Shame

Acknowledging and Shedding

In writing these posts, most of all, I want to reach out, and to connect with your heart. Lately, so many thoughts have been revolving in my head, that I can’t seem to write quickly enough to get them all down.

I don’t know if this will reach you. And if it does, if it touches you.

In finding an older writing, from years ago, it seems to be currently relevant and I thought I would share, so that maybe, just maybe, it hits a note within you, too.

…After seven years of living together and marriage (living separately the last nine months) and countless sleepovers, I decided I’m really done, this time. Even though I walked away four times and I let my ex-sweetheart climb back into my heart each time, this time I mean it. I swear by my 98-year-old mother’s hope chest (although I don’t think she has one of those).

It’s been challenging.

We were initially attracted by one another’s voice and for me, at least, that hasn’t changed one iota. It’s as if just the tone, the tempo, soothes my heart. Even when he is a complete chatty cathy and won’t (stop endlessly chattering), I still love the sound. Even when he puts me to sleep, with his “lonesome guy syndrome” droning; like a baby in its mama’s arms, when I am in his arms and he continues to chat, it’s the most lovely, calming feeling.

It seems to make up for the times he has wanted to silence me or when he begins to incessantly yell, getting louder, looping over and over, again, with his anger, his deep childhood hurt and his freshly sharpened blades, words that cut deep and remain echoed in my head, for years to follow.

His stories—that he repeats, over and over, again, as if they are gold that he wants to hold onto in his pockets—are victim stories. Our therapist told me, in private, that he is so wounded it will take years to heal his pain and did I want to wait? As she told me this, my body heaved a heavy sigh. I thought he was my last husband; I thought he was my best friend. Involved in a partnered relationship has always been crucial to me; sharing life with another, close being on a similar path….and now that relationship is threatened—to end.

All the red lights that were shown to me, in the beginning—his extreme, monster-like innapropriate anger; his lack of boundaries and not respecting mine; his mantra, “I am broke” that kept revolving around his head and into our lives, so that I was expected to be the financially responsible one—all loom in the forefront, instead of the background.

And I still continue to call and reach out to him.

My heart remains silent so that my body can find joy….our chemistry has always been, almost from the beginning, over the top. We inhale one another’s armpits and sigh. Our scents, so familiar and comforting. Our bodies feel so good, so right up against each other; curvaceous breasts to breasts, we are like Sodom and Gomorrah—deliciously wicked. How does the 16-year-old within me let go of that?

To my love: For 7 years, you were my hubby. I loved calling you that. And hearing you say, “My wife,” sent shivers through me. My bed was always our bed; never with anyone else, just you.

After not speaking for two whole weeks, I thought I was completely over him; apparently, I wasn’t. Because my current roommate left for a couple of nights, I called him, inviting him over.

In my attempt to forget him and us, I follow my passion, pursue my focus with my writing andtake a course, writing on shame. It feels so right. Yet in the middle of the course, while the teacher is talking to us, my phone rings. Of course, it’s his ring. I want to pick up the phone and am ensconced in the group; this isn’t the right time; why am I not wanting to respect my writing time, my pursuits, my life long passion? The ring continues, sounding like a strumming guitar—he sings like an angel and plays like a seasoned musician—he woos me with his songs. So his telephone ring hooks me, every time; especially when I miss him.

Something is missing, in me. There’s a hole where I don’t want a hole to be; I want complete coverage of my soul, my heart and my concentration.

In the summer, when the sun heats up the concrete, in Boulder, Colorado, my skin itches; I’d rather have tar sticking to me than the heat of the sun, causing me endless itching on a nerve level and scratching, like a dog snapping at its fleas.

And when we lived together, in my townhome, he used to say, at night in bed (when my itching/scratching was at its worst), “Maybe you’re allergic to me.” I didn’t respond; I thought that perhaps he was right.

It’s a “skinning” of sorts; my skin is messaging me, telling me that it isn’t tolerating: the heat, my ex-husband or anything else truly uncomfortable, like constant flies, buzzing around and landing on my arms, my shoulders and my eyelids.

Perhaps it isn’t shame, but madness that leads me to calling him, again and again; not knowing whether or not he is listening or even cares, just wanting to hear his beautiful voice again, that sends me into the heavens…..yet I also clearly feel shame; for not standing in my absolute truth; for not loving myself enough to stay away; for not sleeping over, one more night. Why am I perpetuating the hurt, the sexual connection, that in reality, will not last or isn’t even deeply appreciated by him. I repeat the pain—sleepver, have great sex, hurt my heart, leave, repeat—in calling him, only satisfying myself on a sexual level for the most part…..my heart craves the familiar.

I want my daughter and daughter’s daughter to be free of shame; to walk tall and feel confident and intelligent, as a person, a woman, a spiritual being. My dream is for women everywhere to be strong enough to embrace their perceived oddities, their beauty, their hopes and desires. To feel adaquate in every way; and where they feel lesser than, to accept and grow with grace and self-love. To be okay with who they are.

I want to solely walk tall, as I did last night, at the outdoor concert in my tiny town; I was able to completely be myself, comfortable in my own skin; calling out hello to a man I admire and striking a conversation with him; dancing when my body felt the urge to move and my blood surged within me, entering every canal and corner to revitalize my previously drained energy. I am alive and this is where I want to be, always, connected to the world and nature.

When I leave him I feel completely empty.

And what is stopping this beautiful connection with myself? Where am I feeling the heaviness, the belly bloat of lately, the sadness while comparing myself to others and their myriad of accomplishments? I forget I have told myself, I wouldn’t judge myself. It pops up again, like a new, reddened pimple, when I’m not paying attention. Is that the answer, to pay attention?

Yes, my soul answers, quietly, yes. Be in your life. Pay attention to who else is in your life, be with them, look them in their eyes, listen to the beat of their hearts, connect with your own on a compassionate level. It doesn’t mean taking care of them, just listening, with an open heart and mind. That’s all, it’s quite simple, really.

And yet it makes all the difference in the world. It can rock our world, just by paying attention and listening. It’s a way of connection, embracing my truth and seeing, with every bone and cell in my body. It’s a way of shedding shame, breaking free and being alive. And being alive is the best thing we can ask for and desire. And isn’t that what we all want? The complete freedom to truly be ourselves? Free of judgement, filled with self-worth and confidence?

Love and Bliss, Ruthie