The Great Untangling.

Where grief and hope collide. 🖤

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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Three weeks ago I settled into my chair and pressed ‘join’.

Holy shit, I’m in therapy now?!?!

Nervousness mixed with hope filled my veins.

Surely this would be a simple ‘introductory’ session… nice and light and easy. I wasn’t worried anything too shameful or uncomfortable would come up. This would be fine, I got this!

The therapist joined and there we were, separated only by a video screen.

Holy shit, I’m actually doing this!

But there was something just beneath the surface that I could sense.

Was she apprehensive? Pulling away before we even begin?

Why?

And then we were starting.

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She said:

“Tell me about your family”.

Oh god, where do I even start…?

“Well…” Here we go. “…I was raised super religiously... My sister kind of called it cult adjacent…”

I pressed on.

“I was one of seven kids. The 3rd oldest… 3 girls, 4 boys. And religion and ‘purity culture’ and shame dominated my upbringing. I was also homeschooled K-12.”

“I had to wear modest dresses and skirts until I was at least 15, and then had to fight to wear anything remotely ‘in style’ or cool.”

Here I paused.

“And… my mom never once told me what my period was.”

“And the same thing with sex. She never breathed a word of anything remotely close to it.”

“And… that really messed me up.”

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My therapist listened as I talked on, giving her the overview of my life story in just a few short minutes.

The words spilled out of my lips, spreading like a wine stain on white linen the deeper I went. Soiling the compartmentalized walls I wore so well.

But it was one simple question from her in particular that broke me.

“So, when’s the last time your daughter has seen her dad?”

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“Umm, well the last time he saw her was on her 8th birthday… so like a year and a half ago...”

My dear reader, it was at that exact moment in answering her question that a wave of grief came unleashed and tears immediately began streaming down my face.

The full weight of everything I’ve been through (and desperately compartmentalized and buried) burst through in the heartbreaking anguish of telling my therapist that my precious darling daughter is abandoned by her own father.

It’s as though I could feel a fist viciously punching my chest, relentlessly, meticulously, over and over until it breaks through my chest cavity, grotesquely clawing at my heart. Ripping it out in one horrible motion.

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I felt so exposed in my vulnerability but I continued on.

The terrible truths that I’ve been too ashamed to utter to nearly any other soul came out in waves.

The real reason my daughter’s father isn’t in her life… how he sexually abused multiple family members for years. (And he can now only have supervised visits. Which he hasn’t in over 16 months.)

How when I found out about it… god, nothing can prepare you for that kind of nightmare. *NOTHING*. The heartbreak for the victims. Especially the one who had the courage to tell me what she’d never told anyone before… GOD. 💔😭 The fear I had for my daughter. The all-consuming fear. All I could think about was the fact that if I didn’t get sole custody of my daughter immediately, what if… what if he would abuse my precious 3-year-old daughter?

It’s hard to put into words the horror that time period was in my life. Or how it aged me.

God how it aged me.

And I was 26. Twenty-fucking-six.

Not only that, but my parents were nonexistent in my life.

I had my older sister (who didn’t live super close by me) to lean on but that was fucking it.

I am in awe of what I went through.

And yet… it’s taken its toll. My nervous system is a shit show, to put it mildly.

And yet… I’m still here. I’m still fucking here.

And I will never stop showing up for myself, and my daughter, day after fucking day, pursuing a life that lights me the fuck up. And inspiring my daughter to do the same.

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Deep breaths.

There’s a lot more to my story.

Sexual shame. Sexual trauma. So, so much shame.

My abusive marriage. Being diagnosed with cancer at age 23. Twenty-three.

Becoming a full-time single mom to a two-year-old daughter. Two years old.

Next to leaving a toxic, abusive marriage and surviving the trauma of saving my daughter from her own father… being a full-time single mom has been the hardest thing I’ve ever done. There are times when my daughter is very hard to parent.

It is so so so so so so so so so fucking tough.

And did I mention lonely?

So many people just don’t get it.

Not to mention the weight of the world is squarely on your shoulders, and your shoulders alone.

And then, and then, when your child is diagnosed with absence seizures...

Are you fucking kidding me?????

Why me?

Why me.

I choose to believe that… all of the nudges that I’ve felt I’m here to make a big difference seem to click into place. I’m here to rise, and to inspire others to rise with me. I’m here to live an incredible fucking life, and to inspire others to live an incredible fucking life, too.

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Which brings me back to how this newsletter started.

I, Megan Lee, finally found the courage to get my ass into therapy at 31 years old.

And that’s when my therapist told me she couldn’t help me.

Truly.

I’m a blubbering mess on her virtual couch after giving her the cliffs notes version of my life… and she’s practically kicking me out her video screen door.

Ok fine, she compassionately told me that I have been through a lot of trauma and she… is not a trauma therapist.

So that’s why I sensed her apprehensive energy at the start, this therapist knew from my “goals” worksheet I’d turned in earlier that I had some serious baggage in tow. Which turned out to be some oversized trauma luggage. 🥲

I thanked her for her honesty as I tried to it pull together, my emotions still pouring down my face, breath raged as I tried to soak up my grief in tissues. I told her I agreed I wanted to find someone who specializes in healing from trauma. We talked for a couple more minutes and then ended the call.

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And that’s when the full force of my trauma truly hit me and I fell to my knees.

Sobbing.

Sobbing.

Sobbing.

Something compelled me to capture this moment. Raw anguish yet… resilience. 🖤

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I have carried so very much, for so very long, all alone.

And because of that, I have put up walls.

Very, very thick walls.

Walls to protect me from the outside, yes.

But also walls to protect me from my own painful memories.

Which is why I was so completely caught off guard by the full force of my emotions three weeks ago.

I’m so good at holding the pain in. So good at compartmentalizing. So good at feeling numb.

And yet… that afternoon I felt everything in stunning clarity.

The shattered grief I carry in my heart was cracked open and oozed forward with violent force.

I felt… pain.

So much pain.

Oh Megan, my sweet, sweet Megan. 💔

Getting to be in a ‘safe space’ with a therapist was enough for my shattered nervous system to feel safe enough to let go. To allow me to feel. 😭

And for the next 24 hours, shit felt heavy. So very heavy.

When you have a glimpse into the true weight of grief you carry, you wonder how on earth it is possible to untangle all of the shameful and painful knots that have been festering for years, decades? It all feels like too much.

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And yet… resilience.

No matter what, I am determined to not let these scars be in vain.

My shame and fear will be transformed into freedom and confidence.

I promise, darling Megan, I promise you, you are so resilient and so strong and you are going to heal baby girl. You are going to heal and blossom and live truly *free*. I know it. ← me to me. 🥹

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Whew.

As you can imagine, writing this has brought up emotions in me.

Which is good. I need and want to feel my emotions more instead of burying them.

And… I want to destigmatize therapy.

For myself. And for everyone else, too.

For years I struggled with the stigma of therapy. Years.

And yes, the financial burden too. Shit is NOT cheap. 😭

But it was the stigma that held me back most of all.

Or perhaps I should say— the shame of needing therapy held me back.

How heartbreaking is that???

That I or anyone else should feel shame for wanting to get help.

Christ. 💔

I’m grateful to say I did find another therapist who has a little more of a trauma background (sidenote: it’s fucking hard finding a ‘good’ therapist!!!) and have had 3 sessions with her so far and… newsletter fam, I’m feeling some shifts already. 🥹😭🙏❤️‍🔥

I know there’s a fuck ton of resistance and shame to untangle, and possibly some regressions before progressions, but goddamnit I am on this journey, and I’m finally getting help instead of being alone. 😭😭😭

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The great detangling has begun.

Cheers to fucking that. 🖤

-M

p.s. - Thank you so much for reading today’s extra serious shame sammie newsletter. 🥹 And if you wouldn’t mind, I’d love a virtual hug or smile in the comments today, this one was a bit vulnerable, you know? 🖤

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