Vulnerability and Shame

From Ellen,

Before I go on with Janie's story I want to respond to another question from Joe. He asked me why I don't write more of my story and I said that I still find it hard to tell my story and yet I get so much from the stories of others. I thought again about why sometimes some of us find it hard to let others know when we are vulnerable. I remembered what this was like me expecially when my husband Ron was so ill.

When Ron became ill, I found it difficult to count on others, although it took an army of friends, family, nurses, social workers, lawyers, and psychotherapists to keep Ron at home and to keep our family functioning. Crises with the ventilator regularly left Ron gasping for breath. Insurance companies refused to pay for his care. Much of our energy was spent fighting for Ron’s physical and emotional needs. Each of us went in and out of depression, and our family splintered and reconfigured itself many times. In spite of our struggles I believed that we should not have to depend on others.

Before Ron’s illness, I had witnessed families whom I counseled feel shame when their difficulties overwhelmed them. Illness, which no one blamed them for, produced profound humiliation. They believed that illness was a private matter, not to be inflicted upon others. When working with these families, I challenged their desire for isolation and encouraged them to reach out and to create a wider circle of support. After Ron became ill, I was surprised at how much I shared their desire for isolation and shame for needing help. I had been influenced by a culture that over-valued independence.

I believed that we should be able to manage on our own -- not because others weren’t ready to help, but because of my desire not to need help. At first I resisted the efforts of others. When I eventually forced myself to accept spontaneous acts of kindness, I had to admit that these were not enough. We needed consistent help in making difficult decisions, managing our home care system, and raising money to pay for Ron’s nurses. We needed the help of a wider community to manage our emotions and the tasks at hand.

I was part of a generation of women who believed that we were equals with our partners, who believed that we could have careers and be good mothers too. What I didn’t understand was that my capacity to do these things was based on good fortune and that with Ron’s illness I would have to rethink what I could do and be as wife, mother, and psychologist.

As a helper to others, I had not appreciated how hard it would be to reach out to a wide circle of supporters. I even had to let my clients know that sometimes I would have to cancel psychotherapy sessions if there was an emergency at home. This went against my years of professional training, in which I was taught that the life of the therapist should be kept out of the therapy room. To my surprise, my vulnerability led to more open connections with my clients. They were able to feel concern for me and allow us to continue our work together. Reaching out beyond my comfort level with others led me to let go of a false sense of independence and to discover interdependence.

A year after Ron went on the ventilator, in desperation I called together a group of friends and asked them to meet with me regularly. We created a group mind for problem-solving. This group convinced me that nuclear families survive on their own in circumstances of privilege. When life is filled with difficulties community is not an option, but a necessity.

My friends rallied around me. One friend said that by offering help she felt relief about our situation. At last, she could do something. It reassured her to think that if she ever needed help, others would be there. At our monthly meetings, I spoke about what was happening in our family. I raised issues about the nurses, the children, Ron’s care, and my relationship with Ron. My friends gave me the gift of their time and made suggestions that I had overlooked.

Sometimes it was awkward shifting the balance of these friendships. As friends, we had exchanged the stories of our lives equally. During Ron’s illness, I asked them to give me extra time and attention when I had little time for them. They were more than generous, but we often had to sacrifice the easy flow of friendship to work as a problem-solving group. What I had to learn was that for life’s survival, we are all interdependent. When our resources are plentiful, we need to share with others, and when our resources are stretched, we need to ask others more fortunate to provide for us. In different ways, the women I am writing about on this blog live by this principle. I seem to have to learn it over and over again.

What about the rest of you? Is that why you are reluctant to send in your stories?