Flowers for Algernon – A Story of Rebirth

When I was in middle school, I read a book for English class called Flowers for Algernon. To this day, it is the only work of literature I remember reading from my entire childhood. It’s a fictional story of a man named Charlie with an intellectual disability who undergoes experimental surgery to increase his intelligence. Told through Charlie’s journal entries, the reader watches him transform from one

day to the next, becoming increasingly more articulate, pensive, and expressive. I recall the elation I felt, feeling like I was meeting the real Charlie, who was coming alive with the ability to reflect and express himself. However, the effects of the surgery don’t last, and his journal entries slowly revert back to his original level of intellect, depicting Charlie’s beautiful soul trapped within a clouded brain. It’s a poignant, tragic story. 

What’s fascinating is this one book that stayed with me has also served as an archetype for something I have personally undergone. Mine was the inverse of Charlie’s experience, where I completely lost access to my brain and intelligence for several years. 

What caused my brain to shut down was a cascade of events that created an overload of shame. From the outside, it looked like I suffered from profound depression, which was also true. Yet the depression was a consequence of the shame, not vice-versa. 

Like all shame-origin stories, mine began with self-betrayal. It started with a decision to stay at an internship site where my supervisor dismissed my request not to work with a population I wasn’t trained or equipped for. Instead of respecting my limits, he insisted I work with this population because as the clinic director, he prioritized numbers over ethics. 

Instead of standing my ground or finding a new internship site, I betrayed myself by agreeing to work with the population. Because I had no idea what I was doing, I did very poorly, and started losing faith in my ability to be a therapist. I was also publicly humiliated by this supervisor when I attended a supervision group that – at his admission –  had poor boundaries. Yet as much as I’d love to blame everything on Dave, I simply cannot, as I also chose to not confront him and point out his shameful behavior. 

I eventually left his center but was shamed by two subsequent supervisors at the next counseling center. As horrendous as their behavior was, I also played a part, as I neglected to push back on them, once again, betraying myself. 

The final blow came when one of my best friends ended our friendship, inferring I was the problem, and taking no ownership of the role she played. I once again agreed with the shame, taking it in and giving it a home in my soul, instead of challenging her conclusion. 

Each time I betrayed myself by lacking objectivity about the bias of the other person. I passively took the shame they handed me, never allowing myself to think critically and push back. The culmination of all the shame was too much for me, and my brain crashed. I was no longer able to think at all, and I could hardly speak, because words seemed foreign and far away. 

This was extremely problematic, as I found myself unable to follow the words of my clients, with nothing to say to them in response. As you can imagine, they stopped coming to me for therapy. I was convinced I could never be a therapist, as I couldn’t even retain my caseload. Just like Charlie in Flowers for Algernon, I found my soul trapped within a clouded brain. I lost myself. For 5 long years. 

During this time friends didn’t know what to do with me, as I was no longer the engaging and friendly person they knew. I attempted to work in jobs where there was less pressure to speak, but was let go even from those, as I couldn’t remember basic tasks. After a few years of feeling hopeless and alone, convinced things would never improve, I attempted suicide. The 72 hours I spent in a psych ward were my absolute bottom. Perhaps a licensed therapist put in a 5150 hold is especially humiliating.  

When the few friends I told learned about my suicide attempt, there was no response. Almost no signs of concern or inquiry. Even my parents didn’t bother to visit. 

I was finally able to land a rudimentary job and retain it. It gave me a reason to get up in the morning, even though I went through each day in a darkly clouded brain, without feelings, like a robot. One day I overheard a coworker sharing how a vitamin supplement helped her hair grow faster. In a rare act of self-nurture, I bought a multi-vitamin supplement containing the vitamin for myself. Not only did my hair immediately begin to grow, my brain turned back on. All of a sudden, I was back. I had words. I had feelings. I was alive. 

Here’s the weirdest part: for the 5 years I couldn’t formulate thoughts or words, my brain still took in information, unbeknownst to me. When my brain switched back on, I suddenly knew all these things I didn’t know before. I was able to make associations between things easily, and I could remember things – especially spoken words –  far back to early childhood. Those words were now a natural part of my vocabulary, and I felt smarter than ever before. I also had a much stronger connection to my intuition, and trusted it to guide me, which gave me insider knowledge, especially with clients, as I was able to return to being a therapist. 

My clients often ask me how I know things about them they’ve never been able to see themselves, or how I can successfully guess their childhood experiences before they even tell me. Is it magic, or is it my gut? The answer is yes. There’s a certain wisdom we only find when we don’t go looking for it, a wisdom that is birthed through suffering of the deepest kind. Although I wouldn’t want to revisit that suffering again for a single day, now, 7 years later, I feel incredible gratitude for what it birthed in me. 

When I think of my clients who, like me, were trapped in a pit, and how I get to play a role in their rescue operation, I am thankful for my journey. 

The beauty of being buried alive is the escape tunnel you claw out opens a way for those behind you. 

Here’s the bottom line: shame is deadly, and it’s a liar. If we don’t think critically; if we don’t consider the bias of the people who shame us, but simply accept their conclusion, we will suffer needlessly, and our soul will drown within us. Like the warning to never invite a vampire inside your home, we stand at the threshold of life and death, with only our free will to protect us. It is mind-blowing how powerful we are when we exercise our agency in this way. 

Similarly, we must time-travel to our childhood and dislodge the shame we learned there, so we don’t continue to accumulate it, and live in a dissociative state, for a lifetime. 

To be fully alive, we must guard against and remove every trace of death. We have to recognize shame for what it is, and how it stealthily spreads from one person to another, like contagion. We learn to fight the shame but not its host, simply by having our eyes open, and rejecting it when it’s thrown our way. 

We learn to say, “that’s an interesting comment to make. I’m curious what’s behind it.” We learn to be a mirror, held up to kindly but firmly bring accountability and shine light into darkness. 

Shame is death, and it’s the enemy of all humanity. In order to overcome an enemy, we must first understand his strategy.  

Shame has already stolen enough from us, wouldn’t you say? Let’s collectively resolve to be vigilant and stand guard at the doorway, refusing him the right of entry. Won’t you join me? 

It’s a great day to come to life.