I will be the first to admit to anyone that I am still a deeply flawed human being. I’ve already detailed some of my early-life trauma, which has left me saddled with a tremendous amount of shame.
I feel shame because:
If my father had loved me, he wouldn’t have neglected me. Therefore, I must be unlovable.
If my abuser had not seen something wounded or broken in me, he would not have abused me.
If I had been better, been of high moral values, I would not have abused others.
If I had been braver, I would have made my abuse public, pursued justice, and saved other kids from the same fate.
These are not the only shame factors — but they are significant ones. They lead me to feel unlovable, broken, evil and cowardly.
Logically, I know these things are not true. My father left when I was an infant. He never really gave me the love and support I deserved. An infant can hardly expect to have done anything to alienate a parent’s affection.
My abuser may have found me when I was wounded, and — as many abusers do — he took advantage of that to manipulate and coerce me into allowing my own abuse and keeping it secret. it’s not fair or reasonable to expect a ten year old, especially one struggling with a difficult household and self-esteem issues, to have the knowledge or strength to overcome an abuser.
My own abuse is harder for me to rationalize. I did know it was wrong, and I did know the pain it was causing me. I don’t know if I will ever be able to fully come to terms with what I did. In the defense of that young child, though: teenage years are hard enough to understand for anyone, much less a chronically abused child who had virtually no outlets for support and guidance. I was prematurely sexualized and taught that the abuse was normal.
I’m writing this and my heart is pounding out of my chest right now, despite lying down in a relaxing position. It clearly really triggers my nervous system just to think about it.
When I think about what it must have been like for a little kid to go through everything I did, it just rocks my world. If that had happened to one of my children? I’d be evenly split between weeping uncontrollably or hunting for vengeance for them.
Yet somehow, I still blame myself for those things. Why is this? Why do I expect myself to have survived a set of events that I would weep for any other child experiencing?
I know that when I was younger, I had a deeply held negative opinion of anyone who wasn’t self-reliant. I thought less of people who asked for help, sought therapy or looked to religion to deal with their problems. Only someone (like myself, I believed) who was strong enough in their core was worth anything.
Looking back, I recognize that that was total bullshit on my part. In many cases, it actually takes more strength to be able to admit your frailty and ask for assistance. Exposing our weaknesses isn’t easy to do, and men in our society are really not rewarded for doing that. (Through my reading, I’m also learning that this dismissive attitude towards reliance on others is a classic sign of Dismissive-Avoidant Attachment style.)
In 2025, I’m going to work on forgiving and nurturing my inner child, the one who suffered through all of these painful traumas. I don’t think it will be easy to turn my rational thoughts into emotional beliefs, but for that little kid, I have to try.
What sort of self-help journeys will you be on this year?
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