Why do we think living with shame, burying it inside our bodies and carrying it with us forever, will stop it from growing. How is that healing?
We live in fear of what our pasts may show about us instead of owning, "Yes, I was (insert shameful secret here). I'm not now. I changed. That was a different me, and I hate that I was a person who did (whatever), but I changed."
I mean, why not be proud of changing?
Or if what we did wasn't hurting anyone, why not be proud of it period?
One slip up can define us for life. Especially in a world where it is all online.
We connect ourselves with others believing they will eject us if they knew (insert secret again), so we hide our ugly, shitty bits and trudge onward, pretending our step is light, hoping so hard we are actually bearing down like it is childbirth that the truth about us never comes to surface. Hoping the face we've fashioned to hide our histories is never shown to be a cobbled together mask. That the world won't discover we are something we should not be.
I may be rambling a bit here, but a memory resurfaced just now. A picture popped up on Facebook from a party I attended in high school. I panicked instantly. I was tagged in the image and my family was on Facebook. I was never allowed to go to parties let alone pool parties. And I definitely was never allowed to wear the bikini I was wearing.
Not me.
I asked my friend to untag me. She didn't understand. She argued that I looked great. It was all in the past. Bikinis are just swim clothes.
I bought that swim set myself. I was 17 years old. I was young and beautiful and all images had to be developed on film. There was no way my parents would catch sight of my in that suit. They had no idea where I was or what I was doing. And yet . . . I was petrified to put it on because I believed my body was horrid and meant to be hidden, because I was certain I would be disowned and made homeless of my parents found out. Skin was expressly forbidden to be shown.
The image was five years old. When it popped up, I was married and living on my own. I still freaked the f*** out. My friend untagged me.
What did this teach me? Why am I going on about this now?
The abuse may have stopped, but the abusive thinking never did. To this day, I rearrange my home when my parents come to show an image they will be comfortable with. I continue to curate the life they see me living, even on Facebook. Even on Steemit. It is amazing.
Ever so slowly I am breaking this action pattern. I know I am not alone. Can we support one another? Please let me know if you have something in your life like this.
All images found free-to-use without attribution on pixabay.com