On Shame

 The strange thing about any kind of good family counseling is that little asides can have more weight than the "big declamatory" moments.

I was flustered at the start of a session because I had just finished an hour of tutoring, and my student's "absolute value" chapter did not match my own "absolute value" chapter. I had prepared certain material--and I then had to observe, in real time, that I'd made an error and I'd created a need for on-the-spot course correction. I happen to be weirdly insecure about absolute value, and I had to say, in a faux-calm voice, "We'll start here next week."

The counselor I talk to rummaged around in her "cognitive-behavioral" toolbox. Apparently, if something small is bothering you, you have to "drill down" to a core belief, the real source of the distress. Then you have to try to "tell a different story" about yourself.

So--for example--if you flub a question about absolute value, the real issue may be a certain voice in your head: "I'm a fraud, I don't have any answers, I'm about to be found out." And the alternate story could be this one: "I modeled a useful skill, which is to hit pause and step away if you're briefly flummoxed. I also made the student feel more like a human being--by showing that everyone is occasionally 'thrown' by an SAT problem."

This was so helpful to me. The bigger point that the counselor is (often) making is that it's worth taking a second look at stigma and shame. If something doesn't conform to my idea of how things "should" be, I have a knee-jerk wish to sweep the thing under the rug. But--for example--the counselor has suggested that neurodiversity should not be a dirty word; it should be a word that is used freely at the dinner table. Additionally, the counselor has suggested that sex ed should not be an area that generates giggles and whispering. Even little kids need to know some basic things about consent--and about their bodies--and the main work required from parents-of-elementary-grade-tots is taking a deep breath and stringing together ten or twelve clear, direct sentences.

At times, my hour with the counselor seems to be a vocabulary lesson. Kids may not respond to the command "DON'T WHINE." But something more descriptive could be helpful. "Strong voice, please." We have an entire anatomical rundown: "Calm bodies, soft hands, listening ears."

I'm never excited about these particular hours--because they're draining--but this is someone who has changed my life. And I never planned, or expected, to meet her.