Melissa Tapper Goldman and DoTell

Thank you for allowing me to share my sister’s story on DoTell.  It’s an amazing and safe place for women to share their stories and find true healing.

On Shame at The Attentive Soul | DO TELL

The Burden of Shame and Silence – Share Your Story and Be Free

This story is dedicated to the memory of my sister Lisa and my mother,  along with every man, woman and child who has been victimized, hurt and shamed.  It is never too late to find a new beginning or light in the darkness.

Social Media: A Love (and Hate) Story

To date,  I’ve had a fairly stormy relationship with social media and the internet.  The bragging.  The opportunities to bully, flirt and engage in emotional infidelity, all in relative anonymity.

Save a few brave souls whose Facebook status updates are truthful,  social media leaves me feeling a bit dirty. Confused and angry.  Where are the updates about being broke at the holidays? Feeling depressed,  losing your job and discovering your significant other had an affair with his fourth cousin, three times removed?  Nowhere on my feed,  I assure you.

With that background,  perhaps you’ll find it easier to forgive my former avoidance and general mistrust of social media and the current culture of “reality” (as seen through the eyes of an internet search engine).

But Then…Do Tell

New realizations often begin with a  profound “but then…” For me, that little phrase means there’s been a  change in perspective.  Lessons  are learned.  I take time to reflect.  But then, one day, I realized. I discovered.  I was wrong.

My latest “but then” is the realization that social media and the internet isn’t always the one dimensional mess I’ve found it to be.

Twitter, Facebook and Instagram earn their well deserved  bad rap only when they’re used as one dimensional snap shots of perfection.  That brand of social media turns the world into a hostile and shaming  place for anyone who is suffering.

But social media and the internet were redeemed in my eyes in one fell swoop, when  I found a community called Do Tell.  I even “met”  filmmaker Melissa Tapper Goldman through Twitter. (See? Even Twitter is redeemable. I’m now Tweeting, with caution.  *Involuntary Shudder*)

Tapper Goldman is the director of  a documentary called Subjectified,  which tells the honest stories of nine women.  Women who were willing to open their souls in front of a camera and relative strangers to talk about sex.  For real.  About the joys, pain, mistakes and attitudes no one talks about.

In conjunction with her documentary,  Tapper Goldman saw an unmet need.  Women needed a safe place to talk about sex.  So she created Do Tell, where women are free to reveal, discuss and comment on everything sex.  Orgasms, virginity, tampons and relationships.  Rape, fear, pain and shame.  Whether sex is good,  fun, dirty,  embarrassing or disastrous, Do Tell allows women to tell their stories with dignity, in an atmosphere of “Really?  Me too!”, or “I’m really sorry that happened to you. You are not alone.”  Anonymously or not,  with whatever language, remarks or dank asides they see fit to share, Do Tell is a forum for health, wholeness and healing. It is a place women come to talk about sex without being judged,  lectured or looked down upon.

My Sister’s Story

 

I wish my sister was here to see the good work of  Do Tell.  To share her story there.  It would have helped her.   Perhaps even saved her life.

In 1989,  I witnessed my beautiful, intelligent, full of life older sister shrink into a spiral of depression.  No one in my large, loving, Catholic family understood what was happening to her.  We knew only that she was deteriorating before our very eyes.

My parents rushed her to doctors and psychiatrists, who put her on  antidepressants and a schedule of talk therapy.  Nothing seemed to help.   In a state of shock and sadness, with a shame so deep and abiding it had infected her very soul, Lisa finally allowed her story to leak out.  But even then,  she tried to stop herself from telling the whole truth.  She was so very,  very ashamed.

As a freshman in college,  her ex-boyfriend broke into her dorm room and violently raped her.  He left her there,  with a broken foot (which she blamed on a “fall” from her loft bed).  She never told a soul.  She just went back to classes, limping in her blue cast, as if  nothing had happened.

When she discovered she was pregnant,  she took herself to an abortion clinic.  Alone.

“Mean Guys” and Shame

I can not even begin to understand the desperation, fear and hurt she must have felt as a young woman alone in the world,  afraid she’d been used and broken beyond repair.

Lisa was 8 years older,  my big sister.  Larger than life in my eyes.  She was smart, funny, kind and generous.  If anyone had a problem,  whether it be  my family, one of her friends, or even a stranger drawn in by her kindness,  she could be counted on to do everything within her power to help.

When she took  me shopping or to the movies,  I was the happiest I ever remember feeling as a child.  She was fun to be around,  and managed to make me feel both grown up and young enough to play at the same time.

She was beautiful, and had the  eyes, sweet smile and classic features of an angel.  Truly.

She also had a way of listening,  of never allowing life’s burdens to be downplayed. She turned down marriage proposals many a time.  (Not once,  but twice, from men who’d simply sat next to her on planes.)  Always with kindness of spirit, a hug and winsome smile.  Somehow , even when she said no, she never left anyone feeling less than, rejected or hurt.

My beautiful sister took care of me,  and was always on the look out for things that might trip me up.  But what delighted her most was taking me shopping.  On one of our last trips,   I remember feeling puzzled.  She had begun  a strange pattern of buying baby things on all of our shopping trips.  Always in threes.  Pewter Beatrix Potter cups,  receiving blankets, Baby’s First photo albums, feeding sets and Christmas ornaments.  She wasn’t married or even in a relationship, and I knew her heart had been broken by a string of what I understood then to be “bad guys”.  But knowing is such a relative term for a twelve year old child.

I figured she’d bounce back from those “mean guys”,  find a nice new boyfriend and ride off into the sunset like the princess she was.  I  brushed off her odd baby shopping sprees as something big sisters just did, the same way I assumed she was always well,  fit and happy.  She always made me feel that way.  So, my elementary schooler’s reasoning skills told me if she made me feel happy,  she had to be happy herself.   But when I tentatively asked why she was buying all that baby stuff,  she would grow quiet and sad.  But then she’d chase the moment away, and hastily explain, “I’m just collecting them.  For someday.”

In the back of my  mind,  things were askew.  Off.  So out of place for this bright and beautiful soul who adored children,  loved with her entire being and wanted nothing more than peace and happiness for each and every person she encountered.  But I wasn’t old enough or wise enough then to know what she was hiding.

Alone and Ashamed

When my sister finally revealed to my family that she had  been violently raped , then had an abortion (all in secret), she had assumed for years that if my parents knew the truth,  they would reject her.  That they’d be so horrified by her decision to terminate her pregnancy,  they’d surely disown her.  Perhaps she thought that they’d blame her for the rape,  or be angry that she’d hidden her problems for so long.  None of us will ever know.

We do know that Lisa harbored the guilt and shame in her soul for four long years,  and by the time she was too tired to hold her secrets in any longer,  it was too late to save her. Her pain and secrets  festered because she felt ashamed.  They caused her to turn on herself, but the shame was a slow poison.

After she told us her “awful secret”,  she started crawling into bed with me at night.  She could not stand to be alone,  not even for a moment.  Curled at the end of my brass twin bed,  I sensed she didn’t want to disturb me.  Instead, she wrapped herself around my feet. That way,  she’d take up as little room as possible in a world she felt responsible for destroying.

Even after my mom sat me down to tell me what had really happened, that Lisa had been raped and had an abortion,  I couldn’t quite process it all.  Everything felt very urgent and hush hush at the same time.  In a stroke of wicked irony,  her downward spiral took place around the Christmas holidays.  But Lisa was in no shape to make merry.  She left her gifts unopened,  sitting forlornly under the tree.  She woke every morning,  sometimes in a storm of anger,  other times in a pit of lethargy and depression.

She was my big sister,  but now she needed help.  I took it upon myself to help her pick out her clothes in the morning, dry her hair, and do her make up  before I left for school.  I wanted her to feel better.  To want to feel pretty again.  Those were my clumsy attempts to heal a wound I could not even fathom.  I  joked that if she didn’t pull herself together, and quick, she’d turn out just like our depressed mom.

Just Like Mom

Our mother suffered from profound depression, and often depended on me (the last of her brood still living at home) to help “put on her face”  for the  day (her make up).  It was a ritual we shared.  I was her pseudo hair dresser, therapist and make up artist by the time I was nine. I didn’t know it then, but she had been sexually abused as a child,  then again as a young woman.  Abused by relatives and by strangers.

When my mom tried to tell the truth, her mother blamed her for all of it, and called her a liar.  My mother  learned that telling the truth led to shame and pain.  Somehow, she  unwittingly transmitted a message of fear and shame to my sister.  Don’t tell.  They won’t believe you.

Had they been less afraid, less ashamed, perhaps they would have been able to help each other.

My mom and sister needed to feel constant human connection,  to be cared for.  Made beautiful by someone else.  That was why they asked me to “put on their faces”. It was some small balm for their wounded souls.  It made them forget,  however briefly,  that they felt ashamed and ugly,  from the inside out.

As a young girl,  I obliged all of my mom’s requests.   I often felt the burden of my mother’s sadness was too much to bear.  My sister and I didn’t want to be like that.  A burden.   We talked about it over the years,  and Lisa worried.  She wanted me to be carefree,  to enjoy my childhood.

Just before she died,  my sister and I sat in our blue and white bathroom and I joked to my sad,  sad sister. “You are acting just like mom,”  I said. “Come on,  what’s wrong?” I wanted her to laugh,  but instead I had unwittingly reminded her that she was indeed acting just like mom.  She had become a burden,  exactly what she feared.  I’m sure those words stung her to the core.

I regret that making that joke to this day.  I didn’t know what had happened to either one of them, or realize the cutting legacy of shame they carried.  I never meant to be callous.  But as soon as the words left my lips,  I knew I had made a mistake.

An Escape Plan

Lisa was not just sad.  She was broken.  Broken by the misguided belief that she was raped because she’d done something wrong.  That if anyone knew she’d had an abortion,  they would never be able to love her again.  By the time her story leaked out of her bent and bruised psyche,  she’d already begun to plan her escape.

Suddenly,  she seemed to take a turn for the better.  She was her old, happy self again,  ever so briefly.  That should have been our first warning sign, the clue that things were going very,  very wrong inside her mind and heart.  But it wasn’t.  We didn’t know any better.

Two days after my family smiled again,  believing the “old Lisa” had returned,  my father found her comatose in her bed.  I was already at school,  my mother at her Bible study.  I later learned that my dad dragged my sister’s nearly lifeless body to the phone as he tried to perform CPR and call 911 at the same time.

He was a doctor.  I’m sure he felt if he could save anyone,  he ought to at least be able to save his beautiful baby girl.

When my sister died,  my father was not a well man himself.  His body had been ravaged by an autoimmune disease,   and he had trouble balancing, walking, and using his legs and feet.  He lived in constant pain.   I feel sick when I think how he must have struggled to pull her out of  bed,  desperate to call for help.  He made a last ditch effort to save the daughter who had already disappeared before his very eyes.  But we lived in the country,  so I’m sure it took a long,  long time for the ambulance to arrive.  An eternity.

My parents picked me up at school that February afternoon,  and told me my sister was gone.  They had spent their day  at the hospital.  When my sister ultimately died after the futile attempts to pump her stomach,  they moved her body  to the morgue.  My parents still had to identify her body,  even though they had been by her side as she faded away. They offered my mom  a lock of her golden blonde hair,   which she took home in a tiny plastic bag.

When we got home,  I  saw that she’d left her glasses on the kitchen island.  The night before,  when she’d been alive,  but knew she was about to die.

A neighbor brought a bucket of Kentucky Fried chicken.  We milled around the house like ghosts.  It was time to plan a funeral.

Lisa  left a note,  in her beautiful handwriting. It was written on yellow legal paper,  in pencil, as if she  wanted her last words and act of desperation to be erased as easily as she had her own life.

As the pills began to take her away,  her writing became smaller and smaller.  Towards the end of her note,  we could barely make out what she’d been trying to say.  That she loved us,  but we’d all be better off without her.  That she was sorry.  So very, very sorry.  She never meant to be a burden.

The Burden of Truth

In 1989,  there was no Do Tell.  There wasn’t a place for my sister to share her story with other women.  Anonymously,  without being judged.  She knew if she went to Confession,  the priest would give her a penance for her grievous sins.  Supposedly, though, she would have been forgiven.   But why would a young woman feel safe confessing her pain to a representative of God who may have made her feel even dirtier as he “forgave” her missteps?  Where was the penance for the rapist?  I understand why she couldn’t stomach the Confessional.

Lisa never found anyone she felt she could trust with her pain,  with a shame so deep it literally killed her.  Instead of blaming her rapist,  she blamed herself.  For what?  Being too pretty?  Opening the door?  We’ll never know exactly what story she told herself that allowed the guilt and pain to drive her to madness.

Share Your Story

It has taken me twenty six years to digest the fact that shame killed my sister.  Not the rape,  the abortion, or even the pills she willingly swallowed to end her own precious life.  Each of those acts were surely a heavy burden.  But they were not what ultimately killed her.

The burden that proved  too much for her bright soul to bear was the secret shame she carried.  It was her staunch  belief that she was at fault.  Sinful.  Defective and utterly alone in her pain.

My hope for anyone suffering as my sister did, (whether from sexual trauma, shame, fear or pain of any kind),  is that they find a safe place to share their story.  A place like Do Tell,  where they’ll find support and understanding.  A release from the belief that they deserve to be punished.  Somewhere that their painful stories,  when exposed to light, will hold less power to shame.

My sister never realized that death isn’t the right way to end pain.  Had she been given the chance she so willingly gave others,  the chance to be loved unconditionally and without judgement,  I know she’d still be here today, getting ready to celebrate Christmas with  joy and exuberance that lit up the world around her.

Keep Telling Your Story, and Never Give Up

If you have a story,  no matter how bleak or dark,  find somewhere safe to share it.  If the first place or person you find tries to lay one ounce of blame on you,  shed their words and accusations like water off a duck’s back.  Find someone else,  someone worthy of your trust.  Someone who cares.  They are all around you,  whether you see them now or not.

Above all,   keep telling your story until you know with steadfast certainty that your beautiful soul is not defective.  The wounds, fears, mistakes and pain you’ve suffered deserve to see the light of compassion.  Keeping them in the dark,  hidden in shame,  is what gives them their power to destroy.  You,  the moment you allow yourself to put down  your burden of shame,  regain the power to heal and grow whole.  You’ll help others,  even if they have no idea what you’ve been through.  The world will see that light is not so easily snuffed out by evil, shame and pain.

So go,  and find light in sharing your truth. Never allow shame to bind you to your secrets.  There are no mistakes  you’ve made or wrongs you’ve suffered that can’t be made right again.

One tiny candle,  lit in the blackest depths of despair,  will burn brighter than you can possibly imagine.  Your truth and freedom from shame is that light. Don’t ever give up.

Do not be the darkness.  Be the candle.

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