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Karen C.L. Anderson

shame doesn't knock

Published about 1 year ago • 2 min read

"…shame is like laughter. And inspiration. It doesn’t knock." ~ Stephen King, Fairy Tale

Cats have literally been my life-long companions.

El Gato is the name (which, now that I think about it, may be racist) my father gave the Siamese cat who was there when my mother brought me home from the hospital.

Today, 60 years later, it's Starla a small, plump black cat who has a brownish tinge in the sunlight.

As of a few days ago there was also Bella, a sleek, soft Tuxedo cat.

If you watch my TikToks, listen to the Dear Adult Daughter podcast, or are a client, you know who Bella is. Or was. A cat with loud, insistent, incessant, piercing meows. Except when she was asleep. Or when she was lying in the space between me and my keyboard. She was rarely "seen" on video or Zoom, but she was definitely heard.

She was ailing, although, like many cats, she was also good a hiding it, except for the aforementioned vocalizations and significant weight loss in the past six months.

And like many who share their lives with beloved animals, my husband and I were in denial.

Not to mention that the last time I had a cat euthanized (15 years ago), the vet subtly shamed me because I could have "done more."

Now that my husband is retired, I've been telling him that I am not going through that, alone, ever again. Thanks to a friend on Facebook, and a Goggle search, we learned of organizations like Lap of Love, with vets in states across the country that provide compassionate, in-home euthanasia. So he took care of the details.

Still I was terrified that when she arrived, the vet would say the same thing. Instead, she reassured us that we were making the right decision based on Bella's age and condition.

Being able to hold her on my lap in our home as she died was a gift to Bella and us.

It is also one of the hardest things I've ever done. It never, ever gets easier. And that's okay. I can do hard things.

Grief is a cauldron of feelings. A roiling, boiling stew of sorrow, love, regret, guilt, distress, and yes, shame. At least for me, this time.

My very first shame-based thought (“I am bad”) – which I am sure I internalized before El Gato died – still lives within me.

I am receiving so much care and love from friends and family who know I am grieving Bella’s loss and there’s still a part of me (although it’s a very small part now) that believes I don’t deserve it…

…because I lost my patience a time or two with Bella and her incessant loud meowing (especially in the middle of the night) and I screamed back at her. I was frustrated and annoyed and tired.

How human of me.

So, there I was, late in the afternoon of the day Bella died, sobbing, when I realized that my grief was tinged with shame. How fitting as I finalize the manuscript of You Are Not Your Mother: Releasing Generational Trauma & Shame.

So as my husband held me and cried with me, I let it go. Again.

Life will always give me an opportunity to practice.

Much, much love,

Karen

P.S. I found great comfort in this: Imagine being loved anyway.

This Love Note is dedicated to Bella-Smella. She of the softest, sleekest tuxedo. She of the white whiskers against black fur. She of the green-blue eyes. She of the loudest, and most piercing meows. She, the plant destroyer. She, the most confident and unflappable. She, the chillest cat ever. She, the Queen. Godspeed sweet Bella. You are free to climb as high as you can. 2007-2023

Karen C.L. Anderson

Mentor to women who wish to take the lead in the relationship they have with their mothers.

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