When I was a little girl I had a hamster. Actually, I had a series of hamsters, but the one in question was the shortest lived, a few months perhaps. One fateful morning as I rose from my single bed with its powder blue bedspread, I noticed that little Snow White was not readying her nest for a long day’s sleep. As I stepped toward her plexiglass cage I realized that she was resting in an unnatural position. So I opened the plastic clips on the metal lid and reached in. She was stiff, and in place of her soft, yielding flesh was a rigid form covered in white fur. It just so happens that, as I stood there with my dead hamster in my hands, I noticed that I had left my bedroom window open. My eyes toggled between the two—open window, hardened hamster, cool breeze coming through the window, FROZEN hamster. In a matter of a minute, I went from grief stricken pet owner to pet murderer.
In the days following that event, I cried a lot, more for myself than for the life that was lost at my hands. No one asked me if I had any questions, even though this loss was so sudden, unlike my other hamsters who had both gotten visibly sick before they died. It was easy for me to take the leap as a child, and no one thought to correct any misperceptions I might be having. My tears were wiped away. I was hugged. Eventually the time for mourning passed and I was left alone with my shame, punishing myself by not asking for a new hamster to take Snow White’s place.
Flash forward to my late teens, sometime between 17 and 19. My parents are sitting around their kitchen table and I am standing in the kitchen with them. We begin talking about some random subject that for whatever reason sparks my memory of Snow White and my fateful neglect. The moment of confession arrives.
After a moment of hesitation, I related to my parents the “truth” of Snow White’s death, the whole sordid tale of how I forgot to close my window and froze my hamster to death. Imagine my surprise when they stared at me, dumbfounded. I was unloading a burden I had carried for over half my life and they didn’t say a word. Finally, my mom looked at my dad and both let a little laugh escape. “Tiff, that was rigor mortis. You know what that is. Your hamster wasn’t frozen. It got sick and died and rigor mortis set in.” And it was true. I absolutely knew what rigor mortis was. The problem was I didn’t know it when I was seven. And let’s face it, it is difficult to retroactively apply information to your past experiences, especially where emotions are concerned.
I stood in my parents’ kitchen and cried so hard, like a small child finally absolved and allowed to grieve for her loss instead of her supposed inadequacy. I cried until I could laugh at how odd it must have been to hear a teenager talk about a hamster’s death in such a way. I let go of the shame.
I think about that moment a lot, not because it was a relief from something too much to bear, but rather that moment is an uncomplicated reminder of an important process. Repressed emotions, especially those that involve shame and guilt, need to be brought back into the light in order for us to release them. They need to be understood and often recontextualized. And most importantly, they need to be felt, no matter how uncomfortable and unwelcome. Only when we’ve done this—made space for them in the present, applied new and corrected information to the circumstances in which they were formed, and felt them fully—will we be free from carrying them into our future lives, letting them affect our choices and influencing our relationships.
In my own life, I’m back in a hamster moment, back in the process. A few months ago I learned new information about my past that is having a profound impact on my understanding of who I am, how I developed and why I made certain really unhealthy choices. It has been hard. While processing this new information, I have had to recontextualize my whole life, grieve years of confusion and pain. I often want to escape from it all, shut it down, move on. But I try to remember what my truly awesome therapist told me not too long ago. “The process is important.” It is where change happens, deep and abiding change. So I release myself into it. The more I feel my feelings, the easier they are to feel. The less I resist them, the faster they flow in and out. The more willing I am to be awake to who I was and a what I felt in the past, the more alive I feel in my present, the better I can forgive, the more I can love. This has been the blessing and the reward.
Who knows when this chapter will come to a close. My emotions continue to ebb and flow, sinking me into the past and then receding to make space for my present. All I know is that if I stick with it, sooner or later I’m going to find still water again.
