Tag: shame

Guilt, Shame, and Fear

I recently stumbled upon a reference to how cultural anthropologists categorize societies based on how they control behavior in those societies as guild-shame-fear.

I pulled these descriptions from the always dependable Wikipedia:

Guilt Society

In a guilt society, control is maintained by creating and continually reinforcing the feeling of guilt (and the expectation of punishment now or in the afterlife) for certain condemned behaviors. The guilt worldview focuses on law and punishment. A person in this type of culture may ask, “Is my behavior fair or unfair?” This type of culture also emphasizes individual conscience.

Shame Society

In a shame society (sometimes called an honor–shame culture), the means of control is the inculcation of shame and the complementary threat of ostracism. The shame–honor worldview seeks an “honor balance” and can lead to revenge dynamics. A person in this type of culture may ask, “Shall I look ashamed if I do X?” or “How will people look at me if I do Y?” Shame cultures are typically based on the concepts of pride and honor. Often actions are all that count and matter.

Fear Society

In a fear society, control is kept by the fear of retribution. The fear worldview focuses on physical dominance. A person in this culture may ask, “Will someone hurt me if I do this?”

I was interested in the topic because I have lived at the intersection of all three.

Until sixth grade, I went to an old-school Catholic school and church, where the nuns still wielded rulers as weapons, and God was always watching and never approving. I can still picture one of the sisters with terrible arthritis, and her hand contorted perfectly to wrap around one of the long wooden chalk sticks. I remember feeling that everything I did was a sin, deserving of punishment, and wrong, deserving of exclusion.

I also grew up in a household with a single, frustrated, angry mother and an older, equally angry sister. I spent a lot of time trying to be and keep everything perfect to avoid getting punished, always fearful of the hand and the wooden spoon.

I thought this was normal. As I got older, the voice inside my head would take over for the nuns, my mother, and my sister, reinforcing the messages of guilt, shame, and fear.

It wasn’t until after I was married and we had our son (and a lot of therapy) that I started to see and understand that my childhood was traumatic and how it affected me as an adult.

Guilt is what kept me feeling wrong.

Shame is what kept me feeling alone.

Fear is what kept me feeling small.

The behaviors that I developed to help me survive in a state of guilt-shame-fear became toxic in my adult relationships, closing me off to the people I desperately wanted to be close to and spreading out to every aspect of my existence: relationships, love, intimacy, sexuality, self-esteem, friendships, goals, expectations, happiness, comfort, safety.

What got you here won’t get you there…

I am on a journey of recovery and untethering myself from my old patterns and beliefs. However, as I go through this process, I want to ensure that my son has a different experience. While we’re not religious, and there (probably) aren’t nuns waiting around the corner, the most likely transmitter of the guild-shame-fear burden is me.

I still wrestle with my lingering expectations of perfection and fear that I will disappoint the people around me. I still feel the grip of guilt and shame for my actions and who I am.

While I am very conscious of the words I use when I engage in these topics with my son, it’s not only the words that influence how he interprets these messages. It’s how he sees my relationship with these feelings that will demonstrate what his relationship with the feelings should be. Even when I think I successfully internalize or hide these feelings, I know I am not that good of an actor. Their effects are visible on my face, body, voice, and how I present myself to the world.

In many ways, the work my wife and I have done has created a very different environment for our son than either of us had. I can see that in how he interacts with the world. He isn’t fearful like I was and is one of the bravest people I know. He feels guilt when he does something wrong, not thinking everything he does is bad like I did. And his relationship with shame is much healthier than mine, and he can also feel dignity and positive self-esteem.

It’s not perfect, and we’re continuing to equip ourselves with the knowledge and tools we need to continue to develop a healthy relationship with these feelings in ourselves and him. But I see such a difference in him compared to what it was like for me growing up, and seeing that difference gives me hope that I can continue to make changes for myself, too.

Being Seen and Unseen

My son is becoming more aware of how he feels. He’s becoming more aware of how other people see him. He’s making that connection and noticing that he’s different from other kids.

A few weeks ago, he met with his neuropsychologist and she asked him about school. He told her that he wanted the kids to look at him. He wanted to be seen. My heart broke for him. This is the age when kids start to develop friendships that go beyond an activity or beyond school. And he felt invisible.

It’s been hard for him to make those connections. In part, it’s because second grade has been tough on him mentally and physically. There have been days where he has been too tired to make it to school or stay for the full day. It’s hard to build friendships when you aren’t there. It’s harder to insert yourself into relationships that have already been established.

But there are emotional challenges that make it hard, too. He does feel different from his classmates and he doesn’t quite know how to interact with them. He doesn’t always see the line between funny and inappropriate. Even if he did, he has a hard time regulating those actions.

He is also socially behind the other kids because he was so sick and spent a lot of his time with us or in the hospital. He wasn’t going on play dates. He didn’t go to a lot of birthday parties. He didn’t have those opportunities to learn how to interact with his peers. It’s like trying to compete in a race when all the other participants had a head start. None of them are going to slow down to let you catch up, and they’re too far ahead for you to even know where the course is.

The result is that he doesn’t feel like he has a place there, or that anyone cares that he is there. School must be a very lonely place for him, but we keep pushing him to go, thinking it will get better.

Now, we’re seeing those feelings come in to play outside of school now, too. The other day, we were at the pool with friends and another group came in that included kids from my son’s class. My son got quiet and covered himself with his towel. He whispered that he only wanted to be seen at school.

At first, I thought it was because there was a history with one of the kids from that group. But I also wondered if my son was trying to separate school from the outside world. It was as if he didn’t want the feelings from school to bleed into his safe, private world at home.

I want my son to have friends, and to feel special and important. I don’t want him to feel like an outcast. Sometimes, that desire for him to fit in causes me to overreact when he is trying to be funny but crosses a line. Instead of gently guiding him to a different behavior, I say things in a way that I worry make him feel shame. Not intentionally, and not with any words that are meant to convey that message. But my frustration with the world comes out sounding like I’m frustrated with him.

It’s one thing to have the kids at school reacting the way they do. It’s another to have his parents response the same way. My son is walking around and having everyone tell him what he is doing is wrong. We aren’t seeing him or, if we are, we’re telling him it’s wrong. I’d want to run and hide, too.

I can’t control the rest of the world or how it responds to him. I can teach him the best I can how to live in it. To get him the support and services that he needs. To do what I can to structure his life the best way we know how with where he is today, knowing that will change. To help him develop a strong sense of self, but to be aware and present enough to know when that fails him. Because trying to force everything and not being aware of where he is will do more damage than the world can do to him.

But I can be more aware of how I am responding to my son and the situation. I can control my own actions and respond with loving kindness to where my son is at any moment. The last thing I want to do is to take away the one safe place that he has. I want his home to be a place where he is seen, truly seen, for who he is.

And I want him to know that who he is is amazing.

An Uphill Battle

A few weeks ago, my son’s science teacher e-mailed a video to the parents of his class. In the video, the students were blowing through straws to move a paper ball around the table to show the power of air. The camera panned across the room showing groups of kids performing their experiment.

I watched the video, eager to see my son. When his table finally came in to view, I could see his classmates doing the experiment. But my son was off his chair, standing and facing the wrong direction. The camera caught his aide helping him turn around and back into his seat before it moved on to the next table. I didn’t see it, but I am sure he said he was sorry to his aide and then tried again. Because that’s what he always does.

My son is always surrounded by people who are there to help him. Whether it’s because of ADHD or side effects of his medication, he struggles to regulate his attention and emotions. The excitement of his crowded classroom is too much. Being left alone is too much. Trying to sequence events or remember the steps to a math problem is too much. Everything we ask him to do is a slippery slope down a path where someone has to be there to catch him.

The worst part is that he seems to be more aware of it as he gets older. The look on his face when his aide guided him back into his chair was one of realization. He knew that he wasn’t doing what he should be doing. We see that look a lot…like he’s disappointing the world around him as much as he’s disappointing himself. He walks around apologizing all the time, and it breaks my heart.

I can’t imagine what that is like for him. Always being watched. Constantly being told that whatever you’re doing is something you shouldn’t be doing. And feeling like it’s out of your control.

This isn’t one of those posts where I have an answer. We’re getting help for him and as a family to try to figure it out. We’re surrounding ourselves with people who will help him succeed. We are trying to help him build confidence and treat his condition as a condition and not a reflection of his value as a human being. We’re trying to boost his confidence and find ways to make him feel as special as he is. Having to do that for my son is hard and it makes me sad. It’s an uphill battle. But I would do it all day, every day, if that is what he needed.

Because there is nothing more important.