Messenger/Visitor; Photo: L.Weikel

Shame

I’m sitting here on my couch, trying to think of something different to write about tonight. I’m surprised by how tired I am, particularly since it is actually an hour earlier than the time on the clock.

You may have noticed that I got on a bit of a tear over the past few days, and I’m feeling the need to just step back and allow things to ‘be,’ allow the memories I dredged to sift and settle.

Quite honestly, the past two posts have been surprisingly revealing to me. Not only writing them, but also paying attention to my thoughts and feelings as the process unfolded, including the aftermath.

For one thing, I was utterly surprised by the content of my post on Friday night. It’s not as if I’d been sitting around all day contemplating the significance – or even the existence – of International Women’s Day. If asked, I probably wouldn’t have known it was ‘a day’ had it not been for Facebook and the myriad posts celebrating the vast array of achievements by women throughout the ages as well as more recent centuries and decades.

So as I found myself immersed in those early memories of being told and believing I had nearly limitless potential, I was surprised to notice the stirring of a feeling that I didn’t recognize. It was unfamiliar, and definitely uncomfortable. I didn’t like the feeling, yet I felt an even deeper, more primal need to keep writing, to get the story out.

Impulsively Hit Publish

When I lifted my head to take a breath Friday night, I realized two things: I only had a few minutes to get a post published, and I would have to break it up into two.

I hadn’t completed writing the memories that were demanding sunlight. But I had enough for one post. So I cut it off where I did, leaving several paragraphs dangling, with the intention of fleshing them out the next night.

I hit <<publish>> and went to bed.

When I opened my eyes yesterday morning, I felt anxious. Yikes, I’d revealed a lot more about myself than usual. While a lot of what I write is obviously intimate, there is some invisible line that I rarely if ever cross. I’m deeply uncomfortable talking about things like grades or achievements. I know for a fact this was ingrained in me by my parents, and from some interesting anthropological materials I’ve come across, I have a feeling this is part of my DNA, a cultural inheritance from my almost exclusively Irish ancestry.

In my parents’ eyes, there was not much worse you could be than arrogant. A liar perhaps. That would be worse. Or the worst. But arrogance was up there.

So humility was expected, entrained, and ingrained in me.

State of Discomfort

Revealing that I’d gotten good grades and done well in school was OK, but uncomfortable. Seeming to bitch about how things unfolded in law school felt weird. I wasn’t bitching; I was just revealing the situation as it was. But it was uncomfortable, especially as I lay in bed yesterday morning, staring out our bedroom windows, contemplating what I’d written and shared with the world.

All day I felt a bit out of sorts. I was embarrassed. Who was I to complain about things? I’d had it so much easier than so many others. I was literally in a state of discomfort whenever I thought about what I’d written.

As the day wore on, I seriously considered writing an apology to all of you. Karl had chided me for apologizing a couple of times way back in some of my first blog posts. I can’t even remember what it had to do with, but he told me it was simply ugly and I should refrain from doing it in the future.. So I felt this push/pull. Deep discomfort/desire to apologize.

Alright, I thought to myself. I won’t apologize. But I will simply refrain from completing and publishing ‘part two.’

And that’s how I approached my writing time last night. I would put aside the partially written ‘part two’ and write about something totally different. I would save what I’d written for another day, perhaps. Or never. But definitely not now.

When I went to copy the extra material from the previous night’s rough draft and paste it into its own document, I started reading it again. I got fired up. The rest of what I wanted to express just poured out of my fingertips.

I Was Ashamed

I realized I’d never thought I would ever tell this story out loud. How degraded and devalued I’d felt as a young woman. What a lie I’d lived, with people always assuming the ‘rich lawyer’ myth, which could not have been further from the truth.

And then it hit me: I was ashamed. I was ashamed of myself.

Obviously you know, if you read Saturday night’s post, that I gave myself permission to tell ‘part two.’

I’ve been contemplating this ‘shame’ thing all day. It’s a word I’ve rarely, if ever, associated with myself; not consciously, at least.

Surprisingly, I think I experienced something pretty monumental as a result of what I shared with all of you. I’m still contemplating.

I’ll let you know where this contemplation leads me.

As always, I’m grateful for your company on this journey.

(T-992)