What is it about shame? The releasing of familial patterns of shame. Is that what is coming up now as I assess my life, my move onto my 3rd act? I haven’t really thought about shame at least not directly on any deep level. Awakened by a dream that threw me directly into the presence of shame that I have held onto for my entire life.
It holds me back from allowing myself the true and complete joy of being my authentic self. It holds me back from acceptance of my aging and triggers a self consciousness that I had as a child that I have worked years to release. It creates a projection of my shame onto others as if they are shaming me, and in turn I feel invisible and irrelevant to the world. I keep moving, spinning about in circles of regret of dissatisfaction of searching for who, what and where I want to be in this final act.
Irritation threatens to consume me, feeling too vulnerable to expose myself to the opinions of others and the pettiness with which their daily lives are consumed.
Shame
Shame
My grandparents were full of shame. Shame for being Jews for being forced to flee their homes for a new world where they were not wanted where they were different. They denied their trauma, a trauma that fed that shame which was openly thrust upon my mother. The myth was that those that came from you were a direct reflection of you. A part of you. Therefore their shame was yours and yours theirs and they were always happy to remind you of where you fell short in their eyes. Never as smart as so and so, never as clever or pretty or loving or appreciative or just plain good enough.
There is a memory that I hold onto, clear as if it was yesterday. I see myself from behind, a mere shadow of a small child, as if I am looking over my own shoulder. It is Christmas morning and I am maybe 4 or 5 years old. Santa came in the night. No we didn’t have a tree or even celebrate the holiday, but my mother at least somewhere had the insight not to shame us with the idea that Santa did not like Jewish kids.
Remember the excitement of being a child on Christmas Eve and your birthday? The build up, the anticipation? I have missed that excitement which has been replaced with the wisdom of not having expectations. Hope with no expectations seems to be the antidote for disappointment.
Anyway I do not remember anything about the morning. I couldn’t tell you what Santa brought, I suppose I was excited and happy and in the moment, as only a 5 year old can be. I clearly remember standing in the door frame that looked into the kitchen of our tiny house and seeing my mother and her mother sitting at the table over coffee. There were whispers in Yiddish, but I knew they were talking about me. Ellen sounds like Ellen even in Yiddish.
What should have been a moment of hugs and safety, perhaps some outstretched arms as an invitation to join them, a moment where they had an opportunity to show unconditional love and include me as part of the circle of mother’s and daughters, three generations together, was instead met with my mothers disapproving voice and my grandmother’s eyes catching mine. My heart sank as I cast my eyes downward as I so expertly had already learned to do as a response to my name, during my short time on earth.
“Grandma and I think you were…” I am not certain what word was actually used here but I clearly remember the shame filling my little body. My excitement and joy disappeared as it was apparent that my innocent happiness and energy was misinterpreted as being selfish, spoiled and ungrateful.
I did it wrong, I am not good enough. The roots of shame. Shame that is not even mine to begin with, being propelled through time and space landing directly on my heart, and sinking like a brick to the bottom of my soul. My authenticity buried deeper under the expectations, shame and trauma of a life that wasn’t even mine to live. I turned to leave, holding the burden of my mother’s and grandmother’s shame, a burden that was clearly too heavy for me to carry. I learned early and well what the women in my family are to carry.
I feel that old shame rise to the surface as I navigate my third act. I feel my mother’s shame at growing old, wrinkles and belly fat replacing her once youthful skin. I hear her voice justifying her retirement with a constant reminder to herself and others about all she had accomplished. I feel my grandmother’s shadow of shame as she holds tight to her grief and trauma, denying that she was a “greenhorn” as she would say. Denying her roots, our roots, MY roots.
That little girl wild with excitement over Santa Claus bubbles up, questioning, am I important? Am I relevant? Am I pretty? Am I seen, heard, cared for? Am I enough? The wise woman looking down the road into her third act opens her arms to that girl, holds her close and whispers, yes.
Pause: The Space In-between 