Shame-full

Picture this with me. 

A little boy sits quietly in class. He is partially focused on what is going on in the classroom, as 8 year old boys are wont to do. His thoughts can't seem to stay in one place, but instead they drift along like leaves blown by the wind. At the front of the room there is a chalkboard that dominates most of the front wall. His teacher's desk is off to the left of where he is sitting. His legs don't yet reach the floor when he sits and he is idly swinging them. 

The wall on his left is mostly made up of glass. There are various projects and posters taped there, and the amount grows as the school year progresses. He looks between and beyond the various items taped to the glass to the outside world. 

Where he would like to be. 

What little boy doesn't? 

But he knows he needs to be a good boy. 

He needs to listen. 

Mommy and Daddy want him to do well in school. They say it's 'portant. 

Daddy always gets his serious face on when we talk about school. 

His serious face sometimes makes me want to giggle, but he doesn't like it when I try to be silly when his serious face is here. 

So the little boy remembers as the teacher drones on. He tries to pay attention, but it is SO hard!

The sunlight streams through the windows, creating a dappled pattern on the floor that ever so slowly moves across the floor. 

Although the boy knows what is coming up soon, he chooses to ignore it as only little boys are able to do. As if by ignoring the unpleasantness coming up, it doesn't exist. Perhaps there won't be reading time today. 

He hates reading. He thinks it's dumb. The truth is, it doesn't make sense to him. The words and letters seem to be doing a dance in his head. The letters won't behave or introduce themselves properly to him. Every time he looks at them, they are like strangers he has never seen before.
And yet, this does not seem to be a mystery to anyone else but him.

Other kids can do it. 

But he can't. 

Well, other than Oscar. He can't read either, but everyone knows he's "slow". The other kids call him stupid. 

The boy does not want to be like Oscar. 

Someone no one likes. 

But he is afraid that he is like Oscar. 

Oscar wants to be his friend, but even at this young age the boy knows this can't be. Not if wants any other friends. 

When reading time comes, they are the only 2 that don't get to stay in the room. 

They have to leave. 

He tries to forget the time he learned, was cruelly taught, that he was...slow. The details have faded some, but that is mostly in contrast to the shame that illuminates the memory like a blazing sun. The details are shadows compared to the intensity of that light. 

He wanted to say the words. He tried. He tried HARD. 

But he couldn't do it. The words were an enemy that refused to leave his mouth. Instead they only partially escaped, as if they were being torn apart in his mouth and only shreds of them remained. 

He remembers his face growing red as the words and his mind and mouth entered into a fatal battle. 

"Th...Ther....There....w....w.....was.... a.....lav...(no)...a lov...loveelie..."

Every time it was like this. He couldn't do it. BUt the first time was the worst. He could hear the beginnings of snickers around him. The entire planet seemed to be focused on him alone. And their consensus was the same.
This boy is dumb.

The teacher was trying to help him along, trying to sound out the words. Like a parent trying to help a toddler to walk.

It didn't help. It deepened his shame.

She didn't do this with any of the other kids.

But HE, HE needed extra help.

After this, while outside at recess, one of the kids asked the boy if he was a retard.

He shoved that kid.

And got in trouble. 

A note was sent home and he got a talking to. The boy promised to never do it again and that seemed to make the serious faces go away. 

The boy's dad tousled his hair and hugged him. The boy liked when his dad did this. Then he knew everything was ok again. 

But his dad wasn't here.
And it WAS time.

Reading time.

Dear God no....Please....

The teacher looked at the boy and asked he and Oscar to go out into the hall. It was reading time and they had their "special helper" out in the hall.

He dejectedly rose to his feet while looking at the floor. He slowly trudged out the door, refusing to make eye contact with any of the other kids. His cheeks didn't get quite so red as they did the first few times he was sent out, he was becoming accustomed to this. 

Slowly accepting the implied message. 

But this day, the normal special ed teacher wasn't there. It was a different man. 

The boy became more anxious. He looked over at Oscar, who gave a minimal shrug of his shoulders. 

The man saw their confusion in the boys faces. 

"Ah. Yes. Your normal teacher couldn't make it today. He is out for a few weeks, so I am here to replace him. We are here to help you read, is that right?"

"Yes sir" both boys replied. 

The man sighed. 

"You know how pathetic you two are, correct?"

The boy looked up in shock. He did not know what the word "pathetic" meant, but it didn't sound kind. His eyes widened as the man continued. 

"Listen here you little shits. I can't believe they are even wasting time with idiots like you. You are stupid and always will be. Those other kids in there." the man said while pointing at the classroom door. 

"They are smart, good kids.

You are not.

Oh, are we crying now? You should cry you retarded little ass. My God, you must be one of the dumbest kids I have ever met. You can't even read????

I have a 4 year old that can read. You must be twice that age! Wow. What a couple of morons I have here! Why don't you two just pick your noses or whatever for the next 20 minutes. It would do as much good as trying to teach you anything. What a waste of time."

Now imagine. 

Imagine you knew this boy. You liked this boy. You knew him to be a good kid. You knew he was dyslexic. He didn't choose it. He didn't ask for it. And yet he was. 

Imagine you walked up behind this man as he said this. You heard it all. You saw the look on the boy's face as all this was said. As his little soul was being seared. You saw the tears running down his cheeks as he absorbed this message. 

If you dare, go there emotionally. 

How does that make you feel?

What do you feel towards the man saying these heinous things? 

What would you do to him? 

What would you like to do to him?

What would you say to the boy? 

What would you do?

Do you remember the first time you felt shame? 

What happened to you? 

What message was given to you? 

Did you believe it? 

Do you still?

Have you carried that message with you over the years?

Does it drive what you do, the decisions you make, the friendships you seek out, the relationships you desire? 

All of us have an internal monologue, a self talk. 

Sadly, for most of us it is negative. It is abusive. 

And quite likely, some of the words you use are very similar to the first message carried within your earliest shame events. 

You see, a message was communicated through the shame. 

A message designed just for you. 

A message crafted to lodge deep within you. 

The message was intended to be accepted by you as truth. 

The message may not have been verbal. But it was certainly communicated to you, wasn't it? 

What do you say to yourself when you blow it? 

What words do you use? 

What message do you give you? 

Are you abusive to you? 

Picture yourself as the child in the above story. Change the circumstances to fit your narrative.

Your story. 

Pretend you can talk to the child version of you. 

What would you say to you knowing what you know now? 

What would you do? 

Now turn and look at the one delivering the shame. 

And see your own face. 

For when you abusive yourself after "blowing it" are you not sending the same message the original shame wanted to deliver? 

Silence the shamer. 

Embrace the child. 

Tell them what they need to hear. Or just be present with them. 

The only way we can heal a wound is to enter it. 

Otherwise we will subconsciously keep recreating scenarios where we had undesirable outcomes, hoping they will turn out the way we wanted and needed them to. But when we do this, instead of getting new outcomes, we get the original shame message reinforced. Furthering the damage. 

Increasing the need for more self hatred. 

Further driving in the message. 

Further crippling us from being who we really are. 

Stop the pattern. 

It's hard but you HAVE to. 

It's killing you.