Participating in This Is Actually Happening

We’ve all done things that we wish we wouldn’t have. Things that make us, when we look back, cringe with shame. Like the time in 5th grade when you wore the same green track suit every single day. Or the time you got drunk at a friend’s house, couldn’t keep up and ended up vomiting off of their front porch, which in itself might’ve been fine, but then their dog started eating it. You could’ve crawled into a ball and died that day. And the hangover the next day felt almost like you were dying.

But what if the shame was bigger than that? What if you did something truly unforgiveable? What if the shame grew in such a way that you never felt like you were allowed to speak of it. Each time you tried to find the words, you’d feel it, slithering up and wrapping itself around your torso. It’d send your heartbeat into your stomach, which is not at all where it belongs. It’d send your mind spiraling with thoughts of your unworthiness. Memories of all the pain you caused would be the evidence for why you didn’t deserve to have a voice.

I have a huge secret. Secret as in, I don’t talk about it. When I do, I say it nonchalantly to those closest to me. As long as I don’t admit how truly horrifying it was, then it can’t have power over me right? So I come off as crass. As if I don’t feel guilty for what I’ve done. But guilt is just the surface. Beneath that guilt are layers of pain, heartache, abandonment. Layers of dirt that I can’t wash myself clean of. I’ve grown accustomed to it. The shame, the guilt. I’ve begun to wear it like a badge of dishonor. A reminder that I do not deserve happiness, nor a good life, not after what I’ve done.

On Halloween of 2012, my mother picked me up early from school to take me to a therapy appointment. As we drove north on State Road 19, my mind was wandering further from me. I was losing control of it. The thoughts going through my head didn’t feel like my own, but I didn’t voice them. I didn’t stifle them until I could make my way into that beige office with the chairs that weren’t quite comfortable enough to sit in for an entire hour. If only I had. Instead, I let my thoughts guide me as I reached over the center console towards my mother. I grabbed the steering wheel and turned it to the left, towards an oncoming car. For a brief moment, we made eye contact, my mother and I. She sort of laughed at first, not understanding what was happening. Then we hit the other car. Our car went tumbling, flipping once, twice, maybe three times. As soon as it had started, it was over. But it was only the beginning.

I remember her voice so clearly. The moment we settled, she asked me, “Brittany, why did you do that?” I remember the pain, the confusion, the desperation. We both wished to return to a moment where what had just happened, hadn’t. We would never get that wish. Nothing has ever been the same since. There’s been nothing but shame since.

I hold a lot of shame. Not just for that act, but what led up to it. My childhood has become a gem, not so much in how much it’s worth, but in that I have to protect it at all costs. I hold it in my stomach, where it sits heavily. Sometimes, it tries to sneak it’s way up, becoming a lump in my throat. I forcefully swallow it back down, remind myself I don’t deserve to let it out. I must sit with it. Wallow in it. Let it consume me.

 I was lucky. No one died. The people in the other car, I was told, made it out with minor scrapes and bruises. My mom, although very alive, was not so lucky. It wasn’t just her car I wrecked that day. I wrecked her life. A shattered ankle, with both of the lower leg bones broken is not an easy recovery. She lost her job, her apartment, any sense of freedom. At 45 years old, she had to move back in with her parents so that they could help take care of her. That’s just the physical aspect. The emotional part is much harder to see, much harder to understand. I wasn’t around to witness it.

After the wreck, I spent 1.5 months in a psych ward waiting for a bed in a long term residential facility. When one finally opened, it was nearly Christmas. The cold air was the first I’d encountered since a month previously as they transported me in a van up north. I landed in a decent place. They took good care of me. There was structure, therapy, classes, school. In my free time I could crochet or read. I stayed on a unit with a bunch of other troubled youths, some more so than others. It was a scene that had become familiar to me. Before the wreck, I’d seen similar walls. From 2011-2013, I barely existed in the real world. I jumped from psych ward to residential facility, to psych ward, to home. I was taking five different pills a day, each one serving its own purpose in “fixing” my mental state. Those years are a blur of arguments, suicide attempts, new faces in the psych wards, and of course the pain I’d caused. Even talking about it now feels like I’m talking about someone else. I was so detached.

I felt unloved, unseen, unheard. Of course there are my reasons for feeling that way, but for a long time, I convinced myself those reasons were cop outs. I was just evil, looking for any excuse to get out of taking responsibility for my actions. While it’s true I did sometimes use my upbringing as an excuse, I also cannot ignore the role it had in leading me to that day. In leading me to where I am now.

Last year, I started listening to a podcast called “This is Actually Happening.” Prompted by producer, Whit Missildine, brave people share the absolutely harrowing tales of usually the worst thing that has ever happened to them. I was hooked, immediately. There is something so raw and inspiring about hearing people open themselves up, exposing their guts to the world. It reminds me that we’re all human. We all do messed up shit. We all see messed up things. We all feel messed up about the things we’ve done, seen, the things that have been done to us. And yet in every day life, we don’t talk about it. We let shame, or guilt, or fear keep us from opening our mouths and telling our stories. Well, I’d had enough. I have had enough.

I submitted my story to This Is Actually Happening’s website, and it was accepted. For the first time since it had happened, I talked to my mom about the wreck. About all that led up to it, and all that came after. I asked her if she would be interested in telling her side of the story. I had no expectations. Being as the story is one in which I am the villain, I felt as if I had no right to bring it up. That’s why, for years, when my mom and I would see each other, we would act as if nothing had ever happened. Imagine my surprise then, when she agreed to participate.

We went through all the pre-interviews and recordings. And today, my episode of the podcast was released. Next Tuesday, my mother’s will air. I’ve not yet listened. I’m kind of terrified. I’m also terrified at the idea of people who know me in real life hearing the grueling details I fought for years to keep so close to my chest. But shame has had it’s way with me, and I think it’s time I start calling the shots.

Shame kept me from even admitting to my mother that I knew what I did was wrong. It kept me from speaking the truth, from telling how I really feel. Looking back on my actions, I can absolutely see how each step led to the next. But that is, and never has been an excuse. It’s taken years, but I’m finally trying to take responsibility. What I did was so absolutely wrong. I robbed my mother of so much, without so much as a second glance. When I couldn’t understand her perspective, I internalized it, victimized myself. It felt as if she was abandoning me, when in reality, she was doing her best to survive. I was so blind, so naïve to the damage I’d done. I don’t know if I can ever fully understand. But thanks to the experience with the podcast, we’ve opened a door. Behind that door are a lot of scary monsters. Years of pain, hurt feelings, silence, resentment. Years of repression and depression and struggle. I can never go back in time and stop myself from doing what has already been done, and I’ve accepted that. But that won’t stop me from moving forward.

We’ve all done things we wish we hadn’t. Some more severe than others. But life goes on. All we can do is own it. Take responsibility for our wrongdoings. Make our amends. Heal. And most importantly, for me at least, is talking about it. Give the shame less power. The thing about shame is that it convinces you are worthless, but it doing so it keeps you from growing. If you’re already worthless, what is the point? If you’ve already given up, there’s no reason to rebuild.

So, as nerve-wracking as it is, I invite any who wish to hear it to listen to my episode of This is Actually Happening. Then, when next Tuesday rolls around, I invite you to listen to my mother’s. Her side is a story I cannot tell.

You can find my episode here: https://open.spotify.com/episode/6Wj0kJH0wtCy6Jwaww7nu6?si=2El1yHV0RVOqwllMGmb2Eg&utm_source=copy-link

You can listen to my mom tell her story here:

Thanks for reading and listening.