Where Shame Begins
I knew I was different long before I understood why. Maybe not explicitly, but I never felt like I fit. It’s hard to explain, because “not fitting” applies to many areas of my life, mostly as a result of things outside my control, but definitely because of something inside of me.
No one made me feel like I didn’t fit. Sure, there were tiny things that were harmless, but to me, to my perception of myself, they were accusations.
This feeling wasn’t because of my adoption. It took me years to see echoes of it throughout my life, but as a child, there was no secrecy, no shame. My adoption has honestly had very little impact on my life.
This feeling was internal, at my core, far too deep to put into words. I just didn’t fit.
That feeling didn’t start to shape me, however, until I failed to reach puberty.
I was always a girly girl. I loved dolls, dressing up, Barbie, and Nancy Drew books. I remember the joy of getting toiletries in my Christmas stocking at 5 or 6 years old and having bubble baths with oils, fizzy bath bombs, and moisturizers after. I loved the trappings of femininity in all its forms. I was not a tomboy, in fact, I was and still am one of the least coordinated, least athletic people you’ll ever meet. The closest I got to sports was roller skating and bike riding with the neighborhood kids.
My childhood was typical, and it was happy. Very happy.
But that day in sixth grade, when the boys were taken to another room and the girls learned about their changing bodies, I started to feel like I was different. From that day, I started counting the days until I would need the samples of sanitary pads and booklets about changing bodies they handed out. I read Are You There God, It’s Me, Margaret? just like every other girl my age. We were all anticipating this change that would make us women,
All around me, girls were starting to develop. I was always one of the tallest kids in my class, but soon everyone else was sprouting, and I was not. One by one over the next few years, girls were getting their periods, and I was not. Nothing was happening. I was flat-chested; I was not hitting a growth spurt. And I was not developing any of the expected secondary sex characteristics. I remember the summer I was 13, getting changed out of our bathing suits with my best friend and being shocked to see the changes in her body when mine still had not changed at all.
By then, I didn’t just know I was different. I knew something was wrong.
And that’s when the shame started to take root.