ALTAR OF SHAME - Extended Version

Christmas 1975? A real joy on that little face.

Warning....this post is very sensitive material and may be triggering to survivors of abuse.  It's ok if you can't go here.  Please do what is best for you.  

Below is some content that I originally wrote as part 
of the Altars of Shame post.  
I took it out because that post was getting too long and 
because I didn't want to distract from the core idea that
SHAME CAN BECOME PRECIOUS.
We don't mean to make it so...we think that we are annihilating it
by ostracizing it, excommunicating it, refusing to see it,
that it will somehow disappear.  
Instead, it thrives in the shadows and bends our lives so it can remain.

I benefit from others' shared experience and story 
in a way that theoretical or purely fictional stories can't replace.
That is part of the power of #metoo right?  
When I can see my own experience in someone else's story
I find insights and comfort in the community.
After some reflection and prayer,
I've decided that it's important for me to share a 
little more on shame altars as relates to my own story.
Maybe it will help bring clarity or empower someone else.

I was abused as a child by my primary care provider 

and assorted people she allowed into my life.

For years, I could only talk about the mental and physical abuse.
The atmosphere of my home was thick with constant implied threat. 
The mental abuse was extensive and pervasive-
I was essentially manipulated, controlled, gas-lighted and denied
as a method for my abuser to feel powerful.
The physical abuse was sporadic and sharply violent-
always administered by someone besides my primary abuser
but with her the consent or direction.

When I left that house at 18, 
I had no trouble bringing that abuse into the light of day.
I was certain (even as a child) that those experiences
had nothing to do with my worthiness.
I knew it was wrong, related to my abuser's impairment and
 that I didn't need to be ashamed of it.

It was discussed, railed against, refuted and rehashed...
by myself, with a community and with my extended family.
It mostly settled into the backstory of my life.
There are scars and sadness but no altars were made.
Nothing precious there.

Homecoming 1992?  Beautiful pretending....

In spite of my approach to the mental and physical abuse,

I could not admit or discuss the sexual abuse that occurred. 

I denied it-even to myself.

I remember one of my aunts asking me in a vague way

if anything 'LIKE THAT' had happened to me

during those dark years where I was cut off from the extended family.
We were working on my bridal bouquet flowers.
I was 22, desperately chasing approval and acceptance,
newly reacquainted with my extended family
and pretending to be someone brave.
Sheer force of will had carried me through high school, 
college and into the work force.
I was planning a wedding and writing my own happily ever after.
Sheer force of will was going to carry me through here too.
Beautiful, worthy girls were not damaged in the way I had been.
I was certain of it.

So I flat out lied.

ABSOLUTELY NOT. 

That worthless, abandoned shell of a girl was 
not getting brought into my adult life.

I was not going to have anyone looking at me as damaged goods
 when I walked down that aisle.

I protected my shame.

I made it precious.

Why did I lie?
Why didn't I talk about it?
It was too.....overwhelming? Uncontrollable? Irrelevant?

I preferred to ignore it.

I refused to label it or sit with it.
If I did try to call it out or remember it, 

my brain skittered over it
like spiders in a breeze.

Occasionally I would hear other stories of sexual abuse survivors.
 I always compared my story to theirs

and decided that my story needed a different label.
If my abuse didn't follow the script of someone else,
then it didn't count as sexual abuse-right?
Good.  I definitely didn't want that label-
I'll keep looking until I find one I like better.
Only there wasn't another label that fit.

Beauty pageant....1990? More cover-up please...

I refused to acknowledge this aspect of my history
and so I remained in some ways chained to this shame.
The whispers of my subconscious always had a reason

 that it didn't need to be out in the open.

I was a mother-my children didn't need to know this.

I was a professional-what would my colleagues think?

My dad would be devastated-I needed to protect him from that knowledge.

My extended family would blame themselves.

My husband who thought I was so brave and free and clean
would be awkward at best, disgusted at worst.
Why does it even matter?
You're fine!  It's all over!
It's in the past, he'll never do that to you again.
You are free.  Finally free.

I was determined that this experience would not control my life.
So I locked it away in a precious, 

holy space that no one but me was allowed to enter.
It became my altar.

I was 38 before I could admit the abuse I experienced 
also included sexual abuse.
More than twenty four years of protecting this information.
It burst like a damn one night and would not be denied.
I'm not sure why I could see it suddenly and accept it.
Maybe I was tired of hiding from myself and pretending
 to be these screwed up versions of a half-person.
Maybe it had become too exhausting to keep throwing the distractions 
required to stay safe behind that altar.
Maybe I was angry at my abusers' continued influence 
over my life in spite of no contact for years.
Maybe I was just tired enough or mellow enough 
that the lines blurred for just a second 
and let me see behind the facade to the precious altar.
I don't know...it wasn't a conscious choice.
It was just suddenly there and obvious and irrefutable.

Once I saw it, accepted it...it poured out of me like rain.
It wasn't precious anymore.
I shared it.
First with my husband.
Then with core friends.
I will remember my dad's expression forever.
Tragic and compassionate-but no disgust or horror.
Just love.

Getting acquainted and re-aligned with this part of my story took years.
And therapy.
And writing and life adjustments and self-care and....
it is still unfolding-in ways that I am not wholly aware.
So far, no one has died or disowned me.
Breaking down my own shame altars-
hasn't caused anyone else to fly off the handle 
or build their own shame altar.
No one wanted me to keep this vigil to begin with-
that was my choice layered in survival mentality 
and coached by shame.

It doesn't matter who knows or doesn't know 
or what the label is.
It doesn't matter if it's actually on the front porch
or in the closet still...what matters is whether it's 
allowed in all the places-not just the special private ones.
It's no longer precious or needs to be protected.
I've also realized that I am the one who made it precious.
I didn't cause the injury-but I wouldn't let it heal.
The sacred, holy space that I made for shame around this abuse
persisted because I allowed it to persist,
because I didn't have the words or the bravery
and because I was surviving...even though I wasn't thriving.
I had urgency around hiding it, not urgency around healing it.
If there is an altar...a place that no one (maybe even you) 
can enter and be real with...maybe it's time to open a window
and blow out the incense.

Laura McKowen and Holly Whitaker...two amazing warriors against shame.