by Dandelion Doolittle

Created on: April 29, 2010

There wasn’t one captivating or horrendous event that caused me shame.  Shame is an emotion that causes you to feel guilty or never measuring up.  Toxic shame is something else.  John Bradshaw wrote a book on toxic shame.  He alludes to the idea that you think there is something bad about you that can never be changed or fixed; it is a constant in your life and causes you to feel defective and unworthy of love.  The core of the problem is generally found in your childhood memories, growing up in a shaming family.  Therein is where I felt my shame and disgrace that carried into my adult life.

My parents were shameless caretakers.  Their cruel behavior towards me, and their neglect, left me damaged.  I hated where I lived.  Our house was in the poorer part of town.  The interior was shabby.  I can remember torn linoleum by the front door.  I brought a friend over for the first time.  I tried to hide the linoleum with a rug.  I never wanted to bring friends to our house for play dates or sleepovers.  My father was a drunk and my mother abused us.  My mother constantly called me a “no good son of a bitch just like your father” which made me doubt my worthiness.

My mother was so angry with me.  It was one evening and it was just getting dark.  We were still playing outside.  Next-door was a cigar shop with a small stairwell that set back from the building front.  A man approached me.  I got scared and hovered in the stairwell.  He came close.  I could smell his stale breath.  He put his hand inside my pants.  I froze.  Just at that very moment I could hear my mother calling.  The man got startled.  She was coming near and she saw him.  “Get away from her!  What do you think you’re doing?” I heard her yell.  He ran.  Luckily some older fellows were close by and grabbed him.  The police were called and the man was arrested.  She had to go to court.  I wondered why I put myself in such a precarious situation.  I felt that I had done something wrong.  I was seven years old.

My mother would choke me and leave welts on my throat.  I had to go to piano lessons with my throat all red.  My teacher was concerned, “Is there anything I can do?”   Embarrassed, I glanced downward and uttered, “No thank you.”  I

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