When shame comes over me, I often don’t recognize it. Not at first, anyway.
I often find myself feeling angry and hurt over some small thing. Someone might have insulted me. Someone might have simply disagreed with me. A person might have been rude or belittled me in some way. Maybe some tiny way.
And something in me feels ready to explode. I’m furious. I’m hurt. I feel the need to strike out and hurt whoever is hurting me. I just want the hurting and humiliation to go away. And that’s about the time — if I’m lucky — that I’ll realize I’m dealing with shame.
Someone has pushed one of my buttons. Maybe it was an intentional slight. Maybe not. Either way, I feel shame. Before long, the shame has morphed into a passive form of self-directed aggression. I’m not good enough. I’ll never be loved or understood.
Then my harsh and brutal superego — the imagined channeling of my childhood father’s voice — tells me to stop whining. To stop feeling anything.
“Just get over it,” the voice screams.
And then I hate myself for having needs. I hate myself for hurting. I hate myself for feeling anything. As I simmer in this toxic stew of shame and hurt, I realize I’m not as close as I’d thought to the emotional health which I’ve been seeking for decades.

In the old Ginger or Mary Ann debate, I wanted a third choice
Our voluntary decisions can lead to a new beginning for America
Leopards might not change spots, but cowardly lions can gain courage
Ellie Kemper ‘witch-hunt’ shows why it’s hard to fight real racism
Why do so many of us stay where we know we’ll remain miserable?
In a culture that worships youth, we’re scared to look in a mirror
Goodbye, Anne (2009-2019)