Shame Was My First Drink (And Grief Was the Withdrawal)

I didn’t grow up reaching for alcohol first.

I reached for shame.

Shame was my earliest method of regulating. It was my quickest way to get my nervous system to stand down. It was the fastest route to “I’m safe,” because it meant I had already accepted the verdict before anyone else could deliver it.

And that’s the thing nobody tells you about shame when you’re young. It doesn’t just hurt.

It works.

It works the way a drink works. It takes the edge off reality. It softens the sharp corners of conflict. It makes you smaller, quieter, and easier to keep. Shame is a sedative. Guilt is the chaser.

Guilt kept me loyal.

Shame kept me compliant.

Together, they made me manageable.

I learned early that being “good” didn’t mean being honest. It meant being easy. Easy to correct. Easy to guilt. Easy to frighten. Easy to interpret. Easy to blame.

So I got good at blaming myself quickly.

That was my version of control.

If I could just make it my fault fast enough, I wouldn’t have to sit inside the unbearable uncertainty of: What if this isn’t about me at all? What if they’re wrong? What if they’re cruel? What if they don’t care?

Shame gave me a script. It handed me a role. It told me how to behave so I could survive the room. It kept me from asking dangerous questions. It kept me from saying, “That hurt.” It kept me from noticing that something was off.

And the part that’s hardest to admit is this:

I didn’t only feel ashamed.

I used shame.

I used it the way people use substances. I used it to numb. I used it to steady myself. I used it to keep the peace inside my body when the outside world felt impossible to predict.

If I’m naming it honestly, shame wasn’t just my pain.

It was my addiction.

Not because I loved it, obviously.

Because it was familiar. Because it was available. Because it gave me the illusion of safety.

And grief is what shows up when the shame stops working.

Grief is what pours in when you put the bottle down.

Because when you remove shame as a coping mechanism, you don’t become instantly free. You become awake. And what you wake up to is the loss.

You wake up to the childhood where you thought it was love.

You wake up to the years you mistook guilt for morality.

You wake up to the version of yourself who couldn’t even imagine innocence as an option.

And you grieve.

You grieve the girl who thought responsibility meant self-punishment.

You grieve the woman who thought accountability meant apologizing for existing.

You grieve the relationships where your guilt was treated like currency.

Because shame is not just an emotion, it’s a whole economy.

In that economy, you pay for belonging by staying small.

You buy safety by taking the blame.

You purchase connection by swallowing your own truth.

And the withdrawal is real.

When you stop drinking shame, there’s a moment where your body doesn’t know what to do with the space. You feel exposed. You feel raw. You feel too visible. You feel like you’re doing something wrong simply by not punishing yourself.

That’s when the old instinct kicks in, sweet as ever:

Just take a sip.

Just make it your fault.

Just apologize.

Just shrink.

Just perform remorse.

Just prove you’re “good.”

But I’m learning the difference between remorse and self-erasure.

I’m learning the difference between accountability and addiction.

Real accountability is clean. It’s specific. It’s grounded. It owns what’s mine without claiming what isn’t.

Shame is vague. Shame is a fog machine. Shame makes everything my fault, so I don’t have to face the harder truth that sometimes… it wasn’t me.

Sometimes it was a system.

Sometimes it was a dynamic.

Sometimes it was someone else’s hunger for control.

Sometimes it was plain old human limitation, and my brain tried to turn it into a moral failing.

So here’s the practice now:

When I feel the urge to drink shame, I treat it like an urge.

I name it.

I pause.

I ask what I’m actually feeling.

And most of the time, the answer isn’t shame at all.

It’s grief.

Grief for what I didn’t get.

Grief for what I carried.

Grief for how long I thought suffering was the admission price for love.

That grief isn’t a problem to fix.

It’s evidence.

It’s evidence that something mattered.

It’s evidence that I’m not numb anymore.

It’s evidence that I’m finally sober enough to tell the truth.

And the truth is: shame was my first drink.

But it doesn’t get to be my last.

A Slice of Humble Pie

I thought guilt meant I was accountable. I didn’t know it meant I was trained. I used shame like a sedative because it helped me survive uncertainty and stay attached to people and systems that required my smallness. I’m learning that healing isn’t “never feeling shame.” Healing is refusing to use shame as my coping tool.

Reflection

Where did I first learn that feeling guilty meant I was “good”?

What do I fear will happen if I don’t immediately blame myself?

When shame shows up, what might I actually be grieving?

Affirmation

I can be accountable without punishing myself. I can tell the truth without shrinking. I am allowed to put shame down and feel what’s underneath.

Thank you for reading. If this stirred something in you and you’d like to spend more time with this work, you can explore The Humble Pie 12 Steps and learn more about how I support people as a trauma recovery coach.