A spoonfull of shame with your breakfast?

I’m having a bad day and, as it goes with all bad days, it comes with a tsunami of shame. Did I meditate enough? Did I drink booze recently? Did I eat well enough? The deep seated beliefs that were carved within me by my profoundly privileged mother still claw at my insides to this day. What did I do to deserve this bad day? What’s the practice I omitted? How did I fail myself due to my “lack of consciousness” as she puts it?

This shame keeps me isolated with the belief that I am my own problem. It prevents me from seeking the help I need from my support system because I cannot rid myself of the toxic and false belief that I should be able to self regulate and that a failure to do so, is an expression of laziness, lack of will power and victimization. She can heal herself, so why can’t I? Clearly I must be the problem, because she did it. I mean, it required moving across the world and abandoning her family because God forbids she actually follows her own advice and regulates her nervous system. No point in doing that, when instead, as a boomer, she benefits from a pension (which I will never have because there will be none left by the time I’m her age) and she can just fucks off to the south of France with the motto “If I’m happy I must be doing something right!”. Why learn to meet people where they are when you can just hoard your privilege and live a happy life at the expense of others?

As I read these words, I hear the pettiness in them. Shame
I hear my unresolved rage. Shame.
I feel small. Shame.

How can I help others when I can’t even help myself? I’m just a little girl, angry at her mom for not being around enough.

No insight today. Just vulnerability.