Despite an incredible amount of growth during several years of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, there was one part that I could never nail down. To really move through situations riddled with anxiety and anger, my therapist would have me travel to the depths of my emotions and envision how I would react to a situation if there were no rules or consequences. Within those four walls, anything was safe. Screaming, violence, you name it - it was all allowed. The idea was that once the anger was truly out there, there was space to move past it with clarity. I tried and tried (and tried!) to really go there but I was often met with fear and trepidation over what my anger could look like if I fully unleashed it. Fast forward to six years later and I have arrived. I have arrived at the point where I am unabashedly tearing a big and scary monster to pieces on a regular basis. That monster is Shame.
Shame started to creep into my life about a year ago when we realized that something was off kilter with our oldest daughter, then five years old. The tantrums, fears, and general behaviors that you might expect from a younger child were occurring with high frequency, and they began drawing more and more attention in public. While receiving a diagnosis of Autism and ADHD was certainly helpful in many ways, neither of those diagnoses changed our reality. Our reality is that on a very regular basis, our daughter acts out in ways that attract stares and comments from people. Shame, Shame, Shame.
“You really have your hands full.”
“Do you ever just say no to her?”
“Goodness, someone really needs a nap.”
I can’t count the number of times that I have wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear in these moments. Shame creeps in swiftly and severely. It wraps its long arms around me and tells me that we’re not deserving of the everyday activities and outings that most families are able to pull off with ease.
There was a moment this summer, though, when it all finally clicked. I decided that I was ready to go full throttle with my anger and to murder Shame. We were at the pool and there was a bird. Yes- a bird. THE FREAKING BIRDS. They’ve been a trigger this summer and have spoiled many family adventures (neurodiverse parents, I see you nodding your head!). As the bird pranced around the gazebo, our daughter started shrieking and running in every which direction. The problem was, there were *lots* of birds in every direction. Each pivot to escape was met with another high-pitched scream and cry. As heads turned and eyes widened, I decided that I’d had it. I couldn’t let Shame take the wheel once again. It was time to tear Shame to pieces and bury it six feet under.
The truth is that if I continued to let Shame control me, I would be the one six feet under. How do we get past it, though? How do we live in our truth confidently without letting Shame steer us to the depths of despair? For me, I needed a swift kick in the butt when it came to my perspective. What if, instead of feeling small in these situations, I leaned into the idea that some people are not able to get vulnerable with our family? What if I leaned into the fact that they don’t know our full story and can’t see the absolute magic that occurs in tandem alongside the most challenging moments and days? Anyone who is living with a neurodiverse kiddo will tell you just that: there is MAGIC. The people who stare, the people who sneer, and the people who make comments that tear you down instead of lifting you up are simply not meant to live in that magical space with you. They’re not worthy of your family’s full story that is bursting with so much love and joy (okay, except when there are birds).
Shame is such a small, small person when you realize the strength and affection that exists within your circle. The circle that knows your story and loves you for it – or in spite of it. The circle that, despite your biggest fears, will continue showing up for you time and time again. The circle that doesn’t bat an eye when you need to bolt while carrying your kiddo away torpedo style. The circle that loves your neurodiverse child and your family for who they are at their core.
Shame, your run was short-lived, and our lives are better off without you in it. I don’t doubt that you’ll creep in from time to time, but I know that our circle’s love will kick you to the curb every single time.
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