’m feeling the fear, The Shamer's know how to hiss and whisper and echo their destruction in my head.  

There is one particular narrative that I cannot get out of my head.  

You don’t know how to be in a family.  

I remember when I confessed that narrative to my dad and Norma. Their reaction to that statement was swift and unequivocal. Lies! Ridiculous! They were appalled that anyone would've ever said that to me. It was the first time I had told anyone about it. I confessed how those words were a part of every interaction I had with the both of them and my half-sisters. You don't know how to be in a family.  

I wish I could tell you, that on that day of confession, the Shamers were evicted from my head. They were not. I was given a short-lived reprieve from them but they don’t go down easily. The Shamers are like a cancer that has wound its way around every nerve and fiber, infiltrating the bones and organs, destroying everything it touches while you stand helpless trying to figure out how to disentangle yourself from it. 

It became clear to me recently, as I am journeying through the healing process to repair the damage from my marriage, that it was not enough to face the reality of what happened head on; it was not enough to uncover the lies and call them out; it was not enough to learn how to put my own self-care and rehabilitation front and centre; those old issues of abandonment and rejection would die hard. But the shame…that was going to be hardest of all to evict. All of it came to a head when I was made aware I would have to go back to Saskatchewan for my son’s wedding. Instead of the excitement and anticipation I should have felt, I felt dread. Fear. The Shamers would be there. En mass. How would I face them? Could I face them alone? I had no one to go with me.  I felt myself losing ground emotionally, then spiritually. The Shamers were still in my head, hissing away. I knew they were liars. I knew their principal vocation was destruction. But…

“What if. What if we’re right? See, we’re right. Look at that - we are totally right. Everyone there will have someone except you. You will never find love. You are a loser. And your daughter hates you. You don’t know how to be in a family.”

  

The first time I told anyone that I was struggling with shame was at a prayer meeting in my new little country church after I had moved back to the Island. I had kept pretty mum about the details of my previous life, my marriage, and its painful demise.  These people knew I came to church to sing and cry and they would literally hold me while I sobbed. They hugged me and loved me and accepted the mess that arrived on their doorstep."You were so broken" said one friend as we remembered that time several years later. Step by step, I began to reveal bits of myself to a few people. I had not shared much of myself in this prayer meeting week to week but I learned that it was a safe place to be honest and open and broken. This one week, each of us was invited to place ourselves in the centre of the circle and invite prayer for something in our lives. I tentatively and fearfully settled myself in that centre chair. While still afraid to say the words out loud, I felt I needed to share them with this small group.  

“I’m struggling with shame” I shakily told them. “It’s been years of it”. 

I was shocked at their response. On my behalf, they were so angry. Like a gang of passerby’s running in to stop a terrible assault, they came to my side. They held me and told me that shame had no place in my life - and those that put it there had no right to do so. They prayed that I would be released from it. They reminded me that Christ had taken my shame and they prayed I would find healing from it. I was overcome with their response. It was my first indication that what I had been feeling, for way too many years of my life, was not normal. It was not right. And it was not meant to be there. It was the first indication that maybe I wasn’t defective. That I didn’t have anything to be ashamed of. I was supposed to be living shame-free. But why wasn’t I? 

So, when that wedding seemed imminent - the wedding where the Shamer's would be out, in all their glory, I found myself struggling. Badly. Then, one of my friends from this prayer group, oblivious to this latest struggle, sent me a link to a You-Tube video by Christa Black-Gifford. It was on shame. I listened to it and I can’t tell you why, but her words, like a laser, zapped at the cancer cells of my shame. It’s such a rich video but with respect to my shame, these words just propelled themselves into my soul.  

“Let Him remind you about who you are. You are a carrier of the love of God. You have access to love every day, every minute.”  

 Then she went on to ask the audience to put their hand on their hearts and to look at the self-critic that sits on the throne. We all have one, she said. Who is that self-critic? What does it look like? And I looked on that throne and boy was it crowded up there. The whole Shamer family was sitting on it. I saw them all. Their smug grins and disapproving sneers. Then she said 

“Dethrone that self-critic. Don’t partner with shame and the accuser. You are loved, you are forgiven, you are not judged. Partner with the righteous judge.”

At that moment, I remember, I glared at The Shamer family, pointed my finger at them and barked "Get off that throne!". And they left.  Quickly. With their tails between their legs  Seriously, they did. And that's when God took His rightful seat. We smiled at each other and I knew that what she had said was right. God was the righteous judge  - and He didn't judge me at all. I remembered the words from Pastor Rob Fitterer, 

"No one that matters is judging you." 

And my Father looked at me and uttering the same words of love He had been repeating to me over and over, I crawled into His lap and let Him love me. No hissing or echoes in my head. 

I so wish I could tell you the Shamers were dethroned and exiled that day. They were not. They are relentless and sneaky and creep up there at every opportunity. And so it is, I continue the battle with my shame. Make no mistake, it is a battle. Likely the biggest one I have to fight. The stakes are the highest here. And, like those undergoing cancer treatments, it sometimes feels as though the treatment will be what kills you. That you can’t possibly survive one more dose of radiation. It’s a battle being waged over and over until it can be eradicated. I’m not free of it yet. We are working on it. And when it rears its ugly head; sneering, cackling and accusing me - calling me Loser. Unworthy. Failure. Mistake. Stupid. Joke. - He whispers His love in my ears. He reminds me the Shamers are liars and destroyers. He whispers back the truth, lifting cool water to my lips and speaking life into my shaky soul.