Telling Stories, Undoing Shame

Shame and surviving trauma go hand in hand. Sharing our stories about who we are undoes the work of shame. Shame survives in secret.

I remember the first time I told someone my story. I was in a recovery program for survivors of childhood sexual abuse. I had just “remembered” my repressed trauma about eight months before finding the Gatehouse, a government-funding centre with programs for survivors of childhood sexual assault (CSA). I was sitting in a room with eight other women, most around my age.

 Our first exercise required us to write out a big secret, one we wouldn’t want anyone to know. I scribbled my secret down on a ripped piece of paper and folded it as small as it could go. I squeezed it in the palm of my hand, praying that it would disintegrate through my skin and remain stuck inside my body for another thirty years.

That didn’t happen. Instead, we all passed our ‘secrets’ to the person to our right. We each took turns reading each other secrets out loud.

When my secret was read aloud to the room, I broke into tears - the tears of thirty years came pouring out of me.

The facilitator asked me how do you feel now?

And I told her I felt ashamed. Then everyone in the room, told me about their experience with the very thing I wrote down: it wasn’t my fault; I didn’t cause it; it happened to them too; the didn’t judge me, and it was okay.

For many years – almost thirty to be exact – my body and my brain kept my childhood traumas a secret from me. For the most part, I always told people I had a pretty good childhood. That my parents, for all their flaws, tried their best.

Then, approaching my thirtieth birthday, I woke up with night terrors, repeatedly. I kept reliving what I call my original ‘big T Trauma” for nights on end. Eventually, I reached out to people in my 12-step community for guidance in what became yet another life-altering journey.

Indignantly for the first while, I weaved my survival of CSA into almost every conversation, every Instagram post, every chance meeting with a friend; I desperately needed to be witnessed and validated. I needed someone to say “yes this happened to you. This happened to me too. This is how we find freedom”. I asked myself, every day following my remembrance did that really happen? How do I know? Am I imaging it? How come I didn’t remember earlier? If it was true, wouldn’t I know?

I was at an AA meeting one evening, sharing my story from the front of the room to a group of about 100 other drunks. I shared that I am a survivor of CSA and incest. At the end of the meeting, a kind, older friend told me she understood. She recommended I look into the Gatehouse, and come over for tea sometime.

Thrown onto a waitlist (as is the case with all Ontario mental health services), I held on tight until the first program opened for me in January – three months later.

On the first evening of our program, there I sat, together, with eight other survivors.

In AA, people always say they find a “tribe”. Family groups belong to each other and know each other intimately. Groups of friends stay connected in high school, university, and beyond. Me? I never felt like I belonged anywhere, with anyone. Until I was in this room, until other women opened their mouths and shared their stories. Then I shared mine.

Once I heard their stories, and once they heard mine, all of the pain in my body began to melt away. The shame I felt over simply existing, began to unfurl itself from my bones. The disgust I had for my own body that, in my early teens manifested as an eating disorder, began to become clear to me, and began to lift.

Sharing our stories about who we are undoes the work of shame. Shame survives in secret.

Shame is isolating. It cuts me off from my body, myself, and my ability to connect with others.

After 16 weeks with these women at Gatehouse, I finally understood what it meant to be in a ‘tribe’, how it felt to finally belong. 

From that time, being a CSA survivor no longer was the centre of the world. Instead, writing and telling my story, speaking my truth become the central refuge of my life and my recovery.

This is why I write. Writing and speaking the truth can be costly. It has cost me friendships, family relationships, and even relationships with different parts of myself.

Undoing shame is an ongoing process. I encounter it in the wildest of moments: when I’m sitting on the bus and listening to music on my headphones, when I make a mistake or feel like I’ve done something wrong, when I hear someone’s response to something, or when I’m relaxing on the couch in the evening time and just watching TV.

Shame, after CSA, becomes who we are. It takes on life as a big black hole inside your stomach and eventually, encompasses your whole mind and body. Undoing the tangled web of shame is a long and arduous process. But it is lifesaving.

Talking about the things we feel ashamed of is the only sure way to find freedom.

Talking about shame is the way we find ourselves again.

A Concussion Changed My Life - for the better

Starting my business wasn’t an overnight feat. But it also wasn’t the typical story. I didn’t sit in on some seminar, hear the whispers of inspiration from #bossbabes on Instagram, or get a degree in business, marketing, or even in the industry I started my business in, Public Relations.

Three major things had to happen for me before I started my own business at the ripe, young, impressionable and pissed off age of 27:

I got angry;

I realized only I was stopping me from starting;

Then, I got a concussion. A literal K-O from the universe.

I’ll back it up just a tiny bit though:

I was approaching my fifth year of recovery from alcoholism. By that point, I had kept a few jobs here and there, found some that felt like they had some purpose, but never really *fit* in anywhere, you know? Purposeful work felt fleeting for me, and I wanted a space where I could create and bring all my big ideas to life. My problem was slow start in the industry. The entry level jobs I was getting, after countless unpaid internships, were contracts that paid no more than $13 an hour. My ex and I lived off of two meals a day, sometimes unable to pay our phone or internet bills and mounting student debt. We’d hit up McDonald’s throughout the week because it was cheaper to eat a dollar menu item than buy vegetables.

Around that time, I also started doing what I call the ‘deep digging’ of recovery work. I was in emotional pain – in my family relationships, in my intimate relationship, and it was affecting the quality of my life. I started going to 12-step programs for survivors of dysfunctional families, and reading everything I could about recovering from childhood abuse. I jumped head-first into Adult Children of Alcoholics, read After the Tears and From Surviving to Thriving, every book on codependency and surviving a childhood of neglect and trauma. It was my mission.  

What I came to realize was something significant: the ideas I had about my limitations were not my own ideas. They were ideas implanted in me by the people around me my whole life, beginning at a very young age. Shame and doubt were the seedlings of my youth, sitting ripened on my tongue for an adulthood of false starts.  

Having had this ‘blueprint’ for thinking ‘of course no one will support me or think I’m smart’, I frequently found myself playing out these dynamics in all of my relationships. I dated men who couldn’t witness all of me, I had bosses who wanted me to keep quiet and stay in line, I had friends who wanted me around for their convenience and bullying. I never got the job or made the grade because I didn’t think I deserved it. I never asked for it either.

Most importantly, up to that point, I had doubted myself and my capabilities. I doubted thinking I ever deserved anything good, anything wonderful in life.

When you’re raised being told you’re stupid, you’re ugly, you’re annoying – why would you think you deserve anything other than abuse?

(This is where the magic happens.)

Six months into working this ACA program, and digging deep into family dynamics, pattern thinking, and negative core beliefs, I get a concussion.

After a particularly bad week at a shitty contract PR job I had at the time, I went out for a fancy-pants dinner with my partner at the time (we had gift cards – better use them, right?). On the streetcar coming back home, some teenagers were rough-housing near where we were sitting and a gangly dude of no more than 22 falls into me and his elbow nails the back of my head. I suddenly don’t know where I am, and start speaking slowly.

A trip to the ER and one panicked boyfriend later, I had a concussion and had to stay in bed and off screens for a minimum of ten days.

Cut to me being in the dark with absolutely nothing to do for ten days. I lived in a basement apartment at the time (wonderful for keeping cool in the summer months), so it was a perfect dark cave for staying away from the bright lights of the real world that made me nauseated. It was recommended to me to listen to podcasts and audiobooks while in this cave-creature like state.

So I did.

Hating podcasts as I do, I downloaded a few Wayne Dyer books, the latest Brene Brown, Gabrielle Bernstein, and Danielle LaPorte books. I listened to each one of them, on repeat, all in the matter of ten days. My partner fed me and brought me lots of water between his shifts, and I stayed in a dark cavernous bedroom with no windows. It felt like a womb.

To be as cliché about it as possible, I was completely reborn.

Emerging from this ten-day recovery in a dark room, everything felt and seemed crystal clear to me. I just intuitively knew I was going to start a business. I just intuitively knew how it was going to function. I intuitively knew what our values would be, what our clients would be like, what my every single day would be like. I intuitively knew I was going to get a Masters in Business Design, apply the learnings, and create a business with meaning and purpose, bringing meaning and purpose to the clients I served.  

Divinity came, knocked me out, and forced me into a hermit sanctuary in order to right myself with the proper path that the universe intended for me.

I felt awash with peace and knowing.

A few months later, it all came together and I banked my first client. I went on a massive limb after getting my tax return of two-thousand dollars (that was at least a couple months rent at the time) and quit my job. Never mind my mounting debt, my student loans, I was going to make this work.

And I did.

I was working my first TIFF as a solo entrepreneur and someone at a party asked me about starting my business earlier that year. She wanted to know if it was scary, she said starting a business seems like the scariest thing you could ever do.

Starting my business was an act of radical self-love, and service for the clients I would work with for the four years that followed. With my business, I created the community I sought, I elevated the stories I wanted to see in the world, I empowered the voices of creators, and I was rewarded with more and more peace and knowing. Literally the entire time.

So, I told her it wasn’t scary at all. In fact, it was easy. It was one of the easiest things I have ever done. Just like how loving someone is easy, because they are easy to love. As we all are.

Sometimes, you just need to get a universal K-O to let the peace in.

Being An Addict Made Me A Better Business Woman.

I always tell people I have lived two lives in one: one of a drunk; one on the other side of addiction. 

I was just over a year sober when I first started working in the entertainment industry. There were glitzy parties all the time, and glamorous film junkets to put together: networking, film festivals, mega stars and talent visiting from all over the world, including Hollywood. People in this industry worked hard and they played hard. 

I hid my recovery and my sobriety like it was something to be ashamed of, I thought - no, I knew, that it would be a major damper on my career in a star-studded, drug and alcohol fuelled industry. 

Once, at a party at a festival in Toronto, a loving co-worker suggested "I might want to leave" as the evening began to turn. She was right. There's always a point in the evening when, as a sober person, your tolerance for being around people who are drinking fades. People begin to spill drinks. Their words slur. Everyone is a VIP and they no longer want to hide it. Your tolerance fades fast.

I was 25 when I started in the industry and I was just getting my feet wet. The last thing I wanted was the be branded as ‘different from other workers’, let alone a liability. My sobriety made me more reliable, I thought, more trust worthy. Didn't it? But it also made me a black sheep: Why aren't you toasting at the office Christmas party? Where is your champagne? No wine at the lunch meeting?

At almost a decade into my recovery I've come to learn a few things about alcoholics and addicts - myself included in this category. We are resilient, resourceful, feisty, and rebellious. It just depends on what side of the journey you're on in order for these qualities to be deemed good or bad. When we are deep in our cups, these qualities wreak havoc on those around us. We ruin relationships and lives. 

When I started my small business at the age of 27 - in my 5th year of recovery, all of the qualities I picked up in my years of surviving as an addict, and that I was able to really practice in my recovery from alcoholism became incredibly useful. My bandwidth for stress? Massive. My resourcefulness? Ask me to find something, I will. No money? Don’t worry, we will get it. It was all the qualities of me as addict: resourceful, rebellious, feisty, head-strong, that I was able to put to good use.

I made my alcoholic qualities work for me.

It doesn't hurt that I've seen shady "business deals" on the streets - I can now spot them a mile away, even in a boardroom.

On the other side of recovery, I also began to grow my spiritual life. This has undoubtedly aided in developing my business with values of integrity and grace. Flexing my spiritual muscle daily - from spiritual readings, to daily meditations (which have been ongoing now for almost ten years), to grounding myself and my business in my spiritual values and integrity, has helped me to form the basis of my business, and all the relationships that have flourished from it.

None of this would have been possible had I never been a drunk who had hit their bottom.

Being a drunk taught me survival and resilience in struggle. Recovery taught me integrity and faith. No money in the bank? I had a reliance in the universe that everything was going to work out. That next business deal is around the corner. Not sure this meeting will go well? Suit up. Show up. Put your best foot forward and bring a bucket of unconditional love. Someone screwed you over? Well, pray that they find peace and contentment… That one is still hard sometimes. 

What I thought to be a big burden in life, my decade-long, black-out drinking career, has become one of my greatest benefactors in business. Being a recovering alcoholic and addict has widened my lens in life. While I may be rebellious and resilient, my capacity for vulnerability continually grows; I am able to connect with a wide range of people from a vast background of experiences and places; I can hold space for pain and art and openness more than had I not had the experiences I have had in this life so far. 

Being an addict robbed me of ten years of my youth and early adult life.

But recovery has been a bountiful adventure, which has returned the gifts of a sober life in multitudes.