Guest Post: 'I Still Haven’t Read a Word in That Damn Book'

In which former Essays in Journalism star Rebekah Brandes reflects on the difference between advice received and advice taken

Photo by Alexander Grey on Unsplash

Occasionally, among the sea of 21-year-olds, I have a student with a bit more life experience. That first year, I remember having a tough legal secretary who happily fact-checked my various ludicrous claims. (“Nope,” she’d say, shaking her head. “That’s wrong.”) I’ve had working moms and a dad finishing his degree and a couple veterans. One year, I had an actor.

She was so damned cool but as is typical with fresh students, she didn’t quite realize the extent or nature of her power. The critical difference that existed was between her taste (very good) and her own ability to execute work as good as what she loved (not as good.)

But with work and time and a big heart, Rebekah started absolutely wrecking the page with brilliance and brio. Since the course, she’s remained in touch and you can imagine how happy I was when she sent in a fresh essay.

Hope you guys are thriving! I’ve been felled by an ear infection (sad) and a spring cold (ouch) but I’m doing my best to stay on top of it all.

Healing the Shame That Binds You

By Rebekah Brandes

There is a book on the bottom shelf of my bookcase that I’ve owned for about a decade but haven’t read yet. It’s titled Healing the Shame That Binds You, and I haven’t read it yet because, in brief, I’m too ashamed.

I bought the book on the recommendation of an acting teacher who sized me up after one coaching session — before I switched to making a living as a writer and editor, I paid the bills mostly by waiting tables and getting decapitated in B-movies.

Anyway, the copy of Healing the Shame That Binds You that sits on my shelf is from 1988. That’s three years fewer than I’ve existed, and for all I’m aware, at least as long as I’ve been bound by shame.

At the time of my teacher’s suggestion, I hadn’t graduated to paying for my own Amazon Prime subscription and was logged into my best friend’s. She lived across the country in Baltimore, had a real-person job, and was kind enough to let me mooch free two-day shipping off her. So I ordered the book with her account and waited for it to arrive at my door. Also, for what it’s worth, Anna is a woman who her entire life has been unabashedly, vigorously even, peeing in earshot of others.

But that’s just not the kind of stock I come from. My poor father, whom I love dearly and have a wonderful relationship with now, is plagued by shame and plagued me with shame. The humiliation around performing basic human functions comes from my dad; I remember him angrily ordering us kids to amscray if we were playing in the room outside the bathroom when he needed to use it. Meanwhile, when I visit my in-laws, the whole family just uses the guest bathroom like it’s no big deal even though it’s right off the kitchen AND YOU CAN HEAR WHAT’S HAPPENING INSIDE.

I also freak out if other people touch my laundry, clean or dirty, just like my dad did when I would attempt to switch his from the washing machine to the dryer to put my own in.

He was often more direct with his teachings, too. “Go brush your hair. I can’t talk to you when you look like that,” he told me, wrinkling his nose and turning his head with a look of disappointed revulsion when I was 10 or so and had bounded down the stairs first thing in the morning to tell him something, bedhead on full display. Another time, in Target, I was talking as he was bent down to look at something on a shelf, his face near mine: “You have bad breath,” he said, making that same face. Try to catch me without a pack of gum now.

But I often wonder whether my shame is both learned and inherited — inherited in the genetic sense I mean. Is it in my DNA, in his DNA, from generations back, or can it simply be traced to the experiences of parent after parent? Was my grandmother ashamed? The grandfather I never knew? If I went on Finding Your Roots with Henry Louis Gates, would it turn out I come from a long line of embarrassed people? If I had been adopted by some wonderful stable family who let out long streams of piss with pride, would I still try to let mine out in short tiny bursts timed to the passing of footsteps outside the door?

Anyway, the book. After I ordered it, I forgot about it. A week and a half or so later, Anna texted me. “Did you have a book sent to my house?”

I froze, staring at my phone.

“‘Healing the Shame That Binds You,’???” she followed up. (Could that title be any more embarrassing? Not to mention that on the cover is a melodramatic, profiled silhouette of a downturned face against a gradient rainbow background.)

OK. OK. It’s OK. It’s just Anna. Mildly embarrassing but she’s my best friend after all.

“Chris opened it and asked if it was mine. I told him I had no idea what it was haha. We’ve been trying to figure it out and I said maybe you ordered it!”

Sweet Jesus. The husband I’d met once, at their wedding. Literally kill me. Kill me. The shame was binding me big time. I tried to play it off.

“Oh my god lol,” I wrote back. “It was for acting class!! Ahhh sorry!”

“Ohhh hahaha. Do you want me to send it to you?”

No. God no. I wanted her to throw it away. To burn it. To burn her husband for opening it and seeing it and staring at it and wondering what poor pathetic weirdo needed to learn how to heal themselves from binding shame by way of a 1988 self help paperback.

The … is it irony? Wasn’t lost on me. Clearly this poor pathetic weirdo needed to. So I logged out of her account and into my regular one, fuck free shipping. I ordered it again and this time it arrived at my Los Angeles apartment, ready for me to benefit from its wisdom. But I’ve been too ashamed to ever open it. To this day, I haven’t read a single word in that damn book. I’m pretty sure I should, though.