Sing Your Song

Speaking Shame, Singing Pain, Seeing ME…

Welcome back, friends.

I have been thinking a lot about the power of sharing my story; and noticing the small, yet significant, changes that have taken place in my life over these past fourteen months.

As you know, and for those of you who might not, I share my trials, my victories, and my stories with you in hopes that if any of you were ever touched by childhood abuse or neglect, as I was, you will see yourself in my experiences and feel that you are not alone. There are many of us. Eventually, with this knowledge, I hope you are strengthened to voice what you had not been able to before. And, hopefully, begin your own healing journey.

Poet and Spiritual Thought leader, Mark Nepo, has said:

“Giving voice to what is inner is essential to surviving what is outer.
It is the song from within that keeps the pain of living from snuffing our lives. It is the song from within ignited, again and again, that keeps the world going. When we do this for ourselves, we do it for every child not yet born.
Sing, then, in whatever tongue your pain has taught you. Sing, because the cry from all the places you have kept quiet will stall the cold, will soften the danger, will keep the world possible for one more turn…”

“Singing my pain” on the pages of my book, and through these (mostly) weekly posts has taught me a modicum of self-compassion. Believe me, from where I started, this is progress!

I notice that I’m saying “yes” to more engagements with others. I stop and have long interactions with my neighbors. I accepted an invitation to a reception of graduates of my parochial high school recently, where I didn’t know a soul! And I walked up to folks I didn’t know, introduced myself, and did not shrink when asked what I am doing in my life. For those of you who know me (or knew me), that is something!

More surprisingly, I ask for what I want and need. Nothing demanding or pushy, of course. One of Ed’s adages is “If you don’t ask, you don’t get.” So, I’m not putting myself last and least anymore. I’m not projecting small anymore. I’m no longer imprisoned by my lack of self-worth. Doesn’t mean I don’t get nervous, but I’m living more “now”, and unapologetically. And Ed doesn’t mind not having to guess what I want and need!

I’m able to make my choices despite the discomfort, instead of having the discomfort prevent me from making that choice, and having discomfort heaped on me for shrinking from my positive choice. The story in my head is the past. My being able to take a breath and pause before reacting to that old story allows me to be present and choose for “now”. This has been a sea-change in my general outlook on everyday life!

Having told my story through my book, the folks who have read my book relate to me differently now, in an informed, and positive way. They know about me, and they see me. Especially, blessfully, my swim friends. They can see my face and know if I’m being triggered. And I can tell they understand. No words needed.

Telling my unvarnished story opened the door to others being able to see me and my truth and it made it OK for others to share their truths with me. That has been my purpose from the start. These women and men are why I’m out                    here.

For those that haven’t been affected by ACEs, the reading of my story awoke in them a reason to be more compassionate to what they don’t know about me, or anyone, and the awareness that there may be something deeper that they don’t know about the situation behind a behavior, or some other indicator in any social situation. Armed with this knowledge, anyone can be more compassionate, more helpful, and more human.

Professor and Self-Compassion expert, Dr. Kristin Neff describes self-compassion this way:

“Self-compassion is simply the process of turning compassion inward. We are kind and understanding rather than harshly self-critical when we fail, make mistakes, or feel inadequate. We give ourselves support and encouragement rather than being cold and judgmental when challenges and difficulty arise in our lives.”

I just returned from a swim practice I walked into with enormous anxiety. Looking at the board at what the coach was asking of us, the voices of old assured me I was incapable of completing this workout. The voices sang the song from my youth, still resonating in my ears, as young Bess sat, banished to solitary confinement under the dining room table, jeered by twelve siblings and my parents:

“Bess the Mess. Bess the Mess. Hoopie hoopie. Bess the Mess.”

I wanted to disappear, run, hide, leave. I was filled with my old deep-seated shame, impostor syndrome, and memories of past failures.

But, as I sat in that shame, I also held my heart and breathed into the pain. I looked around the sea of caps and goggles looking for a face that I knew I could feel safe with. A person who would not judge me but hold me up. The truth is that, undoubtedly, every face held that potential; but in this moment, I spotted one that immediately eased my rapid breathing, bringing me back into the present. Into my body. One to whom I could sing my song of long ago and be embraced for the beauty of my truth.

Sharing my truth has gifted me relationships that otherwise would have remained “dangerous” to me, leaving me unable to be curious and explore and push past my discomfort. It has opened the way for me to finally begin to experience the awe and wonder of living. I am grateful to those beautiful souls that see me, get me, and embrace all the sides of me. And I am grateful to the soul within me that is brave, and kind, and loving.

Dr. Brene Brown, shame researcher and author, teaches us that “shame cannot survive being spoken.” She says that “shame needs three things to survive: secrecy, silence, and judgement.”

Baring all in finding I has shattered the secrecy, silence, and judgements borne from my past, deepening my relationships with others and with myself. It has allowed me to say “yes” to life more often than “no,” which used to be my go-to safe place.

Without a doubt, I still become afraid, especially driving down I-35. I, also, can push through the fear to find the joy on the other side. I can go to a gathering where I know no one and smile, chat, and walk away whole. I can sit with a friend, listen, care, feel, and again walk away whole. I am less and less shattered by my social encounters. It is becoming more comfortable for me to be seen, heard, held, and loved.

As I more and more push through the fear; above all, it is good to feel love of self. For that I am deeply grateful.

This is my wish for each of you reading this. May we all find ways to embrace self-compassion, speak our shame and sing our pain, allowing us to love ourselves, so we can enthusiastically love the others in our lives.

I leave you with this poem by Kahlil Gibran, Lebanese-American writer, and poet.

                                                            Fear
It is said that before entering the sea
A river trembles with fear.
She looks back at the path she has traveled,
From the peaks of the mountains,
The long winding road crossing forests and villages.
And in front of her,
She sees an ocean so vast,
That to enter
There seems nothing more than to disappear forever.
But there is no other way.
The river cannot go back.
Nobody can go back.
To go back is impossible in existence.
The river needs to take the risk
Of entering the ocean
Because only then will fear disappear,
Because that is where the river will know
It’s not about disappearing into the ocean,
But becoming the ocean.

Sing your song, friends, and sing it loudly.

Until next time.