Don't Ask, Don't Tell (part 2)

This post comes a week late. I intend to pick up on the theme of shame that I brought up in the first instalment of "Don't Ask, Don't Tell," but I've really been struggling with it, and I'm not sure why. So rather than continue to over-analyze and self-edit, I'm just going to jump in and see where things go.

Cage of Shame, Levoča, Slovakia
(image licensed under Creative Commons)

In Part 1 I wrote about shame and how it impacts people with chronic illness, specifically inflammatory bowel disease (IBD). My sister commented on the post and left a link to an incredible TED talk by Brené Brown, Research Professor of Social Work at the University of Houston. In it Brené talks about the relationship between vulnerability, shame, and how shedding a light on shame--speaking about that which shames us--perhaps doesn't eliminate, but certainly reduces, the power that shame holds over us. This has certainly been true in my case; speaking and writing about my experience living with Crohn's, and now an ileostomy, has been incredibly empowering. Yet I still find myself procrastinating over this post, and I can't quite figure out where that hesitation is coming from. 

In her talk on shame, Brené describes the "vulnerability hangover" that she experienced after giving her first TED talk the year before. I want to be honest in what I write in this space, because this blog is as much about working through things for myself as it is abut educating and supporting others. But I'm afraid of sharing too much, of inviting too many people in too intimately. I do, in short, fear the vulnerability hangover. But, as Brené points out, opening up and inviting people in is exactly what is necessary to move past shame. She says:

Shame is an epidemic in our culture. And to get out from underneath it, to find our way back to each other, we have to understand how it affects us and how it affects the way we're parenting, the way we're working, the way we're looking at each other. [...] If we're going to find our way back to each other, we have to understand and know empathy because empathy's the antidote to shame. If you put shame in a Petri dish, it needs three things to grow exponentially: secrecy, silence, and judgement.

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For a long time I lived in secrecy and silence about my Crohn's because I feared the judgement. I didn't want my Crohn's to affect my relationships, particularly those that were still developing. I didn't want my Crohn's to define me. I still remember meeting a friend of my aunt's for the first time, and after my aunt introduced us her friend's first words were, "Oh, you're the one with Crohn's!" That's exactly what I didn't want; I didn't want people to remember my disease before they remembered my name. I still don't want that, but over the years, as I slowly got sicker and sicker, I learned to embrace that part of my identity because Crohn's does define me--at least a part of me, anyway. I would not be who I am today if I did not have Crohn's, and now an ostomy. How could I expect anyone to accept me without judgement if I couldn't even accept myself? In many ways, the world sees us as we see ourselves; we wear the lens through which others view us. If we project nothing but self-criticism and chronic shame, how can we expect the world to give us anything back other than judgement?

In her talk on shame, Brené reminds us that Carl Jung referred to shame as "the swampland of the soul." It is such an apt metaphor. It is so easy to get mired in shame to the point that we cannot extricate ourselves unaided. And that's where empathy comes in for, as Brené says, "The two most powerful words when we're in struggle: me too." But in order to allow others to empathize with us, we first need to open up, to--in short--be vulnerable. It took me a lot of years to learn that lesson. I needlessly suffered alone for so very long, and it came at the expense of my mental health. Ironically, even though mental illness is probably among the most stigmatized of health issues, I was more willing to discuss my depression than I was my Crohn's. But when I finally did start opening up about my Crohn's, do you know what happened? People almost always responded with empathy and support rather than suspicion and judgement. That's why, from day one, I decided to talk about my ostomy. I'm done hiding.

One last thing before I end this post: I should address the title. The reference to the American military's "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" (DADT) policy is intentional. DADT created a legacy of shame that is only today being addressed, if not redressed. DADT has also become shorthand for how shame is endemic and even institutionalized in our culture. I've learned, since letting go of my own shame, that it can be internalized to such an extent that we no longer realize the impact it's having on our lives. And that's the real shame in all of this.

(image licensed under Creative Commons)