Hey, It's Okay

Who You Are

Forgive Yourself

It Rolls Down

The Blue Poodle

Possessions: what do they mean to us?

One of my earliest memories was being with my mother in this gigantic gymnasium, filled with kids. There were all kinds of games and colorful balloons, contrasting this, otherwise, austere, white space.

I have no memory of interacting with those kids or playing those games. Instead, what I remember was getting a small plastic toy from a gumball machine, this blue poodle, pictured here.

I still have this toy, decades later. It’s weathered a lot. My cat chewed its cheeks; it’s lived in four different states within the U.S.

But it revealed the connection- the dysfunctional connection- I’ve had with possessions.

Perhaps, you’ve heard this phrase…

“Love people; use things.”

Sure, no problem with mixing those two up, right?

The fancy term for this behavior, collectively, is “Object Fetishism,” subscribing more value to objects than they hold.

Think you’re so enlightened, to be beyond the grasp of a material object’s hold on you?

How do you relate to your possessions, like your car, your, house, your I-Phone?

Ooh, now we have struck a nerve, huh?

For me, I was presented with an unflattering reality concerning possessions; I related more to stuff than to human beings.

Love:

Starting with the basics, I loved my stuff.

Perhaps you’re familiar with the premise of “Love Languages.” It’s a concept that each person has a dominant “love style,” a way of expressing the sentiment, like words of affirmation and acts of service. Not surprising, “gift-giving” is the love style that fits me.

I wish I could say it had its origins in accessing the “it’s better to give than to receive” scripture I was raised on. Nope.

It had more to do with effective ways of keeping me quiet. As the tiniest of tots, I had become addicted to pacifiers. Once, on a family trip, away from home, my mother forgot mine. And, of course, I responded with understanding and reasonable acceptance.

Just kidding. I raged with unholy tot-ness, making the family trip miserable.

So, I suppose, concerning my mother, it was lesson learned. And mercenary tactics were implemented to ensure, in the future, I was “pacified.”

Therefore, to keep me quiet and well-behaved in grocery store shopping carts, or any public forum, my mother gave me some rubber toy to hold onto. I was preoccupied with it, especially if it had a cute face.

And true love was born. I was happy and entertained- and quiet- with my new true love. Mom could get stuff done; I didn’t rage and cause a scene.

Win-win, right?

Eh…

However unintentional, I wrongly “imprinted” onto those cute rubber toys. I related to them as real sources of love, a/k/a, nurturance.

As I grew, the object of my affection simply changed form. Rubber toys became dolls that became figurines. Unaddressed issues, addictions, dysfunctional behaviors and abusive dynamics certainly didn’t do much to alter my relationship with – and my dependency on- an inanimate object. If anything, it further convinced me, this was the only way I was going to get nurtured.

Since I have always gravitated toward faces, how much stronger was this bond? A sweet loving face, whether it be a toy, a doll, a stuffed animal or a reassuring figurine, conveyed a nurturing caretaker to me. The sweet expression and/or smile of that face was never taken away or replaced with a hostile scowl.

Nope, just unconditional- unchangeable- inanimate love.

What about you? Do you receive love from your possessions? Do the luxury and “status symbol” items, like cars, expensive shoes and the latest gadgets nurture you?

And it doesn’t necessarily have to be these “big ticket” items that accomplishes this. What about a favorite toy? A stuffed animal? A, seemingly, ordinary necklace? Are you deriving love from those less flamboyant items?

The “thing” is immaterial; it’s about the love feeling you believe it generates. What IS that? Why is that?

It can be a sense of being seen, heard and valued. It could mean protection. Perhaps, some of us came from abusive homes and we designated a certain teddy bear to be our bodyguard. We may have done this when we were five, yet, here we are, at thirty-five, forty-five, fifty-five and on, and still, we look for that protecting, nurturance from that object.

It is still transmitting “love,” especially when, perhaps, in human form, love was scarce, more painful and more difficult to come by.

Comfort and Companionship:

Not far removed from the quest for love, is our need for these two essentials. We want to be soothed and we don’t want to be alone.

I was an only child. Often, I was lonely.

Only children already have quite a bad rap as spoiled, selfish and yes excessively needy, a/k/a, lonely. This loneliness cliché is often the major argument used, pressuring people to have more than one kid.

“You don’t want them to be lonely, now, do you?”

Yes, there are those of us who are only children, but we’re human beings first. And no human being is immune from loneliness.

Indeed, it is an excellent teacher in self-soothing. And right here, many of us go off the rails. Imperfect humans seeking to self-soothe. What could possibly go wrong?

I had kids I played with, but I spent most of my time by myself, trying to entertain myself. And, again, the pacifying method was employed as I was given a lot of toys to keep me occupied.

Pinky was such a toy. A three-inch doll, she was all pink: pink dress, pink hair, pink skin. Hence the name.

I know, original.

I took Pinky with me everywhere. And I lost Pinky everywhere, because she was, well, three inches tall and I was five years old. And epic trauma and search efforts ensued. She went missing in couch cushions, behind the humidifier, in the car and even outside.

Yes, that outdoor harrowing search and rescue mission found her in a pile of freshly mowed lawn. The lawn mower, mercifully, did not decapitate her when it spit her out. It did, however, give her an unflattering Terminator Cyborg haircut and a scar above her left eye. But my relationship with Pinky continued until one day, it didn’t.

I don’t know how or where I lost her, but it was devastating, nonetheless. If I no longer had my companion, what shall become of me? Do I turn to other loving people to comfort me?

Eh, not so much.

I had imprinted on objects, not humans, as love sources. I obsessed with getting a replacement, instead of working through my issues. And, because it kept me preoccupied and quiet, family encouraged it.

With this subtle message, as I grew, I learned things were the pleasurable answer, not people.

Let’s face it, when you line up a possession next to breathing human being, often, it’s the human that will disappoint, betray you or cause you pain. Not the object.

What’s your “Pinky?” What possession would bring utter devastation to your world if you lost it? Why have you chosen it to be your companion? What relational need is it fulfilling?

It IS fulfilling something.

Identity:

Possessions can promise us identity; they’re aspirational. They can reflect what era we are in and where we desire to go. Here is really where the “status symbol” comes into play.

Most of go through stages as we mature. I had my Garfield stage, my purple stage, my theater mask stage. You can imagine the amount of stuff I have acquired as I moved through each of things. Each represented what caught my attention and how I could derive a sense of self from it.

Garfield inspired me to start my very own Garfield fan club at the age of eleven. My organization skills probably started budding there, as I created worksheets and word finds (yes, really) for my three club members at our weekly meetings. My purple stage came quite naturally, as I was a teenage girl and, I think, somewhere, in the Cosmos, it is written each female will, at one time or another, be obsessed with all things purple. The comedy and tragedy theater masks were next on my list as I became more involved in acting as a high school student. I had masks on everything, including hair barrettes. As a theater major in college, they even crept into my final Senior project, a performance art piece which incorporated the masks on the face of one of my characters.

What were your eras? What were the markers of individuation, of personality, of dreams and goals? We can attach power to those totems. We can believe that, by simply possessing representations of them, we will somehow will those things into being in our lives.

I did.

There’s nothing wrong with dreaming, having goals and aspirations, but we need to ask ourselves: do I have this goal or dream or does this thing have me?

And what do we do if/when that era, that hobby, that obsession has passed?

What do we keep; what do we let go of?

That needs to be a part of the identity process as well. I have had to get rid of a lot of Garfield memorabilia, for instance. I mean, really, does the person I am now need a miniature stapler with the orange cat’s likeness on it? I think I can release that already.

We learn who we once were and can move through it, beyond it, becoming another incarnation of ourselves. That, ideally, is what you and I should be up to as we view the possessions of our various eras. We can- and we need to- let things go. We won’t lose the essence of our identities, only the stuff that helped to get us there.

Meaning:

Ah, yes, the meaning of life.

Cancer should have brought it, crystal clear, to me. Now my priorities are perfectly aligned; now I have wisdom. Now I know what truly matters. I have the answers; I’ve figured it all out.

(I can hear you laughing at my declarations, by the way).

When I was first diagnosed with Breast cancer, over two years ago, I decided to make Kewpie dolls my official cancer-coping mascot. I derived the meaning of irreverence, strength, the whimsical imp characters coming to my aid, all by collecting some of these small doll representations.

Can you just stop and imagine how many Kewpies I’ve racked up since then?

Yeah.

They’re small in stature, the tallest being about three inches. They mostly decorate my office. And yes, they’re cute. Yes, they remind me of my Breast cancer experiences.

But that notorious side eye on that mischievous face is no longer serving the purpose it once did when I was first diagnosed.

Not surprisingly, I need more, and I’m not talking about more Kewpies.

No, I need the more substantial stuff of life. And here is where cliché triumphs Kewpie.

I need mindfulness and gratitude.

As my health, life and body have all changed over these past two years and counting, I have become aware of what remains and what is.

It’s easier to focus on what’s missing and what if.

That’s where need and greed get confused, as a pang to somehow, fill this unfillable big black hole of insecurity, woundedness and pain seems to be overpowering to us mere mortals. We can become possessed. We think in terms of “bigger, better deal,” “What’s next” and, of course, “More.”

Satiety?

Forget it! Just gimme gimme!

Cancer has thrown its life-altering wrench into those old patterns of thinking that promised me personal meaning.

But now, I have all too much limbo in my reality. Recurrence, things being out of my control, a death that, despite my efforts, I may not be ready for. Yeah, Kewpies cannot give meaning to that.

What has been working, as it is an ongoing, daily endeavor, is the gratitude in embracing what I do have and what is… even if it’s just for today, in this moment.

Things like…

I am still alive. I can breathe.

I have my limbs and they work.

I can think and create.

I have the love from my Kewpie-enduring husband and my Joan Jett of a cat, Glory.

I have my daily lessons and opportunities of faith.

Stopping, praying and consciously thinking about these things has given meaning to me, beyond a three-dimensional object.

Yes, I have stuff; I have possessions. And yes, some of them mean special things to me.

But there is more. There’s a letting go that is transpiring where I once would have defended to the death (or would have at least given a black eye or two), at the thought of letting go of my possessions.

Again, cancer.

And the phrase, “You never see a U-Haul attached to hearse.”

I am more mindful about what I allow in my life. That is meaning, not stuff.

What about you? When you think of your possessions, are they more in the “what I don’t have” group, chasing the “bigger, better deal?”

Or are you familiarizing yourself with “what is” and what you are already experiencing as blessings?

Spiritual teacher, Ram Dass once encouraged, as a meditative practice, focus on who and where we are, stating, “I am not my (insert whatever you like, be it possession, object or personal characteristic); I am loving awareness.”

Each of us can do this. There’s nothing we need to buy.

And maybe that has been the lesson: there is nothing to buy. Love, comfort, companionship, identity and meaning are free to roam around in, without any purchasing whatsoever.

Therefore, I wish you love, comfort, companionship, identity and meaning of the truly “loving awareness” kind!

Copyright © 2020 by Sheryle Cruse

All Your Questions...

2 Most Powerful Warriors

You Have To Decide...

I shall not live in vain

Dualing Gildas

I have quite a history with two differing famous women, connected by one shared name: Gilda.

The first famous woman? The legendary screen icon, Rita Hayworth. 

She’s best known for her portrayal of the film noir siren, Gilda.

When I saw her in that stunning 1946 film, I was thoroughly convinced she was a woman reveling confident in her beauty. No hint of insecurity for miles!

That beautiful black strapless gown with its matching opera length gloves…

That red hair cascading over her shoulders…

That pin up figure…

What wasn’t to love about screen legend, Rita Hayworth, behind that character?

By the time I was thirteen, she was one of my earliest beauty icons. And I decided to try to mimic her. It did not go well. I dyed my hair red twice in one summer. Twice. “Copper Penny” was the name of the hair color. By the way, I have “olive” skin, a yellow base to my skin. Sometimes referred to, in all of its glamour as “sallow.” So, mix an olive complexion with copper penny hair and what do you get?

The look of Jaundice.

Plus, I had a mullet, but that’s another story.

Anyway, Rita made me dream of movie star beauty and the promise of its perfection. However, even Rita Hayworth had a more complicated back story going on.

Originally born Margarita Carmen Cansino, of Spanish and Irish-English heritage, Hollywood studio head, Harry Cohn was so bothered by her appearance, he changed her name to the “less ethnic” last name of Hayworth. From there, Rita underwent her Hollywood makeover. Her hair was dyed red and her hairline was raised, via electrolysis.

So, we see, even the beauty Rita Hayworth was not deemed acceptably beautiful until she changed some things about herself.

And, after her career skyrocketed and she became known as a movie star and a world- famous beauty, things did not get easier. We now see how fragile she was at accepting herself.

“Men fell in love with Gilda, but they wake up with me.”

“Rita Hayworth: Portrait of a Love Goddess” (1977) by John Kobal

Beauty did not equal a perfect, happy life. In spite of portraying “Gilda,” the real, struggle-filled woman existed behind that glossy Hollywood image. Rita was married and divorced numerous times,  was addicted to alcohol and, sadly, succumbed to complications from Alzheimer’s disease in 1987, at the age of 68.

She was a human being, susceptible to the human experience. Just like the rest of us.

As alluring as the Gilda character may be, she pales in comparison to the textured, flawed, meaningful and real Rita.

And, speaking of real, the stage is set for another influential Gilda, Gilda Radner.

“Because I was not a perfect example of my gender, I decided to be funny about what I didn’t have instead of worrying about it.”

Shouldn’t we dare to live the more dimensionally accurate reality of ourselves?

"Having cancer gave me membership in an elite club I'd rather not belong to."

And so it goes.

Which Gilda? Why, Gilda? Femme fatale fiction? Funny, awkward namesake? It’s our choice.

We cannot live removed from the truth of who we are.

Copyright © 2020 by Sheryle Cruse

In a Batman T-Shirt

The Trip is Theirs

The Stand- Up Game

When I was five years old, I was on a local children’s television show, “Kids’ Stuff.” I remember being outfitted in my red and white pantsuit, with my two ponytails swinging, excited. I regularly watched the program at home and couldn’t wait to be in on the action.

As the cameras rolled, the tall, pretty host- let’s call her Miss Jane- started a game for the hyper bunch of us tykes. It was called, “The Stand- Up Game.” There was a large circle of different colored smaller circles on the floor. Each kid was to sit on that circle, quietly and patiently (yeah, sure), only standing when our colored circle was yelled out in song. I believe I was on the red circle (probably because it matched my outfit).

Miss Jane sang…

“Green stand up. Blue stand up. Orange stand up. Yellow and purple stand up…”

Simple enough. Only, little red me stood up, sat back down and stood up again, on EVERY color. Miss Jane hadn’t even gotten to red yet. I was so excited, I guess, just to be on the color wheel, I was all, “stand, up, sit down, Kids’ Stuff, Kids’ Stuff, Kids’ Stuff!”

Years later, I still have the sing-song-y lyrics in my head. And I see how, I was primed to exhaust myself in a few unproductive patterns. I may no longer be outfitted in my red and white pantsuit. I may no longer be sitting on my red circle. But I was standing up for every ridiculous thing, attending to the never-ending different circumstances, while attempting to manage (hah) life.

And it prompted another song from years ago, the band, Everclear’s “Everything To Everyone.”

Behold, some of its lyrics:

“You do what you do
You say what you say
You try to be everything to everyone
You know all the right people
You play all the right games
You always try to be
Everything to everyone

Yeah you do it again
You always do it again”

 Song dysfunction, but for grownups!

I started to see just how rampant my people pleaser/codependent ways were running amuck in my life. However, now, in the past two years, since my cancer diagnosis, I’ve had to face just exactly what that means as I’ve chosen to engage in the not-so-fun-and-games behaviors.

If Miss Jane’s game was my template, indeed, I was standing up for everything. And it could kill me.

Not Everyone is Going to Like You:

Let’s go straight to the heart of the dysfunction. This is Lesson 101, to the recovering people pleaser. And, it can feel like the most shrill, painful siren, blaring in our ears.

“No! Don’t tell me that! I can make someone love me. Really! I’ll just keep working at it!”

An-n-n-n-d… “green stand up, yellow stand up, purple stand up…”

I had to admit that my attempts to be liked by everyone just weren’t happening. I would tire myself out, thinking of ways to get on someone’s “good side.” But what I failed to see or accept is that their entire being, complete with any potential, “good side” was disinterested and walking away from me.

I think we can sometimes get caught up in the mistaken belief that we have to be friends with everyone and, if we’re not, it’s a moral failure on our part.

It’s not.

Some people belong together in life. And some don’t. Changing, morphing and manipulating ourselves into a certain package, one we’re convinced will make us irresistible to that “special someone,” just depletes us, annoys them and possibly, in extreme cases, incurs a restraining order.

Nope, don’t want that.

And, all the while, we miss out on something key: we need to like ourselves, sans any other person’s approval. That, one can argue, may be the graduate school of our people pleasing natures, but learning this for ourselves is far less painful than learning the constant rejection of people who don’t want you and I and are not supposed to be in our lives, anyway.

Still, many of us struggle with this and are on academic probation, hence, the next learning lab…

Not Everyone’s Need is Your Need:

People pleasers want to fix things; we want to make others happy. This can be a recipe for disaster and disease as we often expend our entire beings trying to heal, solve and make things better. Furthermore, others can exploit our giving natures and sincere hearts.

Too often, I chose to be a rescue person to someone who’s life was always on fire. I wanted to help put the fire out. So, I spent hours listening to people on the phone. I gave out cash so their rent would be paid; they could have groceries. Helping someone out is not bad, in and of itself, here. Life happens. Needs do arise.

However, I encountered a strange phenomenon in my sincere fire quenching. I quickly became the “go-to” person. I was not the last resort contacted in these too frequent emergencies; I was the first call, instead.

Maybe, I could have risen above it with my feelings. But my response, instead, was I felt used. On top of being sleep deprived, adrenalin-charged and sometimes, even, financially strapped myself, I could not escape the feeling- the reality- that, once someone got their need met, emergency or otherwise, I never heard from them. No uneventful phone call just to ask how I was doing. Nope. I was just there to meet a need. They wanted nothing else from me but that.

And that it not a good feeling. But I was the one choosing to participate in the behavior. I could have said no. I could have redirected them to other resources. But I didn’t. I thought I was the only help they’d encounter. Do or die.

Scripture, perhaps, offers us a caution here, found in Matthew 26:11:

“The poor you will always have with you...”

Now, this is not a free pass to be callous, to never help someone in need.

Rather, it’s pointing out an unfortunate reality: there will always be need in the world. One may argue, the need exceeds the help. And each human being, like it or not, is finite. We only have so much capacity.

Therefore, it’s unrealistic- and even counterproductive- to go about trying to “save the world.” When our bodies and psyches give out (and they eventually will in the attempt), not only have we harmed ourselves in the endeavor, we may have also hurt the very individual we were trying to assist in the first place.

We are to be selective in how we go about helping. Not every need has our name on it. It’s not selfish to admit that. It is realistic.

I learned I cannot stand up to every problem and fix it; my Kid’s Stuff “Stand Up” game, with me standing at the beckon of every color, will not perfectly solve everything. It will, only tire me out.

I learned this the hard way. As I sincerely tried to be a firefighter and caregiver, I neglected myself. And, perhaps, my cancer diagnosis was the attention-getting device that put a stop to that neglect.

So, I’ve since learned to sit some needs out.

Pick Your Fights:

And this leads me to my next lesson; I must choose my battles. I’ve have had to learn it the hard way also.

Again, going back to Miss Jane and the Stand-Up game, the call was out for a certain colored circle. Selective. If green was called, then orange, yellow and blue had better just sit tight and wait.

This principle applies with any grownup battle, argument, fight or cause. I needed to ask myself, “Is this really my fight here?” Spiting ego, spiting emotion, spiting even, my desire to get involved in the whole mess, should I?

Would doing so help…or hinder?

My Kids’ Stuff experience should have warned me that I learned and practiced some behaviors that were not in my best interest as an adult. Again, I was standing up for everything, yet, getting nothing accomplished, except wearing myself out. I made the fight in question, even worse, because all I was doing was, in fact, meddling. Not helpful.

I remember one incident in which a family member asked me to do battle for her concerning a lawn ornament, taken from her yard. I was asked to contact the people in question and retrieve that lawn ornament. I got involved; I called and wrote a letter. Not surprisingly, there was no response.

Meanwhile, the person who asked me to be their lawn ornament henchman quietly sat back and did absolutely nothing. Not one word, phone call or letter. No effort, whatsoever. I was the only one doing the heavy lifting.

And there was, perhaps, my first mistaken belief. I viewed what I was doing was assisting. I believed this other party would do her share of the ornament retrieval as well.

No, in her mind, my help meant that I would do everything.

Years later, this incident seems ridiculous. It made me feel like I was engaged in a tug of war over some tacky pink flamingos. That kind of thing.

But again, it revealed to me how I was getting involved with things that weren’t any of my business. If there was a dispute between certain people, then, that’s between them. Being an additional party only muddies the waters and makes things worse.

I should have sat this fight out.

Cancer, again, brought to my mind how I am to choose my battles wisely. I have finite energy, strength and, maybe even, time left. Do I really want to spend it meddling in affairs that are unhealthy for me? Even with a sincere heart to make things better, I need to do an ego check.

Perhaps my help won’t help.

Perhaps, it will only have the opposite effect. The ego loves to hear that, doesn’t it?

“Get over yourself.”

This should be the retort to the tempting Stand-Up game we play in life.

Why, exactly, should we stand up?

Is our colored circle being called? Is it?

Or do we want it to be called instead?

There’s a difference.

We need to know that difference and sit several things out.

Copyright © 2020 by Sheryle Cruse

Just a Chapter

Practicing Self-Care...

The Authentic Type?

As a college theatre major, I once took a television performance class. The students were asked to serve as the casting director and label what “type” of look each filmed student had.

Concerning me, several classmates made comments like, “exotic,” “a foreigner,” “a gypsy.” But one comment stood out:

“She looks like that woman from ‘Misery.’” (After waiting for what seemed like an eternity, my professor mercifully named the actress, Kathy Bates).

And then, everyone chimed in with “yeah, she’s a great crazy woman.”

Um… thanks?

As a theatre major, I was cast- or rather, typecast- in certain roles. I was the “character actor,” rather than the ingénue.

Still, I couldn’t get past the ingénue’s mystique. I associated that type with beauty, a/k/a, inherent worth.

And, since I linked beauty with extreme thinness, well, things went awry. Hopelessness, despair and wrong views of my personal worth started the ball rolling. Physical and emotional complications, like full-blown eating disorders, an irregular heartbeat and suicidal thoughts were also some fun highlights.

Types. Do we believe only certain characteristics are worthy? What types do we covet- and what types do we disdain?

A 1929 Armand beauty ad once promoted different beauty types, touting its “Find Yourself” campaign, complete with each female type’s matching names. Here are those descriptions…

The Cleopatra Type: “Masculine hearts pound when she goes by.”

The Godiva Type: “Anglo-Saxon, blond, winsome and how!”

The Sonja Type: “Dark and mysterious, she has a way with her.”

The Cherie Type: “She brings the boulevards of Paris to America.”

The Sheba Type: “Dark-brown hair and a queenly air.”

The Lorelai Type: “Blond and aggressive, she ‘gets her man.’”

The Mona Lisa Type: “Light-brown hair and a devastating smile.”

The Colleen Type: “She has more pep than a jazz band.”

Within that extensive list, however, there is not one mention of an “Authentic” type. That’s probably by design.

Inauthenticity is more profitable. It can create a spirit of competition emphasizing aesthetically pleasing, surface values, rather than the more significant matters of life. Everyone gets obsessed with appearance, so they miss other things that are happening around them. I know I was not preoccupied with world affairs and helping my fellow man.

Rather…

 “...They were now competition for me. If I could be thinner than these women, then I’d be better than they were as well… Competition grew between me and any thin girl or woman. Mirror, mirror: I had to be the thinnest one of them all. It was life or death importance, anything less than that was unacceptable. Gaining any weight, whatsoever, meant failure, simple as that...What I didn’t realize at the time was that my eyes and mind were incapable of seeing anything but a distorted image...”

(Excerpt from “Thin Enough: My Spiritual Journey Through the Living Death Of An Eating Disorder”)

However, no matter what I did, I could not attain that coveted standard. No matter what, I never felt “beautiful.” I never felt valuable.

And, of course, I never felt authentic.

Breast cancer has since radically shifted my sense of body image.

Now, gritty reality, loss and potential death have eclipsed any kind of type, ingénue or otherwise.

Yeah, this was real. This was happening.

Breast cancer targeted every element of my femininity and self-image. Most impactful? Well, I no longer have my breasts. How’s that?

I’m not the first woman to come to this brutal confrontation; sadly, I won’t be the last, either.

Nevertheless, my breast-less body has provided me an education nothing else could. If I no longer have this, arguably, most identifiable, feature of womanhood, am I still a woman?

I say yes, and, yes, doing so has been hard-won. I face my breast-less chest daily. I am getting used to this newer, different version of myself. And I’m choosing to love and it.

I am not my breasts. I am not a physical attribute. There is far more to me than a physical body.

However, it is within my best interest to embrace, not reject, my physical body. My body is what it is. It’s not bad; it’s not ugly, no matter what “type agenda” tries to convince me otherwise.

And this has been a powerful shift for someone, like me, who once held such a narrow definition of beauty and worth. It’s all opened now. Rediscovering and accepting oneself, the actuality of it is personal, difficult and ongoing…for the rest of one’s life.

That’s authenticity and I’m learning it, day by day.

Grief and fear exist, in my life in a different way now. I have had to mourn not just the loss of my breasts, but the changes forced upon my life. There’s no willing it away; it’s a byproduct of a life-threatening diagnosis. One’s mortality become real; death becomes real. I’m not constantly pre-occupied with these thoughts and feelings 24/7, but, nevertheless, they are there. And, of course, being a particular “type” does not create immunity from this newer normal.

That’s authenticity and I’m learning it, day by day.

Physical discomfort, likewise, is a newer reality in my breasts’ absence. Surgery simply did not just remove these body parts. It also left a scar, with its scar tissue, along with a change to how my chest looks and feels. Think plastic-y breastplate I cannot fully take off. That feeling. Being a “Sheba Type,” other any other offered possibility, like the Armand ad promises, cannot do anything to change that experience.

That’s authenticity and I’m learning it, day by day.

I am more direct now. And this is probably the greatest transformation to my person, even greater than losing my breasts. Authenticity presents itself in such rawness.

Before my diagnosis, surgery and treatment, I had the luxury of not needing to face my issues head-on. Yeah, sure, I’d been in therapy for my eating disorders and abuse experiences, but I was merely skating around various issues. I could still play the game, play the role, play the type.

Now, I’m facing things, with less flinching than I was before. Call it mortality, perhaps, yet again. Call it age. Call it maturity (well, that one may still be up for debate).

Whatever it is, there has surfaced a different boldness to tackle things. I don’t have the time, the energy or the will to avoid getting to the point.

I’m now more involved and earnest in this process because, let’s be authentic, my life may not be as “lifelong” as I previously thought.

Mortality.

No one gets out of here alive.

I’m not doing it perfectly. For anyone who’s been in recovery from anything in life, we know it’s an imperfect, ongoing process.

That’s authenticity and I’m learning it, day by day.

Now, it’s less about being some delicate expression of a beautiful girl or a certain “type;” it’s more about being authentically me, beyond image, beyond presumption, beyond the pleasing scripts we so often find ourselves voicing.

Authenticity. More than a type, more than a look. It is a way of being in the world and, day by day, you and I make choices concerning it.

How real are we? How honest?

You may not be going through a major health crisis, but right now, you are going through something, aren’t you?

How are you playing into a type?

And really, is it working for you?

It’s time to question the importance of type versus our authentic selves.

Where’s the disparity? Why do we need the shell of a type instead of simply being ourselves?

Each of us is worth participating in our own unique authenticity. No image, manipulation, personal experience or other individual’s opinion are required to qualify that.

Therefore, right now, let’s dare to type ourselves as authentic beings of integrity. Its effects are everlasting.

Copyright © 2020 by Sheryle Cruse