Don’t Shame the Shame

A body response to child sexual abuse ties itself up in a shame that returns when we expect it, and sometimes when we don’t.

When I wrote this poem called 'The Wink' (one I often revise because it’s never quite right), I pictured this scene of myself in a crowded room, locking eyes with the man who was abusing me. I remember a child who felt ‘owned’ and a man who took pleasure in that.

‘The wink’, and the reaction of others to my body’s response told me everything I needed to know about shame.

He winks at me across a crowded room. He does it a lot. It means: I’m here. Be good. Do as you’re told. Watching you. Isn’t this fun. It flies across heads and canapés on paper plates. Rides on the chatter of braying voices and smacks me. Hard. A sucker punch somewhere just below my belly. Where it tweaks the invisible like my mother’s taut guitar string and steals my breath. And reminds me of JR Ewing. White petals of paper walls. Smell of blue felt and amber in cut glass. Cigarettes. The sliding scale of it. The blind search of it. I was not ready. Muscle. Nail. For scraping of soul. Of flesh left empty. Two tribes on the radio. A moaning glimpse in the mirror. I grab at myself to pull out the wink. Euw! Mum! She’s doing it again! And I understand. Shame is here to stay.

How difficult it is to shake off this shame we are told must change sides when the memories we hold as adult survivors are enmeshed with the very act of being human. With trust and love. Sex. Breathing. A heartbeat. I and my body remember touch and gaze as if it was yesterday. I will never look at a man’s hands and not think of it. I typed ‘fingers’ at first and then changed it to ‘hands’. I sanitised my words for you because I felt ashamed.

This is what we do.

But I would prefer to call a spade a spade, (although I still played it ‘safe’, didn’t I?). I will leave my explanation. And the word.

I stopped fighting shame in the end. It is no longer overwhelming to the extent I can’t speak about my experiences. I choose to live my life as ‘out.’ I know it’s ‘not my shame' as this is a sentiment reflected in our own strapline for The Flying Child CIC: Society’s Shame, Not Mine (although this relates to the inadequate responses we receive as survivors, where survival is met with judgment and blame - as much as the abuse itself).

But...shame is sticky.

For many it lingers, no matter how many times we pump our fist in the air and chant at it.

Shame means I shower in the dark. That ‘self-care’ isn’t really for me. Or reflections. It is why I avoid healthcare and can’t lie on my back in a dentist’s chair. Why I’m more likely to reach for my lighter than an apple because it is not apples that help me temporarily forget. It is why I wrote “I and my body” and not just “I.” Body and soul disconnected long ago to avoid - not just the memory of child sexual abuse - but the feel.

I briefly found my way back to my body through motherhood and tiger-striped stretch marks. Standing to birth my first child with a guttural roar. Those early days were far from straightforward, but I recall the revelation of having a body that did what was ‘good’ and ‘expected’. Not shameful and ‘wrong’. One that provided, often seconds before my baby cried. Milk that flowed. An extraordinary reclaiming four times over - and one I recognise as a great privilage, as this is not how all survivors experience it. Many survivors are re-traumatised by the process, or don’t become parents - a decision some might relate to their experiences of abuse.

I lost my body again as my children grew and I haven’t found my way back to it yet. In fact, as I get older, the gap widens when I expected it to be the opposite, but that is nothing for me to be ashamed of.

Unless you tell me it is.

So by all means, tell me it’s an option not to carry that shame. That, I might need to hear. But don’t tell me I shouldn’t or mustn’t feel it, as that would be a bit, well…shaming. Shame is a sentient being, but when it’s busy feeding from me it won't pay you much attention.

"Shame is a soul-eating emotion"

C.G.Jung

Shame influences every human interaction, even the ones outside the obvious. It’s why I find it hard to ask for, and accept help. How I show up in a meeting. Whether I meet your eyes with ease, or not. If I can speak the words I intended. I prepare heavily for speaking events so it doesn’t catch me unawares. It’s the reason I can't do interviews because the minute I feel that tip of power, I fold in on myself like a house of cards. I can’t locate my words in the mess of me.

The shame slides and settles in my body, just as it did with ‘the wink.’ 

Child sexual abuse is wings plucked from a butterfly. It is being watched as you crawl in the dirt by the ones who kicked you there.

The impacts are lifelong, but a better response to victims and survivors helps to ‘unshame’ us. I like the term as I imagine unravelling yarn where the fibres have split too much to be reused. And until we live in a world where justice is a given, unshaming is the sort of thing that changes lives for the better. 

Yes, I could have more therapy, and I might in the future, but I have done a ton of work on myself (much of it is documented here, if you’re interested in reading about it). I have studied a lot and continue to do so. I know a fair bit and some of it is very helpful. A lot is not. It has a place, but unshaming is more helpful to me at this point in my life than further psychoeducation.

So how can we help to unshame survivors?

Learning how to recognise shame is a good first start. As is understanding how debilitating it can be. Let us sit with shame when it raises its unwelcome head.

Don’t shame the shame.

Speaking about child sexual abuse with empathy and care (we are really tired of the jokes) is an easy way to unshame. It tells survivors that the way we feel about it now, is not something we need - or are expected - to stay silent about.

Supporting us to live a life despite our experiences and not just urged to ‘move on’ by those uncomfortable with the subject, and the ways in which we might be surviving it. Survival might not make much sense to you, or it might appear self-destructive, but it is a challenge to let go of things that kept us alive. There are times in my life where letting go was even more dangerous for me, and I had nothing to put in place.

Survivors were built on rocky ground. Unshaming helps us to reach a place that feels level and ‘right.’

As does a tangible help to fly.

Those of you who extend a kind hand.

Who lend us your wings.

You might be unaware of the difference it makes, but you are the ones who pull us from the dirt. 🌸

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Non-blaming, supportive. Unshaming.