If you have never checked out Crazy Good Parent, you should. It’s become a blog I follow regularly because it is the voice of real life parenting, while living with neurodiversities.
The blogs publisher, Janice, asked if I would write a guest post on shame. Of course, I said yes and was anxious to hash out my own thoughts and feelings on the subject. It wasn’t that easy. This one was tough because before I wrote it, I never really had a definition of shame, of my own. Nor did I understand the significance of it in my own life.
I see shame differently now and I hope that you head over tomorrow and check out my post. I’m looking forward to a conversation on this one.
When I was a girl, I was a Roman Catholic. In addition to going to mass every Sunday, I went to confession every Saturday. It was a sort of weekly bath for the soul so that I’d be clean and shiny the next morning as I knelt and crossed myself along with the rest of the congregation.
While I invariably did feel soul-cleansed following confession, the hours beforehand were dreadful. As I recounted to myself all of the myriad sins I’d committed in the prior week, I felt more and more ashamed. Even if I was only confessing that I’d stuck my tongue out at my brother, I slunk into the confessional as if I’d committed the St. Valentine’s Day massacre single-handedly.
I shouldn’t have stuck my tongue out at my brother; that was something to be ashamed of. But having bipolar disorder? No. I’m not at all ashamed of…
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W.T.F. 