Shame Upon Shame
At some point, as my friend Tammy said, you have to stop believing the lies. The shame you carried does not belong to you. It has no power to hurt you. The summer after my mother died in January, my dad sent me to his parents’ house (cabin, really) in Maine. Gorgeous country (once again, the earth mother saves me), but they were struggling financially, and took it out on me. My father sent no money, just a bottomless eleven year old, with a sadness no cookie could take away. My Grampa said no to the cookie. Fresh from the oven, for no apparent reason (except cruelty). I didn’t understand but chocked it up to worthlessness. I am unlovable and have more proof. No one wants me, and is it any wonder?
Speaking of any of these hurts just brought more shame: “Oh, you’re just trying to get sympathy. It’s the only way anyone will like you.” Not pity, not sympathy. Like any animal, wild or no, a feeling of belonging. Before he died, my Grampa wrote me a letter, apologized for the cookie, told me they were poor, mad at my dad, so sorry we were mean. It was so good of him, of course, all is forgiven.
But the past leaves its mark, the beauty of the ocean, its majesty, and the darkness of loss, made darker by more loss and the light in a young life fading . . . Unfettered joy, impossible to find.
LBM 4/24/2021
