Elysianara

Releasing shame that never belonged to me

I had no idea that standing there, frozen in fear at the age of 6, would lock something inside me that shaped the next 50 years of my life. I’m recounting the pea-soup foggy memory of a sexual predator who approached me as a child. The haze is thick, but I can still feel the weight of that moment — the first of many — and how it quietly rewired the course of my life.

My sister and I were walking home from school. She was in pre-kindergarten; I was in first grade. As we rounded a corner and crossed onto our street, a car pulled into a driveway in front of us and stopped, blocking the sidewalk. The man inside called out, offering me a ride home through the alley. My sister ran toward home. I froze.

I remember looking down into the car. That’s when I saw him masturbating. I stayed rooted to the spot, trying not to look while also unable to pull my eyes away. I knew what that “thing” was, but had never seen one before. A sick feeling churned in my gut. I knew it was wrong. Every alarm bell went off, but I couldn’t run. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move. I felt paralyzed, almost in a trance. I don’t remember if I answered him. I only remember the fear and the nausea and the stillness of my own body betraying me.

Meanwhile, my sister reached home and told the babysitter, Jean, what was happening. She ran out onto the sidewalk, yelling my name. The man quickly backed out and drove away. The path cleared. I walked the rest of the way home. I was physically safe — but something in me shifted that day.

I got yelled at when I got inside. Jean yelled. My parents yelled. They all said I should have run home like my sister did. Shame flooded me. I ignored the alarm bells. I didn’t run. I didn’t save myself. Their fear came out as anger, which was understandable, but my reaction wasn’t a choice. It was a trauma response: Freeze.

Fight, flight, freeze, or fawn — those responses happen at any age. My 6-year-old nervous system chose freeze. My sister chose flight. Neither was wrong. Freezing was a natural trauma response. But the message I absorbed was that I had failed. That I’d done something wrong. That the world was unsafe and I didn’t have anyone who would protect me.

That first experience was followed by others.

A family member babysitting kissed me in the dark during hide and seek.

A young adult neighbor exposed himself and placed a kitten by his penis, asking if I wanted to “pet the kitty.”

A group of teenage boys in the woods offered me a “lollipop to suck on” as they exposed themselves.

The same predator in the car returned at a later date with my sister and our friends present — we all ran that time.

All of this happened by the age of 12. Those are only the memories I can access. Who knows what else lives in the catacombs of my mind. I buried it and kept going, never telling anyone.

What I didn’t realize was that I had picked up a nasty emotional hitchhiker that day: shame. I blamed myself for freezing. I blamed myself for not running. I blamed myself for every encounter that followed. I was guilty, ashamed, defective. My grandfather once jokingly called me a “bad egg,” and I erupted in anger: “I am NOT a bad egg!” My fists were clenched because the accusation hit the exact wound I carried.

Growing up in a time when children were to be “seen and not heard,” I never expressed my hurt. I internalized everything. On the outside, I wore resilience, perseverance, and strength like armor. On the inside, that armor concealed depression, disordered eating that swung between starvation and binging, and a belief that I didn’t deserve love or safety. That belief led me into abusive relationships that grew progressively worse, eroding my self-esteem each time. I became a people-pleaser to avoid conflict or abandonment. Even now, I catch myself downplaying harm and believing I provoked it. I accept blame to maintain peace. And every time, more shame gets shoved into the vault in my mind where I try to pretend it disappears.

I presented a brave face to the world, but I lived behind walls — shutting people out, numbing myself with alcohol, punishing myself with food, silently seething with anger at the one person I believed had failed me over and over: myself.

Why didn’t I run?

How did I let that man abuse me?

How did I let myself become overweight?

Why did I drink again?

Why am I so alone while the abusers get to move on?

What is wrong with me?

The self-flagellation was endless. Until—

I finally allowed myself to reveal a portion of these secrets in a safe place. Someone actually listened. Someone connected the dots instead of slapping on a diagnosis. That person was horrified that I had blamed my 6-year-old self for freezing all these years.

“She couldn’t help it,” they said.

“It was a normal trauma response. You need to help that little girl feel safe. Tell her she’s not to blame.”

That was the turning point.

I had been carrying guilt and shame that never belonged to me. I didn’t cause those events. I wasn’t at fault. The responsibility belongs entirely to the monsters who exploited a vulnerable child. I’d been angry at the wrong person. I was a little girl walking home with her sister who froze because she was terrified. She was unprotected. She was overwhelmed. And she survived.

Is she strong? Yes.

Is she resilient? Absolutely.

The difference now is that she is safe — with me.

I have embraced the little girl inside me. I’ve held her while she cried, terrified and alone. I’ve told her she is innocent, she is loved, and she did nothing wrong. When I picture my own granddaughter — just a little older than I was then — my heart breaks to imagine her being scolded for freezing in fear. I offer myself the same compassion I would give to her.

For the first time in decades, I feel something loosening. Something lifting. I am letting go of what never belonged to me, and in its place, I feel freedom.

If you find yourself carrying guilt or shame that was never yours, I see you. I feel your despair. I know this terrain. You are not alone. And if all you can do today is acknowledge the weight you’ve been carrying, that is enough.

This is where you begin.

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