Last week, I read a Substack post written by Elissa Altman called The Problem with Addictive Rage. Like everything Altman writes, it is brilliant. It is relatable and worth checking out if addictive rage is your thing.
For me, however, addictive shame seems to be more problematic than anger. For the past several weeks, my therapist and I have been dissecting my relationship with shame. All of our conversations come back to one common denominator: shame. Everything in my life is rooted in and clouded by, you guessed it, shame. When my therapist asked if shame had benefits, my initial response was no, but what if it’s deeper than that? If everything we discuss boils down to shame, it must serve a purpose, right? Does this mean I am somehow addicted to shame? Do I subconsciously believe that shame keeps me safe? How do I disentangle myself from this insidious web of shame-fueled decision-making?
One example of my shame-based addictive behavior is how I show up at work. For my entire life, whether it is due to undiagnosed neurodivergence, complex PTSD, or both, I have struggled with crippling social awkwardness. Embarrassingly, my neck breaks out into red, blotchy hives whenever I share something about myself with a coworker. I get so anxious about how others perceive me that I have a physical, visible trauma response.
To compensate for my social awkwardness, I become the hardest worker in the building. I am so ashamed of my shyness that, over the years, I have gotten hooked on external validation and praise for my work ethic. My addictive relationship with shame fuels perfectionism. Shame has always driven me to perform in a way that paints a perfectly put-together facade, creating a dopamine hit just strong enough to sustain me while dying inside.
Another example of shame-driven behavior is the eating disorder I developed in high school. To put it bluntly, growing up in a queer body while attempting to navigate a compulsively heterosexual society filled me with insurmountable shame. I believe, collectively, we all deal with this on some level. Whether it be from mainstream culture or religion, we are all fed the message that there is only one way to desire and love. My eating disorder stemmed from a deep-seated sense of shame and fear for not fitting into that one-size-fits-all box. Shame said, if I could make my body small and attractive enough for the male gaze, then I would be saved, loved, and accepted.
I became addicted to my bodily shame because it provided a false sense of safety in an egregiously homophobic society. Like the praise of my work ethic, my daily fix came from the compliments and the extreme privilege that came with a slender, yoga-tight, straight-appearing body. My shame manifested itself as an eating disorder, which acted as an addictive protective shield in a world that said my sexuality was a one-way ticket to hell.
Emily Dickinson understood.
Circling back to conversations with my therapist, shame has undeniably served many purposes in my life. Shame has been the fuel that kept me alive in an unsafe world. Shame fed my insatiable hunger for approval. All of the lying, masking, people pleasing, isolation, assimilation, and perfectionism kept my true self, deemed monstrous and mentally ill, invulnerably hidden away.
In The Problem with Addictive Rage, Altman writes, “Addiction is the disease of more, so one will never be enough, and if vodka isn’t available, they will have to be fulfilled in another way.” This quote succinctly sums up my life. I have jumped from one addictive behavior to another for 35 years, all because I crave more of that pesky shame-induced approval high.
One of my favorite tools for beginning the process of releasing shame addiction comes from Elizabeth Gilbert, who recently started Letters from Love on Substack. The basic idea is to write letters to myself from Love every morning. Gilbert further explains Letters from Love in this podcast episode. I was shocked to learn that Gilbert got the idea for this from Bill W., the founder of Alcoholics Anonymous. Fun fact: Letters from Love was supposed to be in the original print of the Big Book, but it got cut out because it was too “woo-woo” for its original 1930s male-dominated audience.
The practice of writing letters from Love feels revolutionary because it connects me, for the first time, with my true self, who lives underneath shame addiction. Love allows me to seek dopamine internally instead of externally. Love fuels me with self-compassion instead of self-hatred. Love gets me hooked on self-discovery instead of self-abandonment. Love provides a real sense of safety instead of a false one.
Disentangling myself from the web of addictive shame might be a lifelong process, and that’s okay. Luckily, I know gaining awareness that my shame addiction even exists and combating it with Letters from Love are the first steps toward extrication.
Progress.