Refusing To Be Made Small
Cringeworthy. The word described so well the scene I’d encountered at my go-to neighborhood nail salon a couple of weeks back. The belittling behavior of the only other customer in the shop had been so egregious that I’d wished I could leave my partially finished manicure and instead retreat to the bar two doors down. It was a wish that was telling—since I don’t drink much, almost never drink alone, and avoid any beverage that doesn’t feature ice.
On this particular afternoon, the slickly dressed woman who puffed through the door had been impossible to ignore: Calling me at the last minute is not acceptable, Tina! she barked, as she settled into the chair behind mine. You need to be on time!
The verbal rant aimed at the shop’s owner made me feel momentarily guilty and shamed myself. As Tina rubbed cream on my hands, I worried that I had debated too long about which nail color to choose, and that by digging in my yard that week without wearing gloves, I had made it harder for her to quickly whip my cuticles back into shape. Shortly, that emotion was replaced by anger: Tina was only running ten minutes behind schedule. How considerate to call her next client, I’d thought earlier when she’d dialed the woman to inform her of a blip in the schedule. I felt sorry for Tina: the public shaming that was now on full display was disgusting.
Even as I tried to coax my nails to dry faster by waving my hands, the tirade continued and Tina’s fervent apologies continued to go ignored. At one point, I wrestled with an urge to whip around in my chair: Really? I wanted to snap, before launching into a rant of my own. Instead, I let out a dramatic sigh, resisting the impulse to lob any snarky remarks. Meeting aggression with aggression was never a good move.
Ten minutes later, after I’d paid and tipped Tina––and shot her a knowing look—I walked past the bully, shaking my head. My intent was to convey my disapproval of this customer’s behavior without words, but I also worried that by saying nothing, I had failed to show Tina any measure of support. But then, I wondered: had my favorite manicurist even needed support? Was it possible that she’d viewed the disparagement as part of the “cost of doing business” and hadn’t felt shamed at all? Rattled and confused, I headed toward the parking lot and the quiet of my car.
Once settled with my seat belt clicked closed, I contemplated the degree to which such shaming behavior remained an emotional trigger for me. Despite a lot of personal reflection, aided by good therapy and positive role models, I saw once more that there were still occasions when a witnessing of a verbal take-down could elicit both my memories of pain and then anger.
What humiliation I’d felt as a young girl when an adult with power misused it—quite often it was my mother who perpetrated the event and singled me out for a tongue lashing. Denigrating words like hers had been able to burn small holes in my self-esteem. Eventually, I learned how to reject simply and calmly any debasing narrative, which reduced the chances that I might shut my emotions down and better resist the desire to meet fire with fire. Nevertheless, as I sat staring out over the steering wheel, I felt vulnerable.
This vulnerability was no surprise, however. I knew from the research on the effects of unremitting disapproval and disappointment which focuses not on actions, but on aspects of the self, that such emotions are predictable. “Toxic shame”––the term used to describe one common consequence of verbal abuse––can, according to some study findings, leave an indelible mark on its target. Chronic feelings of inadequacy and of being unworthy of love or positive attention are typical for one who has such denigration come down upon his or her head repeatedly. After a bit, I recalled how prevalent the issue of toxic shame had been among clients I’d worked with before retiring from my clinical psychology practice.
I remembered the many bright and sensitive women who used self-deprecating humor as armor to guard against their fears of being attacked with words. How common it was to hear some variation of Listen; I already know I’m a piece of crap when I challenged their penchant for putting themselves down rather than waiting for someone else to do it. It’s better if I say it first! they’d laugh in response. Their eyes, however, held a different story. In them, I saw pain.
I had a flashback, too, of a young college student whom I’d first met when she was a young teen and had presented with an eating disorder. Stick-thin, she had adopted an “I don’t need anything––everything’s fine” approach to dealing with her precarious physical condition and her overwhelming stress. A perfectionist whose mind constantly raced about which achievement or honor to find pleasure in next, it had taken months of intensive intervention––medical and psychological––before she could allow herself even a glimpse of just how much self-loathing she’d been trying to ignore with such zeal.
When she admitted to feeling as if she were “damaged goods,” it was, as anyone who has struggled with chronic shame and surmounted it can attest, just the beginning of her healing process. Understanding why those emotions overwhelmed her and learning how to reclaim her self-worth––a process that could inform her ability to making healthy choices about her body and her life––took far, far longer.
I was pensive as I drove home on that warm afternoon after that troubled manicure with Tina. Another hour would pass before I was able to stop ruminating about shame: particularly, how it had a way of cozying up to a host of different mental health conditions––anxiety, depression, eating disturbances and substance abuse, to name but a few. Which comes first? The shame or the disorder? I wondered, before finally deciding my thoughts had veered off in the wrong direction. Wasn’t it more critical that we—as individuals and as communities—learn methods that could and would build healthy barriers against both?
A week later, I was back at Tina’s place for a new coat of sparkle, only to learn that the business was no longer hers. I’m so happy, Terry! she exclaimed, before describing how she’d been working for months on a plan to sell her salon and offer her services as a part-time employee who could work when she chose and at her own pace. Seventeen years is enough! she said. Now I will have time to be with my little girl, she added, her smile growing altogether wider.
Are you sure, I asked her, if it wasn’t that bad-tempered woman in here last time I saw you who made you want to sell?
Ah, Terry. She laughed. How well you understand stress! But then, in a whisper, she shared that she’d been contending with that customer’s behavior for over fifteen years. I try so hard to never, ever be late for her, she said and shrugged. Then, reaching across the small table, she squeezed my hands, the look in her eyes bright.
An hour later, I walked out the door, sporting a manicure that looked spiffy. Fifteen years of belittlement, I marveled as I reached in my purse for my car keys. God bless her, I thought as I ambled past the pub. And every other soul who refuses to be made small.
Best,
