When Shame Becomes a Monster

On Running, Hiding, and Finally Facing the Mirror. Take the Reins of Shame or Be Dragged.

I am dripping with shame, cowering in the corner of an empty, dark room, desperate to hide the mess. Do not come in—I don’t want you to get wet. One splash of my shame on another quickly transforms into judgment. See me for who I truly am, and you will need to raise your own defenses to combat the illness. Disappointment, judgment, disgust—these are the only weapons to repel the monster. Shame is no longer just a feeling; it has become something else entirely. It has taken over me, a parasite in need of a host.

The only way to confront the shame is to trace it’s steps. All shame has a beginning. As I write this, I am grappling with overwhelming shame of a loved one uncovering an untruth I’ve pointedly kept hidden. I identified this shame long before they uncovered it themselves. A compulsion within myself that I could not tame but knew was wrong to conceal. Even before giving into this compulsion, I identified the feeling of shame when simply thinking of doing it. The path I took to end up in front of my desk writing about these feelings in hopes they dissipate with each word is very obvious in hindsight. I see, with pained clarity, every step that I should have taken versus did take. I see every moment I ignored what I knew was right.

Now, I am here at the beginning—face to face with the root of shame. What once seemed like a looming predator ready to swallow me whole started off as a small flicker of light, a firefly. When that very first twinge of shame illuminated me, I raised my arms, blocking the glow from meeting my face. I turned my back and walked away hurriedly, eager to escape that small but still bearable discomfort. I continued down this path, refusing to let that little gnat catch up to me. I am fine now, I tell myself, walking a little bit faster, but fine again. And then— another crossroad, only this time I am carrying the weight of unresolved shame and that damn gnat transformed once more into a wasp. Everything feels more intense now. The sting is sharper, the monster is growing, and so is the shame.

And again I am met with the same decision: face it or run. It’s the same problem but I’ve been running from it so far now that it’s grown exponentially. To solve it would take wading through all of the weeds I’ve allowed to overgrow. I would get cut, I would bleed out, I would get it on others, they would turn their noses in disgust. These confounded nightmares only make it that much easier to start sprinting, trying to escape. Thrashing against the landscape, still with arms raised to protect (maybe hide) my face, just trying to get away. I crash into a wall a burst out to the other side of it, exposed on a stage with everything I’ve been running from sitting in the audience.

That is exactly how I felt when my partner looked me in the eyes and said, “I know you. You’re lying.”

All I could do was nod my head, yes.

“Why?”

All I could do was shrug my shoulders, I don’t know.

I was immobilized. Suddenly, I was eight years old, berated by my brother for sneaking another bowl of cereal: "Are you really that fat?" Suddenly, I was 12, caught stealing $20 from my father, met with back-to-back slaps across both cheeks. Suddenly, I was 17, caught sneaking out at night: "You are the biggest disappointment of all my five children." Suddenly, I was 21, enduring day five of the silent treatment from my much older, abusive boyfriend for saying the wrong thing.

Suddenly, I was every version of myself that had ever faced the crushing weight of a loved one’s disappointment. I braced for the insults, the blows, the vitriol. It never came.

“I’m not mad at you. I understand why you did it. I’m only disappointed that you lied to me.”

Just like that, my partner ripped off the cloak of shame. I expected the boogeyman to be revealed—but there was only a mirror. And in it, only me.

I took this mirror with me into another room to sit with my reflection. Give my partner space to deal with the betrayal. Give myself time to decide. The first thoughts were familiar—run, escape, pack your cat and a few outfits, go to your parents. Spare your partner from someone that lies to cover their inability to act in line with what they know is right. Save yourself the discomfort of admitting to another you are flawed. Amidst the chaos of this mindset, that of a prey attempting to escape their predator, the rationale starts to worm it’s way through.

The first step: return to the present, return to the body. I am not eight, not 12, not 17 or 21. My mother is not here, my abusers are not here, the boogeyman does not exist. I am here, in my home, alone with the shame I have carried for years, and before me stands only a hurt partner who wants to understand. The energy I have built in fear, expecting a fight, has no target. It spills onto the floor, all around me. I am bleeding everywhere, afraid to stain the clothes of those I love. My partner moves toward me—don’t come closer, you’ll get wet.

But it is not blood. It is just water. We can clean it up with a rag. We can wash the rag. It’s not a stain. It’s just wet.

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The thing about these moments where you are forced to face yourself after a willing self-assassination of character is that there is nothing to be done after. There is no proverbial pretty bow to wrap everything up and make it feel complete. It is the main contributor to the cycle of running. Hiding. Pretending. Chasing your tail, hoping for an ending inside of a loop. (There’s a programming reference in there. Something something conditional.) There’s an even more cliche saying about the right decisions being the hardest. These quotes are always so pretty and motivating when they’re read from the comfort of a computer screen when nothing’s actually wrong in life. The simplicity of them is a slap in the face when you’re reminded of them after you fail to act.

Shame dragged me here. Or I trailed behind it, attached by a rope that could very easily be untied. Depends how you look at it, depends how accountable I’m ready to be. Had I been stronger, had I been more accountable, had I allowed myself to be seen as fallible, I could have invited that very first pang inside of my chest to have a voice. I could have simply been someone struggling to align their thoughts with their values. This is human, I know this, I read too much Dostoyevsky to argue against this. It is a much easier sin to reconcile that that of someone who hides from their their partner. Who blatantly lies when caught. Who cowers like a child when a person who sees the real me I am desperately trying to hide forces me to unmask. Shame transformed me into someone my core values directly oppose. Someone I’d cast shame on myself, had it not been me. Or wait—the shame is cast inward, that’s the whole point, isn’t it? The shame was always cast inward.

It is in these moments that is the most crucial to address the shame. Even now, in writing, in an attempt to untangle. I must condemn myself, I must exacerbate the actions, I must confess. Speak my self disappointment to the world, say it before you can tell my yourself. Except, that never worked before. It’s this moment.

There is no bow. I could sit here forever, trying to tie the knot, make it look pretty, end up strangling myself with the ribbon because there is no pretty ending. There is only steps forward.

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And now, a month after originally unburdening myself with these feelings through writing, the conclusion finally comes to me.

I feel the pang rise again. The compulsion presents itself once more. But now, I know better. I have felt the humiliation of futile attempts to outrun my shame. I have also felt the comfort of speaking it aloud and being met with understanding. I am still good. I am not my thoughts.

This time, I speak the compulsion before it materializes. My partner does not scoff at my weakness, does not raise his eyebrows, does not demand contrition. Shame does not exist in this space—not externally. Any trace of it is alchemized into self compassion with his reassurance.

And just like that, shame loses its power.

It is only water, after all.