Am I worthy?

~sobs~

Welcome to Shame Sandwich, where Megan feels equal parts shame and glee in sharing hilarious personal thought rants every Friday. Sometimes on shame, sometimes shame infused, and other times, nothing to do with shame. Enjoy responsibly.

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My morning started with the cat dropping cat shit on my yoga mat.

Literally, not figuratively.

As I was doing yoga.

Inches from my face.

WHAT. THE. FUCK. FELINE. NOT. OK.

😤

How did your day start?

Hopefully with fun and not feces!

Anywho.

Today I’m going to talk write about self-worth.

Perhaps the lack of self-worth would be a better thing to say.

It’s no secret I struggle with self-worth.

Massively.

And in this morning’s therapy session, self-worth came up.

Or, again, my lack of self-worth.

I have a LOT of shame over my upbringing.

And the status I hold in the world.

God, that word, status, how it fucks me lube-less.

Which means I absolutely must write about it.

I feel like I need to hand out hazmat suits because if this shame cyst bursts, I fear it might contain bio-hazard materials.

So, Warning: Proceed at your own risk. 😁

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Let’s start at the beginning.

I’m 1 of 7 kids.

My dad was a high school teacher.

My mom stayed home to raise 7 kids.

9 people. On 1 teacher’s salary.

The kind of van we drove. 15 passenger Ford. Imagine being 17 and driving this to Wal-Mart to pick up some groceries for your mom. Beyond mortifying.

Until he lost his job. I was 13.

Then he worked as a garment delivery driver.

Then a prison guard.

And then a teacher at the prison.

Now would be a good point to emphasise the fact that we were very poor.

We qualified for food stamps and state insurance.

And to make matters infinitely worse?

Not only were we that poor family with 7 kids, we were also that poor family who homeschooled all 7 kids.

In a strict religious environment.

Which meant the girls - there were 3 of us - were required to dress modestly lest we cause the men to stumble and lust over us. An unforgivable offense, obviously.

The picture isn’t of me but it could be. That was my daily “uniform” until I was approximately 15.

I would like to take a moment to acknowledge how truly awful it was to be forced to wear this shit.

By the time middle school age hit, not only do you feel like the weirdest weirdo to ever walk on planet earth, the only “friends” that you had came from church. But even that fucked you up because all the girls from church didn’t have to wear the same skirts, dresses, and culottes that you did. They got to wear trendy clothes. And pants. Those sinful sluts. And you constantly stressed over how weird and ugly and awful you were. You would never be cool. Or have friends.

And that’s just the mental anguish you felt about being an outcast who never ever felt like she fit in growing up.

The other side is much, much more insidious.

The reason why us girls were forced to wear such hideous clothing is because it was modest. Modest!

Do you have any idea how much it’s fucked me up in the head to be bashed over the head with the message, explicitly and implicitly, that everything comes down to how I dressed? That my sexuality is sinful? That merely being a woman is sinful? That my sexuality is for my husband’s pleasure only?

I’m 32 years old and still carry a lot of shame over my sexuality.

Which, if you’ve read my newsletter for any amount of time, might shock you.

Because I crack crude sexual jokes alllllll the time.

Thankfully I’ve managed to not let my upbringing rob me of all the fun.

But in other areas?

The shame around my sexuality and desires and pleasure is real.

If I’m pleasing other people, no problem.

When it’s my pleasure in true vulnerability? Big problem.

The mind fuckary runs deeeeeeep.

And it wasn’t “just” the fact that us girls were required to clothe ourselves modestly.

It was also the fact that my mom never ONCE talked to me about sex, or my body, or pleasure. I learned what sex was through the encyclopedia.

The topic of sex was more taboo than talking about cannibalism at the butcher shop.

My mom never even told me what my period was, for Christ’s sake.

The message I received over and over and over was:

Sex and your body is shameful, shameful, shameful, shameful, shameful.

And you know what? It stuck.

I’m 32 years old and still carry the shame of my 13-year-old self with me every single day.

And for people who have never been in my shoes… I’m sorry not sorry but you just don’t get it. 😭

I was an outcast.

Homeschooled.

No real friend group.

Family life was in shambles on the inside but “perfect” on the outside.

Felt the immense stress of the financial stress plaguing my family.

Forced to wear clothes that made me feel like the biggest loser on earth.

Ashamed of my body and sexuality.

Ashamed of being me.

With no one to turn to.

And then?

Then I “only” got an Associate’s Degree. In ‘Administrative Professional’. What a loser.

Worked as a receptionist at a manufacturing company at 20. How embarrassing.

I got married at 21. To a man who treated me terribly.

Had a baby at 22. I was practically a baby myself.

Diagnosed with cancer at age 23. With zero support from my estranged family.

Divorced by age 25. With my net worth a whopping $1,000.

While “most” 25-year-olds are building their careers, basking in the accolades of their prestigious 4 year+ degrees, building their wealth, traveling, dating, growing as individuals… I was earning $15/hour. Full-time single mom to a 3-year-old. Carrying the ugly scars of an abusive marriage. Reeling from my cancer diagnosis and treatment. Utterly alone. And utterly ashamed of my status.

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My dear reader, I carry so much shame over my status.

Ashamed I don’t have a 4-year degree. Because I know people will pass judgment on me.

Ashamed of my insignificant job titles. Receptionist at a manufacturing plant?

Ashamed of my slow career growth. I should be muuuuuuuch further along.

Ashamed of my living quarters. At one point, I lived in a place I would have been mortified to bring dates home to.

Ashamed of the clothes I can afford. If people knew half of my closet was second-hand, I would die.

And so it goes.

And I’m just so fucking sick and tired of being ashamed over my status and my story.

How dare anyone think I’m less worthy because of where I’m at right now?

I’m the most resiliant motherfucking bitch you’ve ever encountered and if you had to walk an inch in my shoes, you’d shatter.

How dare anyone think I’m less worthy because of where I buy my clothes?

If you judge me because I don’t wear name-brand everything like a label whore, fuck you.

How dare anyone think I’m less worthy because of how much money I earn?

I’ve had to pull myself up from nothing, motherfucker. Let’s see you come as far as me.

How dare anyone think I’m less worthy because I don’t have a 4-year degree?

If you think a piece of paper defines my intelligence, go kiss a cow’s unshaved asshole.

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I have had a fucking rough upbringing.

I haven’t had a support system.

I am traumatized by shit I’ve gone through.

And yet?

I’m a fucking badass.

And it’s time I start fucking owning that.

I am resilient.

I am strong.

I am brave.

I am scrappy.

I am smart.

I am wise.

I am hilarious.

I am incredible.

I am worthy.

And I know writing those words is one thing, and actually believing them is another thing entirely.

But goddamnit, I’m so proud of me for starting.

Here’s to starting.

❤️‍🔥

-M

p.s. - I know this was a lot packed into one newsletter and could have been more polished, ugh … and there are a lot of gaps left out of my story. A toooooon more to share. And, I also feel bad because I know that other people have had it worse. Here’s to acknowledging my feelings. And that of others. 🙏

p.p.s - And: Happy Friday! 🫶 May we all feel lots of love. And remember that we are motherfucking incredible just as we are. Here’s to feeling proud to be you. ♥️♥️♥️

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From the bottom of my tiny tits, thank you for being here. If these words made you feel, it would mean the world if you could tap the lil ‘heart’, leave a comment or share this. 🖤

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