Hand me the shame...

I confess that I dismiss the shame of Christ on the cross.  I very much dislike it when I try to speak of my shame and I am handed the shame of Christ on the cross as a panacea for my own.  Christ was naked (not that most Christian artwork shows this), yes.  I understand that for Him, that for a man at that time, public nakedness brought shame.  But hanging naked on cross is not the same shame as being raped or having parts of your body played with by an adult who knew well what he was doing when, as a child, you did not comprehend what was happening.  As a child.  As an adult, you know well what is happening in those flashbacks and some part of that shame fills the flashbacks with a greater horror.

Don't get me wrong.  Christ Himself is the answer for shame.  Christ is the answer for the whole world.  His being naked on the cross, however, isn't the answer.  It just isn't the same.

Something I also very much dislike is the comparing of suffering.  You could say that I am doing that here, but I am not.  Suffering is suffering.  Suffering is such a personal and idiosyncratic experience.  What is horrifying to me might not be to you and vice versa.  But we each have our own horrors of the mind.  That is suffering.  And what miseries of the body fell me might be mere annoyances to you and vice versa.  But we each have our own miseries of the body.  That is suffering.

Besides, comparison of suffering moves one away from what is needed:  compassion, empathy, presence.

But still I compare shame.  And, for me, to hand me the shame of Christ on the cross when I try to speak of my shame is to hand me dismissal, disconnection, loneliness.  And, honestly, it is also to add to my shame in a sense of failure.  Failure to communicate, perhaps.  Failure of faith for certain.

Sometimes, it seems to me that answers that I am given, even as a Lutheran are really thinly veiled "let go and let God."  That is not ... biblical to me.  At least I've never found that verse.

Unless just a little while ago, every single time I had a pudendal neuralgia flare, I was not lying on my bathroom floor or in my bed, but rather I was trapped beneath the body of a man, writhing and even screaming, now, as an adult, as an object was shoved up by backside.  That is the sensation one can have with a pudendal neuralgia flare: as if something is being inserted into your rectum.  Even without a history of sexual abuse, it can be a terrible experience.  But for one who was abused in that manner, it is the trigger of all triggers, melding the pain of the present with the pain of the past in a wretchedly warped manner.

Now, understanding has helped change how I respond to what I am feeling.  I do, admittedly, fall back into the flashbacks, but most often I am able to gather the reigns of my mind and drive them to the knowledge that is most important.  I close my eyes and picture a diagram of the pudendal nerves in the human body.  I follow the branches of those nerves on the left side down to where the branch affects the rectum and I force my mind to focus on a true medical fact:  What is happening to my body, what I am feeling, is a malfunction of my pudendal nerve, following down from along my spine, though my pelvis, and branching throughout my pelvic region; it is not what happened in the past.

The power that is most effective against flashbacks is the ability to remain in the present so that you can concentrate on what is actually happening rather than what has happened before.  The ground I have gained in the battle of enduring pudendal neuralgia flares hasn't come because I let go and let God.  No, that gain came through medical knowledge I have gathered about my pudendal nerve allows me to remain in the present.  Now, that present stinks and I oft want to die as much as I do when I am lost in a flashback, but I savor the victory of remaining present.

But even as I do the shame of those flashbacks comes creeping back, just as it is beginning to flood my mind as I write this.  The dirty, secret actions in that place where my body was violated and, sometimes, would violate itself with responses too overwhelmingly laced with shame that even to dare touch the thought is to flirt with a desire the die that is just as strong as the shame.

Sexual abuse shame is a shame that is complex, I believe.  There is the shame of the body and the shame of the mind and the shame of betrayal and the shame of behavior and the shame of society.  I could try to explain what I mean by each of them, but I would be falling down my own rabbit hole and tonight is not the time or place to do so.

I just wanted to admit that, after a fashion, I dismiss the shame of Christ on the cross.  Instead of that, when I speak of my shame, perhaps, hand me the shame of the prodigal son.  You might not understand, but a part of me feels responsible.  Hand me the shame of Christ on the cross and you are handing me an example of nakedness that does not match my own and only serves to make me feel more wretched for having spoken.   Hand me the shame of the prodigal son and you are essentially handing me the hope of forgiveness.