At 73, I'm the age when people are supposed to be wise elders, passing on their hard-earned insights to younger generations. Yet I'm still vulnerable to what's called a "shame attack," where a person is so overwhelmed by a sense of shame that they lose their bearings. The good news is I'm learning how to free myself from the powerful grip of shame within a few hours and get my sturdy self back.
Naming is a way of framing the experience as separate from me: No matter how powerful it is, I am not the shame that is coursing electrically through my body. Once I can call it what it is, I'm still shaky, but the ground is within sight.
My shame attack happened at lunch when I got furious with my husband at a restaurant. We live in Mexico for part of the year, and in my experience, people here are very polite and do not express strong emotions - especially anger - in public settings. I felt so embarrassed by my loud, visible outburst, especially as a foreigner.
Then I flossed, not in the sloppy, half-assed way I often do, but with granular precision. I kept musing on the line, "How I take care of myself is a reflection of how I value myself." That memory of my sister's final moments has become a touchstone for me, reminding me of the diligence of self-care.
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