we were small babies we had no concept of ourselves as separate entities. We were contiguous with the rest of our world, which presented itself to us as a continuously changing phantasmagoria. Then, by about eight months, most of us made that curious transition to the belief that what we saw was not a display of an infinite range of spectacles, coming fresh to our eyes every moment, but a limited range of spectacles which came and went and then returned. We acquired the understanding that we did not have an infinite number of mothers but just one who came and went and then returned and who was somewhere else when we could not see her. When a favourite toy disappeared, we had some idea of where to look to see it reappear. Making things disappear and reappear became a great delight as we rejoiced in our power to control our universe. We were not always successful at this. Sometimes Mother disappeared and did not reappear, no matter how hard we tried to get her back.
With the belief that objects go on existing even if they are out of sight came the understanding that if objects do this, then it is worth the bother of having some sign that stands for them when they are out of sight. There is no point in having a system of signs if there is an infinite number of things in our universe and their appearance is never repeated, but if events are repeatable then we may as well have some sort of language which we can use in reference to them. So babies who acquire ‘object permanence’, as Piaget called it, go on to acquire language.
As we went through this extraordinary process, something which seems to be to a large extent peculiar to the human species, we were learning that our world consisted not just of ourselves but of ourselves and other objects. Some of these objects were very important to us, especially our mother, in whose warm and loving gaze we bathed in ease and delight. Then one day, when we were absorbed in some activity, we discovered this loving gaze had vanished and had been replaced by something cold and rejecting. Suddenly we were wrested out of the state of being ourselves and we became an object in another person’s eyes, an object of disgust and contempt. We were exposed, vulnerable and frightened. We had discovered shame.
Few of us can remember our first experience of shame, but we know when a small child has discovered it. The child ceases to be frank and open in all situations and to all people. He squirms and hides his face. If he does not look, then perhaps no one will look at him.
Experiences of shame which end with affirmations of love and reconciliation - a good cuddle - can be extremely helpful to the small child who is in the process of creating his sense of being a person, but when there are too many such experiences, or when such experiences never end with affirmations of love and reconciliation, the child can be left with the belief that he is, in his very essence, bad and unacceptable. Shame is about our identity, what kind of person we are, and when we are small and having the world defined for us by our parents, then if we are shown over and over again that we are unacceptable, that we should be ashamed of ourselves, we come to believe that this is one of the facts of the universe, as immutable and unchangeable as the pattern of night and day. As we get older such a belief about ourselves can be confirmed again and again by other events.
Margaret could not bear to be touched. She could not bear to be alone, but when she was with people she could not bear them to come too close. When she first came to see me she told me that she knew she was a bad person. She had known this ever since she was a small child. She knew that she was bad through and through. She spoke of herself as a child without any sympathy or concern, because, as she told me when I asked, she did not deserve any. She said that as a child she had done something terrible but she would not tell me what it was. It was so bad that the children in her street had been forbidden to play with her. If she told me what it was I would see how bad she was and then I would not want to have anything to do with her.
This was the theme of our meetings, every fortnight for more than two years. She would sit, head down, saying nothing, or speaking so softly that I could not hear what she was saying. She wore glasses which darkened in the light, but when I eventually challenged her on this she changed them to lighter ones so I could at least see where she was looking.
Again and again she would say, ‘If you knew what I was like you wouldn’t want to know me.’ Sometimes I would mock her gently, saying, ‘That’s right, I’d throw you out - tell you never to darken my door again.’ But most times I would say, ‘That’s just how you feel about yourself.’
For the first year she resisted fiercely my idea that no one is intrinsically bad but that we can learn through what happens to us to experience ourselves as bad. Then she started to experiment with this idea. She would say to me, ‘I say to myself, “Margaret, you’re all right,” but it doesn’t work.’
She found our sessions together very painful. Silences forced her to writhe in embarrassment and say, ‘I don’t know what to say.’ If I had to travel it caused her tremendous anxiety. When I discovered that she was one of those worriers who believe that worrying about something prevents it happening, I would ask her to be sure to worry about me when I was away and I would be sure to be safe. Postcards from me in faraway places with the message ‘Keep worrying’ would make her laugh, but still she worried that I might leave her.
One day Margaret risked telling her friend Sue about a childish misdemeanour about which she was very ashamed. Sue surprised her by not rejecting her. Margaret told Sue how her schoolfriend Betty had given her twopence to mind but she had spent it. Once she had told Sue about this, and how ashamed she had been when her act had been discovered, she found that the memory of this deed and the shame which accompanied it were not so painful.
Now she wanted to risk telling me about the greatest crime, the most shameful, terrible deed. But this was not easy. She looked at the clock and said, ‘It’s time to go.’ It was lunch-time, when I had planned to do some shopping, but I sat still and silent. Such a moment for Margaret might never come again.
Head down, speaking softly, with many hesitations, she said, ‘We lived on the corner, the end of the terrace. Then there was Shirley and Peter, then Betty and her brothers, then Carol and Mary and Ann - they were Betty’s cousins - and then the Smiths, and then my grandmother’s house, at the other end of the terrace. We all used to play together. They all went to the Protestant school and I went to the Catholic school. At school my best friend was Bernadette. I thought she was my best friend. She had a boyfriend, Barry, and I thought I’d like to have a boyfriend, but there wasn’t anyone, only Paul, and he was awful. I didn’t like him at all. He lived in a big house. We used to go there. He used to do things to me. I didn’t like it but I let him. He said I’d like it but I didn’t. We weren’t the only ones, all of them did it - together - all of them.’
She remembered all their names. A roll-call of former playmates.
There was one boy, George, he used to tease me, and I didn’t like it. I told Paul and he said he’d get George. He did, he got him, he tied him up and he did terrible things to him. I watched him - I didn’t stop him - and afterwards, when George’s parents found out, and the police came, I saw George’s mother put her arms around him, and I thought, ‘My mother won’t do that to me.’ When I got home, and the police took me home, my mother did put her arms around me, but I knew she didn’t mean it. There was a policewoman and she took me and asked me lots of questions. She asked me who else did it, and I knew they all did but I couldn’t say. She went on and on at me and I had to give her one name. I told her Betty and then they went to see her. Then we had to go up to the police station and there was this policeman there and he told me I was wicked. And afterwards, the parents, they wouldn’t let their children play with me. Betty could play with them but I couldn’t. I’d go and watch them, but I couldn’t play with them. Sometimes Bernadette would let me play with her and her sisters, but if anyone came I had to hide. And if I had to go down the street to my grandmother’s, they’d all call out to me, say things to me, it was terrible. They never played with me, not ever again. And they told other people about me. When I went to secondary school, some of the boys from the boys’ high school knew, and they’d say things. That’s why, when I left, I went right away. But I’m always frightened they’ll find out where I am and they’ll tell people and I’ll lose my job and nobody will talk to me.
She was crying. I gave her a tissue and said, ‘That’s