The first time I remember feeling shame was on my fifth birthday. My
Mom’s boyfriend had just given me a present, and before I opened it, I
made some flippant comment in an effort to be funny. Although time has
erased the words that came from my mouth that day, my mother’s painful
reprimand, and the toxic shame I felt afterward made a permanent imprint
on my developing brain and haunted me for years.
“Morrene, shame on you! You really hurt Dick’s feelings. I can’t tell you
how disappointed I am at your behavior!” my mother said angrily after she
pulled me aside.
As my mom said these words to me, I remember looking down at my feet
as white, hot shame flooded my body. I literally felt that shame in physical
form, from my knees that went weak with terror to my heart that pounded
nervously in my chest to my breath that came in short gasps. Little did I
know that this particular incident would set me up for a lifetime of shame
that touched every part of my life in many painful ways.
From my friendships to my job to marriage and raising kids, I was constantly
hounded by shame. My mother was a master at shaming people,
especially her unwanted daughter, that was born from an accidental
pregnancy, a fact she often reminded me of as I grew up.
I loved my mother, but I was terrified of her as much as I loved her.
From her verbal abuse to her sexual abuse to her physical abuse, I was
constantly on guard when I was around my mother because I never knew
what was coming at me.
My mother is a deeply dysfunctional and angry person, and she dumped all
her life’s frustrations on her unwanted daughter’s shoulders. From her
frustration at being a single mother to her struggles with money to having to
work jobs she hated due to her debilitating insomnia, my mom felt that life had
somehow shortchanged her.
When I was growing up, my mom often told me all she wanted was a life of
leisure, enough time to ride her beloved horses, go shopping, and do
whatever pleased her. Unfortunately, a series of bad decisions and four
failed marriages never brought my mom the life she felt she so richly deserved. My mom took absolutely no responsibility for her own actions,
instead making herself a victim of life’s circumstances. And let me tell you,
she was furious at all that life had thrown at her, and she spewed that
anger far and wide.
I am a highly sensitive person and always have been. It has taken me years to
learn how to work with my sensitivity in a healthy manner, but I had no idea
how to do that when I was growing up. Like every child, my developing
brain was like a sponge. I had no way to make sense of the terrifying and
humiliating things that happened to me at home other than to make it all my
fault. My traumatized mind reasoned that somehow, some way, somewhere,
the blame for all of the abuse I suffered rested squarely on my shoulders.
But that is the lie of child abuse, and I bought into it, hook, line, and sinker.
By the time I was nine years old, I had learned to hate myself.
That toxic shame that I first experienced at the tender age of five years old
and the years of abuse I suffered as a child invaded every part of my life
and created a myriad of toxic feelings in me: depression, anxiety,
loneliness, guilt, and humiliation. I felt if someone really took the time to get
to know me, all of my filthy secrets would be exposed. When I looked
inward, I could see a cauldron of black moldering waste furiously
bubbling and boiling with toxic shame and humiliation.
Every time I felt depressed, I felt ashamed, as if somehow the depression
was my fault. That made me even more depressed. Every time I felt
anxious, I felt ashamed, and that brought more depression. The same with
loneliness. Same with the guilt. It was a never-ending cycle.
Since early childhood, I have suffered from insomnia and severe migraines.
The few times I made the mistake of complaining to my mom about the
head pain when I was a child, I was met with, “Oh, for God’s sake, quit
feeling sorry for yourself!” And guess what? Any time I had a sleepless
night or a migraine, which was a daily occurrence, that brought more
shame and depression. Throughout my life, I have learned to put a brave
smile on my face and power through the pain no matter how bad I felt.
Through years of counseling and revisiting my childhood, I am slowly
coming to terms with my past. One of the biggest things that is helping me
heal is the realization that from the moment my mother found out she was
pregnant with me, I had a target on my back. After I was born, it didn’t take long for me to become a scapegoat for my mother’s anger, a receptacle for
the years of pent-up anger and frustration she had accumulated in life. No
matter who would have been born to my mother, they would have suffered
the same fate that I did. I never stood a chance.
And now, when shame rears its ugly head, I can catch it before it
gains momentum and gently release it instead of shaming and beating
myself up like I did for years. I no longer take the abuse, and that has released an immense amount of grief.
Photo by Yuris Alhumaydy on Unsplash
Guest Post Disclaimer: Any and all information shared in this guest blog post is intended for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing in this blog post, nor any content on CPTSDfoundation.org, is a supplement for or supersedes the relationship and direction of your medical or mental health providers. Thoughts, ideas, or opinions expressed by the writer of this guest blog post do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.
Morrene Hauser currently lives in Central Ohio. For a little over 30 years she ran and operated her own business as a court reporter. Upon retirement Morrene started writing about the many wonderful animals she had while growing up and the powerful impact they have had on her life. Morrene also writes about mental health.
