The Secret of the Shadow
Read The Secret of the Shadow Online
Authors: Debbie Ford
Tags: #Spiritual, #Fiction, #Self-realization, #Shadow (Psychoanalysis), #Self-Help, #Personal Growth, #General, #Choice (Psychology), #Self-actualization (Psychology)
THE
Secret OF THE
SHADOW
The Power of Owning
Your Whole Story
DEBBIE FORD
To my dear second father, Howard J. Fuerst, M.D.
What a tremendous gift I received when you came into my life.
Thank you for all the care, love, and grace that you
brought to my family, the world, and me.
Know that you are deeply missed.
Contents
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c o n t e n t s
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iv
Imagine that you knew at birth that you were a master, that you were powerful beyond measure, that you possessed enormous gifts, and that all it would take to deliver your gifts to the world was your desire. Imagine that you came into this world with your heart filled with the healing power of love and that your only desire was to bestow that love onto all those around you. Imagine that you had the innate ability to create and have all that you want and all that you need. Is it possible that at some point in your life you knew that there was no one else in the world like you? And that in every fiber of your being you knew that you not only possessed the light of the world, but that you were the light of the world? Is it possible that at one time you knew who you were at the deepest level and you rejoiced in your gifts? Take a moment now, and see if you can remember that time when you knew the truth of who you really are.
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T h e S e c r e t o f t h e S h a d o w Then something happened. Your world changed. Something or someone cast a shadow on your light. From that moment on you feared that you and your precious gifts were no longer safe in the world. You felt that if you didn’t hide your sacred gift it might be abused, injured, or taken away from you. Deep inside, you knew that this gift was like a precious, innocent child that was yours to protect. So you did what any good parent would do: You hid all your magnificence deep inside so that no one would ever discover it, so that no one could hurt it or take it away from you. Then, with the creativity of a child, you covered it up. You created an act, a persona, a drama, a story so that nobody would ever suspect that you were the keeper of so much light. You were very smart—bril-liant, actually—at hiding your secret. Not only did you convince others that you were not that; you also convinced yourself—all because you were being a good parent to the gift that you held. It was your secret—your deep, dark secret, which only you knew.
You were even creative enough to manifest the exact opposite of that which you truly are so that you could protect yourself from those who might be upset or angered by your innate gifts.
But after days, months, and years of hiding your precious treasure, you began to believe your story. You became the persona you created to protect your secret. At that moment you forgot that you had ever buried your treasured gift in the first place. You not only forgot where you had hidden it, you forgot that you had hidden it at all. Your light, love, greatness, and beauty got lost inside your story. You forgot that you had a secret.
From that moment on, you felt lost, alone, separate, and scared. Suddenly you became aware that there was something 2
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missing—and there was. The pain of separating from your treasure felt like losing your best friend. Inside, you ached for the return of your true self. So you began a search outside of yourself for something that would fill the void and make you feel better.
You looked to relationships, to other people, to your achievements and awards, trying to find that which was missing. You looked to your body and your bank account, trying to get that feeling back.
Maybe, like me, you were driven by feelings of unworthiness that ran so deep that you spent most of your life frantically searching for something to complete you. But everywhere you looked you came up empty.
By the time I was five years old, I was all too familiar with the voice in my head telling me that I wasn’t good enough, that I wasn’t wanted, and that I didn’t belong. Desperate to feel loved and accepted, I set out on the exhausting task of getting other people to validate my worth. Deep inside I believed there was something wrong with me, and I went to great lengths to conceal my flaws. I quickly learned how to charm people, flashing my biggest smile to get them to notice me. I thought that if I was more talented than my older sister or smarter than my older brother, I would belong and my family would fill me with all the love and acceptance I hungered for. I believed that if they loved me enough, I would no longer have to listen to the awful thoughts that filled my mind or endure the painful feelings that consumed my small body.
As the years passed, I became skilled at finding ways to hide my pain from myself and others. When I couldn’t find someone to validate me or tell me I was okay, I would sneak across the street to the nearby 7-Eleven and buy a package of Sara Lee brownies and 3
T h e S e c r e t o f t h e S h a d o w a bottle of Coca-Cola. That dose of sugar really seemed to do the trick. But by the age of twelve my pain was too big to hide: I felt too tall, too awkward, and too stupid. I was envious of the girls who seemed to fit in, who wore the right clothes and had the right families. For years I cried every day, trying to release the inner pain that consumed me. My tears of sadness always had the same message: “Why doesn’t anyone love me? What’s wrong with me?
Please, won’t someone come and
help
me?”
Then, to make matters even worse, one Saturday afternoon when I was twelve years old my mother informed my brother and me that while we were at the beach, my father had moved out of the house. Their marriage was over, and they were going to get a divorce. The breakup of my family added to my deep-seated fear that I was flawed, damaged, and that I had been dealt a bad lot in life. My parents’ divorce unleashed all the pain that was stored up inside me. In an instant every bad feeling I thought I had under control came flooding out of me. My pain was so overwhelming that to numb it I turned to drugs, cigarettes, and fast friends in a desperate attempt to fit in and get the love and safety I could not find in my family or myself.
Struggling to make meaning from the emptiness I felt inside, I decided that success was my ultimate ticket to freedom. I began working at age thirteen, and by the time I was nineteen I owned my first retail store. I had an eye for fashion, and I loved designing new looks for women to wear. Wearing cool clothes always made me feel better about myself. It seemed that I could cover up my shame, if only for a day, by wearing something everyone liked. I strove to have the coolest, hippest, most trendy looks so that I 4
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would finally feel like I belonged. And from all outer appearances I succeeded: I had the right car, the right clothes, and what I considered to be the right set of friends. I had finally made it as a member of the “in” crowd. But despite all my successes and all my friends, I still felt lost and incredibly lonely. No matter how much I accomplished in the outer world, I could never seem to get away from the internal voice that told me I would never amount to anything and that my life really didn’t matter. In the quiet of the night, my despair overwhelmed me. I felt flawed, small, insignificant, and painfully alone.
Managing the insanity of my mind became a full-time job. I began trying to quiet the constant internal noise by drowning myself in drugs. I was hypnotized by my continuous internal dialogue, by the story I told myself over and over again about how I would never make it, how I would never have the love, security, and inner peace I so desperately desired. That voice filled my head day and night, criticizing my every move and sabotaging my search for success and happiness. I had thought that if I kept busy enough, ate enough brownies, added enough chemicals, or accumulated enough cars and clothes, I could rise above the despair and hopelessness that always seemed to pop up after a moment of joy. But it didn’t work. The tape that played in my head would only get louder, showing me my faults and reinforcing my self-imposed limitations. That voice continually reprimanded me, telling me I didn’t deserve love and that I would always be alone.
Finally, exhausted, I would surrender to my inner tyrant, saying,
“Okay, you win.” I would then reach for a bag of M&M’s, a cigarette, or a tranquilizer and temporarily pacify my angst. But it 5
T h e S e c r e t o f t h e S h a d o w took only moments before the self-loathing would return and the story about how awful I was would pick up where it had left off.
In my early twenties I added men to my prescription for pain relief. Unfortunately, my relationships with men always seemed to backfire. They began with a high that held the promise of salvation and ended with a low that left me deeper in the hole than when I began. Meanwhile, my substance abuse escalated to a point where I knew I would not live much longer if I continued down that path. I spent years going in and out of drug-treatment centers, trying to straighten out my life. Then one day as I was sitting in my fourth treatment center, participating in yet another group-therapy session, a huge realization hit me. As I sat there listening to everyone share their pain, I became spellbound by their words. As other members of my group shared their trials and tribulations, their failures and disappointments, I heard a common theme—a story line—coming out of each person’s mouth. I was amazed by how committed each person was to their individual painful drama, and how sure they were that their story was the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I saw people in my group sacrifice love in order to pay homage and remain true to the negative story they told about their lives. I watched other people holding on, as if for dear life, to their miserable sagas, trying to convince us all of how bad and how true their stories were. Some people were proud of their stories, as if their struggles and sacrifices made them somehow superior to the rest of us. Others were drenched in self-righteousness by sheer virtue of the depth of their pain. Suddenly, in a flash of clarity, I was able to hear something underneath each person’s saga:
Their stories
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were just that—stories, fictional tales whose repeated telling was a distraction masking a much deeper truth
.
I vividly remember one group session in particular. Jessica was a pretty, blond twenty-eight-year-old woman whose face hung low with bitterness and defeat. She began our session that day by dramatically reciting the same story she had been telling us for the past eight or nine weeks. It went something like this: “My mother doesn’t love me, my father left me when I was three, my boyfriend doesn’t know who I am . . .” I sat there frustrated, wanting to pull my hair out. I just couldn’t listen to that same story for one more minute. She sounded like a broken record, playing over and over and over the same bad song. I thought the least she could do was play us a new tune. I wanted to stand up and scream, “Get out of your story! Don’t you get it? Can’t you see you are telling yourself a story that will always end the same way?!” I wanted so badly for Jessica to see that she was keeping herself stuck inside her dead-end tale. But of course I was bound by the limitations of what I now know was my
own
story, which told me, “You don’t know anything. You don’t know what you’re talking about, so stay in your seat and keep your big mouth shut.” Obeying that voice, I slouched back into my chair and slipped back deeper into my own story. My silence was itself proof that my story had complete power over me.
