Shame Day

The other day was a shame day. One of those times when you can’t control your emotions. When you helplessly watch yourself do things you regret. When you discover you’re ashamed to be who you are.  In short, I had a public meltdown.

Although my health symptoms are deep cellular level fatigue (also known as ME/CFS), cognitive struggles, and visual/vestibular integration dysfunction due to exposure to toxic mold, an old knee issue had flared up, so I decided to see a physical therapist I had worked with in the past.  I feel comfortable around him because I worked with him prior to getting sick when I was training for my triathlon.

During the appointment, I had my usual verbal troubles as I tried to explain what was going on with my knee and I experienced dizzy moments bending over or turning around, but for the most part, I was calm. However, the moment he said I would be working with someone else for the second half of the appointment I panicked.

I admit, I carry a PTSD response anytime I work with someone new in the medical field. It’s no wonder after spending the first year of my illness around doctors who repeatedly told me there was nothing wrong and assumed I was depressed or mentally unstable because they could find no cause for my symptoms and were not able to simply say the words, “I don’t know.” But even though I was eventually vindicated once I found both functional and naturopathic doctors who were easily able to identify and help fix the multitude of system failures going on in my body from the mold, I still have this hesitation and fear of once again being dismissed.

As I sat with the physical therapy assistant I was assigned to work with, I started twisting the pair of socks in my hands over and over as adrenaline and cortisol shot through my body. Even though I kept telling myself there was nothing to be afraid of, I couldn’t calm myself back down. It was as if my PTSD over meeting new medical professionals flew out from under the exam table in the shape of a monster I didn’t realize was hiding just beneath me.

But the truth is, I walked into the appointment with shame already wrapped around me like a blanket. Not only was I no longer the active and adventurous person I was when I used to go here for help, but now I have even more things wrong with me because of my knee. I was ashamed because I think I should not experience ordinary illnesses and injuries on top of the pile of symptoms I already have — that somehow, I have overreached my quota — that I have become one of “those” people.

When I got on the higher-than-normal treadmill platform for the video assessment, there was no arm bar on one side and due to my visual issues, I felt like I was walking on the edge of cliff and was going to fall into the abyss at any moment. Intellectually I knew I was safe, yet I couldn’t get my visual brain or emotions to see that as true. Tears started forming and one escaped and rolled down my face which made me more anxious because I knew I was acting ridiculous. I left that appointment draped in a layer of shame so heavy I didn’t want to come back the next day to get the help I needed.

But on further reflection, why does this have to be a shame story? For if I look deeper, I can see more possibilities than at first glance. Is this a story of embarrassment over my reaction because I was afraid to work with someone new or is this a story of bravery because I didn’t walk out during the appointment even though it was hard? 

And is this tale a beginning or an ending? If it’s an ending, all I have is my experience and my reactions. I’m left with feelings of hopelessness, embarrassment, and even more fear of venturing out around people who do not understand my hidden illness issues. If this tale is an ending, then it must be labeled a tragedy because it ends in a form of death — the death of my spirit and pride.

But if this is a beginning, suddenly the possibilities are endless.  Perhaps this becomes the story where I learn to take my energy flows seriously and avoid at all cost appointments and interactions with people later in the day.

Or perhaps this becomes the story where I discover that not all new medical people are scary. The PTA I worked with was gentle in tone and made no outward issue of my obvious struggles nor my meltdown. Perhaps he becomes a new character I remember instead of others from my past the next time I need to work with someone new.

It is easy to forget that I am the author of my story. For me, the genre I’m interested in is one of growth and bravery rather than victimhood and shame. This is the story I wish to write. This is the story I wish to live.

So I’ve decided it was not a shame story after all, even though it felt like it at the moment. As the author of my life, I’m determined to use my power to edit, revise, and change the ending to suit my liking. And in doing so I become brave and regain much of the power I thought I’d lost as I become the hero of my own created tale.

And now I can’t help but wonder…. what will today’s story be……