This Prayer...

 

May the warm winds of Heaven Blow softly upon your house. May the Great Spirit Bless all who enter there. May your moccasins Make happy tracks In many snows. And may the rainbow Always touch your shoulder...

 -Cherokee Blessing

The Next Tiny Little Bit...

 

A Lot About Them

 

Well, This Morning...

 

The Root of All Evil?

 

I’ve noticed, as a person of faith, that 1 Timothy 6:10 often gets misquoted:

“For the love of money is the root of all evil: which while some coveted after, they have erred from the faith, and pierced themselves through with many sorrows.”

Most of the time, people insist the scripture states how money is the root of all evil.

Nope.

As human beings, we, so often, get money all wrong: its purpose, its pleasure, its very existence in our daily lives.

Yes, money IS an issue, for each of us.

And we’ve all heard the phrase, “Money is no object.”

But it turns out to be the exact opposite of reality, in fact, doesn’t it?

So, let’s take a little stroll through money and see what it is about this sucker that can bring so much promise… and pain.

Money is an amplifier.

Do you ever notice that what we spend our money on seems to indicate a kind of theme, sometimes, an exaggerated, caricature-infused theme, to who we are as individuals?

For instance, if we look at our bank statements and see how we spent $3,000 last month at GummyBears Forever.com, it might not be a gigantic leap to assume we have a sweet tooth, or at least a gummy tooth. We like candy.

And our “candy” can be anything.

Clothes. Shoes. Drugs. Charities that help starving children or cute, fuzzy animals. Creepy porcelain dolls that keep staring at you wherever you stand in the room.

What we value is what, sooner or later, we buy, or, at least, try to find a way to buy.

Look at your own ledger right now. What is your theme?

Money amplifies. If we want to improve and help a situation, it’s an amplifier of that intention. If we want debauchery, it can, also, likewise, amplify that as well.

And, more than likely, we’ll need bail money.

It’s not about shaming anyone for their guilty pleasures. We need a bit of that in our lives, from time to time.

But it speaks to the issues of our hearts and what they focus on. What is that… truly? And be honest.

“Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it.”

Proverbs 4:23

Is it something that that can bring healing… or destruction? We have a say in creating that reality. What will we choose?

Money is a tool.

“… money answereth all things.”

 Ecclesiastes 10:19

By itself, money is neutral. It’s when the attachments and the associations come onboard that we seem to run into problems.

For some of us, that may mean we demonize money as “bad,” as something that only encompasses greed and corruption.

Perhaps, we were instructed as children that money is carnal, sinful, lustful. 

Maybe we were shamed for saving coins in our piggy banks.

Money can fund charities, feed the homeless, cure disease, offer practical, needed help the very second it’s needed, provided IF it’s allowed to function in that capacity as a tool.

And that largely depends on us.

Money is a tool, like a hammer. We can build with it. It can be used to protect, nurture, and help.

Money is a weapon.

Or, conversely, money, like that of a hammer, can be used as a weapon.

Yes, a hammer can also destroy as easily as it can build; a hammer can kill or maim. It all depends upon the person holding it.

Just like money.

“For the love of money is the root of all evil: which while some coveted after, they have erred from the faith, and pierced themselves through with many sorrows.”

1 Timothy 6:10

And again, we’re back to greed, along with its offspring like corruption, extortion, murder, theft.

And, before we get too smug with ourselves, reassuring ourselves that we don’t engage in any of that extreme behavior, that we’re not criminals, we are brought back to day-to-day reality, all the same.

Money can be weaponized in smaller, more subtle ways. We can view money as a means with which to control, exert power, and even perpetuate toxic love.

And we can all be guilty of doing this within the context of relationships. We can dangle the hope, the false promise over someone, assuring them that, yes, if he/she agrees to certain arrangements or parameters, then, indeed, there will be a payoff, making the whole thing worthwhile.

But it isn’t that clear cut, is it?

After all, there exists the phrase, “when you marry for money, you get what you pay for” for a reason.

A price will be paid.

And what is the payment? Your life? Your health? Your sanity?

Is that a fair trade?

Each of us, then, perhaps, would do well to remember we can just as easily harm someone by our attitudes and actions concerning money, as help them. Our thoughts can determine our deeds.

Will we allow ourselves to use money as a weapon, in big or small ways?

Money is a Healer.

Before we fall into despair that money is just too hopeless when handled by us mere mortals, we also have the capacity to employ it as a healing instrument.

Again, it speaks to opportunity… and our willingness to TAKE the opportunity.

“Withhold not good from them to whom it is due, when it is in the power of thine hand to do it.”

Proverbs 3:27

The decision to allow for healing is not passive. It requires deliberate, conscious, action-filled caring and intention.

Money is no object. Indeed, it is not.

Rather, it is a portal of a fully alive and engaged life-sustaining force. But we need to choose that life option for ourselves, each time we deal with money.

Will we?

Copyright © 2020 by Sheryle Cruse

Perspective

In high school art class, I was taught the definition of perspective:

“Two seemingly parallel lines meet at a vanishing point on the horizon.”

And, to get a more tactile lesson in that definition, my art teacher had us students draw our high school hallway, capturing that perspective.

So, there we were, a bunch of ninth and tenth graders, perched at various points of the hallway, our 18 X 24- inch sheets of paper taped to gigantic drawing boards that could be used to bludgeon someone.

And, from there, with our pencils and rulers, we endeavored to capture that illusive perspective line. No easy feat. I learned an art class lesson very early; draw LIGHTLY. It was hard to thoroughly obliterate a mistake of a dark line, even with the thickest of pink gum erasers.

Furthermore, the challenge of capturing perspective’s line, on the first attempt, was usually incorrect, meaning, what was supposed to resemble the flow of a long hallway, quickly became the row of lockers colliding into the opposite wall.

Two seemingly parallels lines meeting at a vanishing point on the horizon?

Hardly.

It was more like you’re never going to be able to open your locker again.

For the few weeks we students were doing our artsy sit-in, probably, while being fire/safety hazards. And, I have found myself learning a few lessons, beyond the drawing of a hallway, ever since.

The Seemingly Never-ending Row of Lockers:

They seemed to stretch for miles.

With my trusty-dusty ruler, I had to carve out several of these sliced buggers while, again, making sure that they, somehow, met at a vanishing point on the infernal horizon. These drawn slivers of locker had to be spaced accurately. You couldn’t just have a three-inch block of locker next to a two- millimeter slice. They had to TAPER!

TAPER!

As I was lightly drawing with my ruler and pencil, I kept thinking about the school lockers. How many instances of bullying, getting shoved into them and getting sexually harassed near them have occurred, since the dawn of high school time? I know I experienced a little of my own hashtag Me Too back in the day.

As I was sitting in the exact same spot on the hallway floor, day after day, I started realizing how much lockers were a metaphor for life.

Each locker was a contained space. Each locker held something: unique, personal expressions of its master. An athletic calendar of upcoming events, a photo of a boyfriend or girlfriend tacked on the inside of the door, books, lettermen’s jackets, gym clothes, maybe an unwieldly instrument like a trombone for band practice. Each locker was a representation of a life, positioned next to another locker, representing another life.

And so on, and so on…

But, as I was vexed with the task of drawing locker slice, after locker slice, it also occurred to me how much lockers represent something more universal and philosophical.

Uncertainty? Monotony? Tediousness?

Life going on, regardless? Yay.

Who, in their adolescent mind, really thinks about boredom, the disappointment, the loss, beyond that of high school experiences? It can be further challenging as the “adults” force feed teenagers glimmering promises of pristine futures, limitless achievements, happily ever after, perhaps?

I know, I know, I know. You can’t break it to ‘em just what life actually is. Each person needs to find out for himself/herself.

These lockers just captivated my attention, way back when. If you focus on something for long periods of time, other thoughts show up.

And, no matter what age or stage we find ourselves in, past high school, there is still that row of clustered sliver blocks, lockers, representing us, veering toward some point, which, one can argue, is our mortality.

Decorate your locker with that!

The Floor:

You know the scene in the 1991 film, “Terminator 2?” There’s just endless road, lurching forward, ominously predicting how cyborgs were going to kill all of humanity? Well, that’s how I viewed the hallway floor as I went about my art project back in the day. It’s was smooth, polished green, and it seemed to keep going, always with the threat of tripping you up.

It appeared to be more menacing than the lineup of endless lockers. After all, there was no personalization here. To quote the band, REM’s lyric, just “three miles of bad road.”

Fantastic. Higher education.

I couldn’t quite get a handle on the hallway floor, this buffed, jade-green surface, for which many a times, I’d tripped and fallen, splat, onto it. Being uncoordinated didn’t help; slippery Minnesota winters, trudging in pools of melted ice further also created obstacle courses, en route to the lockers and classrooms.

But, overall, I suppose what got my attention was how the floor represented the path, life’s path. It just stretched before us, yes, tripping us up from time to time. There would be falls; there would be injuries. Graduating from high school would not- and could not change that.

So, hit the ground running, hit the polished hallway floor running, hit whatever pathway we encounter running, sooner or later, well, life happens.

Breast cancer, for me personally, was just one bit of evidence to support that theory. Although, yes, I was always uneasy with my breasts, no one ever told me, as a young person, that this experience would be part of my hallway floor, my path, the ongoing stretch of life set before me.

Sometimes, disease, illness, loss and death are the floors we must walk on.

Exit Sign:

As that high school student, drawing the hallway, my vantage point had an Exit sign within my sight line. Nothing extraordinary about it. You’ve seen one Exit Sign, you’ve seen them all.

It was positioned to my left, so, I proceeded to draw it in the top left corner of my paper. A simple, slightly rectangular box, with “Exit” written in it. Not much to write home about.

I thought my little sign was adorable. It made a statement. And it wasn’t just, “Go! Get out of here!”

No, rather, it was, “This is the way out.” Simple, less violent, no teenage stampeding, crushing bodies trying to escape the hell of high school.

I was enduring high school. Most of us do. It’s a time fraught with angst, bullying, rejection, awkwardness and lonely insecurity. So, naturally, we’d probably do anything we could to escape that.

All things are subject to change. It’s a universal truth, Inevitably, life does change, some way, somehow. Signposts, signaling an Exit here or there, prompt us to acknowledge and remember we will move on a have different experiences.

For me, personally, high school would end and an era of eating disorders, in their full expression, would begin throughout college into my young adulthood. And then other transitions arrived: marriage, my writing career, loss of one parent, caregiving to another… and cancer.

No one could prep me with a big enough Exit Sign for THAT one.

Yet, here I am, supposedly, in Survivorship mode, navigating the uncertain reality of what the ultimate Exit may mean. Yes, I think about how I once so innocently drew that little sign on the top left side of my paper, never entertaining how much thought I’d give it later.

But eventually, you and I do give our personal Exit Signs a lot of thought, don’t we? Something ends, something “phases out.”

And we need to start over again.

Vanishing Point on the Horizon:

Back during that high school art project, as we sat at the end of the long hallway, there was the destination apex, where, supposedly, our two seemingly, parallel lines met at a vanishing point on the horizon.

When it came to the literal high school hallway I drew, that was represented by a large window at the end of the smoothly polished jade-green floor.

A window- well, there’s a metaphor, huh? Let’s look outside. What’s beyond it? What does the world look like, from here?

The trick, in drawing the beast, was that, on sunny mornings, blinding sunlight would stream through. You had to be careful, looking directly at it. No one here was a wise Native American elder, practicing the ritual of staring at the sun until his/her retinas burned out, while simultaneously, achieving an enlightened vision.

Hardly. Remember, we’re a bunch of teenagers. One needs to lower that expectation a bit.

Still, as I averted my eyes, trying to capture the window, noting how the entire end of the hallway was Madonna’s white-hot set in the “Lucky Star” video, I couldn’t avoid one simple truth:

There is more.

Perspective.

We don’t always see everything when we think we should see it. That, I guess, is what hindsight is for. When you and I are finally mature, wise, compassionate enough to handle the deeper truth in life, then, the vision revelation often comes…

“Oh, so that’s what that was.”

If we try to force things, before we’re ready, we can burn ourselves out. Our retinas may be intact, but something else can be destroyed, if not seriously damaged.

We’re not ready for “it” yet.

Hopefully, we will be someday. But today- now- is not that day.

And, until we are, we need to keep learning the lessons our spirits were assigned, our cosmic homework.

We don’t get finished, actualized, enlightened, all, in one fell swoop. It’s a series of smaller vanishing points on the horizon, smaller, “Oh, so that’s what that was” revelations.

One after the other.

“Draw what you see, not what you know:”

This quote was uttered daily by my high school art teacher and it sticks with me, to this day.

In the drawing context, the point she was trying to hammer home with us was to not get ahead of ourselves. Yes, we may know there’s an ear or a flower in the still life’s vase, but are we actively experiencing drawing the shape and the line of what is before us?

No, we, instead, want to go full steam ahead and draw what we believe is that ear or flower. We’re not in the moment, experiencing it with our pencil. We are assuming instead. Assumption rarely leads to great art.

Going beyond art class, my teacher’s wisdom is the gentle reminder to experience what I’m going through, not make assumptions about what I may or may not encounter. I have yet to master this skill; I can be a bit of a control freak, wanting answers.

Cancer was a doozy for me, therefore, in that department. I don’t know, I REALLY don’t know, what the future will look like. Sometimes, I’m uncertain about my present.

And the past? Well, I’ve had to face it and challenge myself with what truly happened. That’s more painful than just assuming the tale I’d like to believe.

So, yes, I’m currently in a state of challenging the past, present and the future. Although I’d like the tidy, fairytale, “happily ever after,” I have to face and live “what IS.”

I need to draw WHAT I SEE, AND NOT WHAT I KNOW.

And, the irony in doing so is this: I discover, learn and know more from practicing the “what IS.” Truth over story.

Eventually, when you and I face what we see, we, inevitably, stumble upon something. Some personal revelation. Some lesson.

I’ve read some affirmation statements, encouraging us to rejoice, to make the best of things when we find ourselves stuck in a hallway, known as our life circumstances.

Don’t worry. Soon, a door will open and ta-dah. Chin up. That kind of thing.

I don’t know how realistic that advice is. Some hallways are quite brutal. Waiting is the equivalent to agony.

Perspective: “two seemingly parallel lines meet at a vanishing point on the horizon:”

Not all of us draw our high school hallways, trying to get the accurate look of 3-D dimensions from lockers, doors and floors.

But ALL of us can achieve perspective. What do the issues, events, people and places mean to us?

What vanishes from prominence? What emerges as predominant?

No two perspectives are exactly alike. They are fingerprints; they are snowflakes.

A challenge, perhaps, is to recognize that, to find meaning from it. To face what intersects, what disappears and what remains visible.

Perspective. More than just an artistic term.

Copyright © 2020 by Sheryle Cruse

 

Redefining Angels

Angels are a powerful force today. I’m not just talking about the Divine ability of these creatures to swoop in, save lives, intervene in important human matters. No. Check popular culture, especially within the last twenty or so years. Angels are no longer just in Christmas Nativity sets or on holiday cards. They sell and convey life insurance protection, home security, matchmaking’s true love and even school spirit. In fact, my own high school once employed a cute angelic creature sporting a black eye and a battered halo to signify just how tough the football team was.

As a little girl, I was drawn to angels. No. I was obsessed with them. To look at photographs of me around the ages of five through eight, I made a habit of “posing” like one of them, hands pressed together in prayer. 

There’s one photo of me standing in a gigantic empty china closet (don’t ask me why), in that angel pose. I thought they were beautiful and I aspired to be just like them “when I grew up.”

Yeah, there’s nothing like realistic expectations, huh?

It wasn’t about helping people or being kind and loving, which is a big part of any angel’s wheelhouse. No, for me, as that child, it had everything to do with the fact that angels are beautiful. Go look at some depictions of Seraphim and see for yourself. The silky, (usually blonde) flowing hair, the unblemished glowing faces, the exquisite wings and gowns, often trimmed with gold. They are beautiful. Artistic portrayals dictate the terms. Angels are only ugly, clumsy and bizarre- looking for comedic or cautionary tale purposes. Think Clarence from the holiday classic, “It’s a Wonderful Life.” No long blonde hair there. No beautiful face. It’s an awkward, short older guy, just trying to earn his wings.  Think warnings against sinning and therefore, going to Hell, where only grotesque, winged creatures are there to torture you and I for all eternity.

But, when we’re serious about portraying angels as wonderful messengers, it’s only the beautiful ones who are our guides, our rescuers, and our protectors. Beautiful equals “holy” or “good.” Accept no substitutes.

And so, we mere mortals are drawn in; we’re transfixed. Some of us even create our beauty templates based upon those angelic representations. I did.

At the height of my anorexia, I strove to embody a fragile image. Emaciated equaled fragile; fragile equaled ethereal. And ethereal equaled beautiful. There were no overweight angels (with the exception of cherubs), unless, again, used for some kind of comic or cautionary effect. Reverential depictions of holiness and all things Divine feature angels that are beautiful, ethereal.

But all ethereal is not good ethereal.

For some, a delicate appearance may hide an ugly and dangerous reality. Especially when it concerns anorexia. For that delicate, fragile-looking aesthetic soon turned into a life-threatening reality. If 100 pounds was ethereal, how much more would 90 pounds or lower be? The goal becomes, indeed, that ever-moving target of beauty just out of reach unless and until that next ten pounds is lost. And then the target moves ten pounds lower than that.

At my lowest, I was a two-digit weight, with pulsating throbs drumming from the crooks of my arms and knees. I could feel my heartbeat pound in my chest. I’d wake up each morning, stand up and collapse. Not exactly the stuff of singing Seraphim.

But that image, oh, that image! Angels had that “it factor” that I wanted. Yeah, Sheryle, it’s called being non-human.

Nope, there aren’t angels with bad body image or “weight problems.” Just impossibly perfect- looking and unaffected by problems and vices. Maybe that’s why they’re so beautiful.

As the years rolled on and I entered eating disorder recovery, I never gave up my love of angels. Their beauty, serenity, supernatural power and mystique still compel me. I have a number of angel figurines accenting my home. Many of my Christmas trees were bedecked with angels, not stars. I still love these Heavenly creatures.

And, since my 2017 Breast cancer diagnosis, that love for them remains. Although now, I realize it has more to do with the spirit of an angel and less to do with aesthetics. More than likely, if angels are actual existing beings, they are probably less beautiful Seraphim and more late-night bar bouncer in appearance. Fierce. Protector. Warrior. No nonsense. Will- mess- you- up- if- you- don’t- adhere- to- the- decent- human- being- program kind of angels.

Therefore, all of that flowing, blonde hair would get in the way of actual battle for our lives and souls. I haven’t seen any angels in ponytails or wearing barrettes lately.

Anyway, now my “angel pose” has also changed. I do embrace the bouncer-angel more than the pretty version these days. Bouncer-angel is about conviction, integrity, justice. Maybe it’s the maturing process. As we age, we develop strength, wisdom (hopefully), and a clearer sense of what is and is not important. Redefinition spreads to our priorities; it, perhaps, infiltrates how we see everything, angels included.

And so, I’m redefining angels now, not because I was to discount the beauty often associated with them. Rather, it’s about embracing a healthier interpretation of these creatures, not for their sake, but for mine.

For me, that’s truly angelic.

Copyright © 2020 by Sheryle Cruse

 

 

 

For Something Extraordinary

 

The Trip is Theirs

 

She Installed Them

 

The Future Faking of Fool’s Gold

 

For many years, my family kept this hunk of shininess here, thinking there was a chance it could be the real thing.

There existed the hope that, yes, indeed, they struck gold!

Now, I have inherited this hunk of shininess, only to discover it was, in fact, “Fool’s Gold.”

As I’ve learned more about Narcissistic abuse, I’ve discovered one of its most important tactics: “future faking.”

A future faker uses promises, inferences and intensity to simulate intimacy and to keep control of a relationship or a situation.

Indeed, I have repeatedly experienced this device, although I didn’t know what to call it. It’s sanity-saving to recognize that what I went through had a name.

“Someday…”

A large component of my personal experience with emotional fool’s gold or “future faking,” involved the use of this word. Such hope and promise were contained within it. The assurance that, no matter what hell or pain someone goes through, “it will all be worth it…someday.” I noticed that, while the persons and circumstances of my experiences may have changed, that “someday” element was consistent throughout.

Future Faking: Just Be Good Enough:

Alright, let’s start from the beginning.

Being anything “enough” was at the epicenter of the “someday”/ future faking promise. The dangled carrot of “If you’ll just be or do this, then you can have this reward” was way more dysfunctional than any goal setting. This was all about conditional love, worth and acceptance. I learned I could not possess any of those things unless and until I met the proper specifications. Most of the time, the rules were never clearly and fully declared; it was the insecurity of never quite knowing where you stood.

But keep striving, because, after all, “someday…”

The first few times I tried for the glittering, someday prize, things seemed shiny, innocent, even fair. Yeah, of course I need to try for these things. They don’t just come automatically.

But gradually, as I performed and completed tasks, missions and behaviors, with no promised reward to show for it, I started seeing how the goal posts just kept moving.

Achieve this. Okay, achieved.

Now just achieve some more. Okay, done.

More movement of the goal posts.

And it never stopped. It quickly set in how this was a game I could never win. I could never be “enough” at anything, because the enough ante was always upped.

Future Faking: Someday, They’ll Die:

So, learning that lesson as a behavior baseline, I was now old enough, ready enough to be taught some finer points. Morbid, macabre points,

Coming from an abusive dynamic, it was inevitable, I suppose, that certain family members would come to view death as the surefire escape of the hellish existence. Yes, there were suicidal thoughts and even attempts. But it went further than that. Certain individuals would, in fact, make “someday” promises to me, like “someday, when this person dies, we’ll be able to do whatever we want.”

So, as a child, I looked at that person’s death as that hope for better days.

I know. It sounds adorable.

But, surrounded by adults who were supposed to “know better,” what else was I supposed to ascertain from the message?

“When this person dies, we’ll be able to do whatever we want.”

That’s quite a powerful promise.

And that statement laid groundwork for other mistaken beliefs to be taught:

Future Faking: Someday, We’ll Be Able to Do What We Want:

This included some dream career, which further promised “happily ever after,” and worldwide traveling. Underscoring everything, in the subtext, was the even more vague, but gleaming promise: “We’ll be happy.”

So, as a child, navigating abuse, I waited with this adult who promised the happiness and perfection that hinged on another person’s death. We waited for years… decades. Inevitably one day, some twenty-five years after this promise was given to me, yes, this persona did die.

And there was no radical transformation, at least, not of the happy, “we-can-do-whatever-we-want” variety. There was no perfect dream career. There was no perfect international travel.

There was just unrealistic expectation and spent energy, funneled into the “someday.”

And, as I watched and learned all about the disillusionment from this trusted adult, who was supposed to know more than I did, have the answers and make them actualized, I learned another dysfunctional lesson: I better get to work and achieve, already!

Back to the salt mines. And maybe, this time, I’ll get what I want.

Future Faking: Achievement:

I became an overachiever, yes. I’d seen what stagnation produced. I’d seen the disappointment faces on adults as they waited for an answer to materialize that didn’t. I saw how passive inaction led to nowhere, nowhere I wanted to go, anyway.

So, action, achievement, performance, awards, accolades, striving. That was the name of the game now. This time will be different. The goal posts won’t move. I’ll successfully achieve.

I was the cliché overachieving kid, winning good grades, awards, ribbons and trophies. I did this, with the hope that the designated prize of the moment would finally seal the deal: I was enough; I did enough.

But those moving goal posts again.

It wasn’t long before grade school turned into high school, which turned into college, which turned into adulthood, with me still chasing.

And, even though I may have “won” something: attention, an award, some achievement, a coveted relationship, the insidious lies of future faking were still not quelled: “Just Be Good Enough,” “You’ll Get My Love and Approval,”  “You’ll Get Promoted” still existed, just out of my reach.

I chased and “hung in there,” believing If I just sacrificed myself enough, exhausted myself enough, then, certainly, the golden promise would be mine. It would not be Fool’s Gold. It would be the real thing.

It kept me humiliating myself in harmful relationships, as I convinced myself they’d love and accept me if I changed in a certain way.

It kept me expending energy, time, effort and resources because I believed somehow “this time, it’ll work.”

It kept me waiting, waiting for some illusive perfection that would make up for all pain.

It was just a matter of time, after all. “Someday…”

Meanwhile, I learned about what it’s like to live manipulated, used and discarded, as not only other persons exploited me for their own purposes, but I did that, as well, to myself.

Sadist…meet masochist.

What was going on here?

As an adult, wasn’t I supposed to know better? So, why wasn’t I doing better?

Because I still believed the Fool’s Gold was its actual 24 Karat, much more promising, cousin.

And it was never going to be that. All is was, instead, was shiny illusion. Manipulative promise. Toxic hope. It was my volunteering to wait, seemingly forever, on a mirage. No refreshing water, only desert.

I was choosing to do that. The Future Faking had no time restriction on it. It didn’t suddenly expire when I turned eighteen. It wasn’t restricted to childhood innocence and other people’s behaviors.

Future Faking, waiting on some form of toxic hope, was now something I had knowledge about. And I could choose to accept or reject its frustrating terms.

Future Faking: The Promise of Fool’s Gold:

Believing in the hope of “when” can, indeed, be Fool’s Gold. It’s further exacerbated if/when we give our power away to a faulty promise. Sometimes, that’s at the hands of an abuser. Sometimes, that’s simply our own unmet needs running amuck, desperate for some cure-all to make all the pain go away.  We become our own abuser.

Future Faking, with its shiny allure, can place demands on unrealistic “happily ever after.” It can keep us hanging on, staying in abuse, tolerating our devaluation, stunting our personal growth, living in pain. We tell ourselves, “I just need to hang in there, because, after all, someday, it will be worth it.”

And it rarely is. When we compromise our characters, our health, our well-being, our autonomy or any other thing that is precious to us, with the hope that Fool’s Gold, will, in fact, become real gold to us, we are ones left dull and lifeless.

If it feels like someone is using the hope of “future faking” to keep you controlled and staying put, in any context, if it feels like you can never be good enough, do enough, please enough, be enough, that’s abusive. If it is us who are self-imposing this, that, too, is abusive.

Life, love and personal goals are never meant to be unreachable, ever-moving targets.

Pursuing life and future in a healthy way is our true treasure. Its promise lies in the imperfect process of accepting unflinching truth of who, what, when, where and how we are. Each of us can embrace that today.

Copyright © 2020 by Sheryle Cruse

A Child’s First Gaslighting?

With this festive time of year, I’m certainly a sucker for nostalgia and memories.

And, as I delve into them, it usually is not too long before I bump into, your favorite and mine, some early childhood gaslighting.

I recently discovered an old photo of me, being visited by “Santa” (a family friend who agreed to play the role for my six-year-old self’s benefit).

He showed up at my house, of course, bringing his bag of gifts. Santa had made a few of these holiday stops over the years, ever since I was old enough to grasp the “gimme gimme” concept of the holiday season. Usually, he’d give me a brown bag of peanuts before, drumroll please, the presentation of my desired presents.

As a four and five-year-old, I knew the drill. Endure the peanuts; get to the good stuff.

There I was, a sophisticated six-year-old, dressed in a royal blue, high neck dress, with my mother’s opulent brooch (because what six-year-old doesn’t enjoy an opulent brooch?).

I did the Santa pleasantries and awaited my gifts with as much polite patience as a child could muster.

Finally, Santa reached into his bag and pulled out my present. It was a medium-sized box, wrapped in beautiful wrapping paper. I remember absolutely loving the wrapping paper.

I fixated on the paper; it was filled with beautiful angels scattered all over the surface.

But it was more than that. I had seen this wrapping paper before. My mother had wrapped our other Christmas presents under the tree with it!

As the outspoken girl I was, I IMMEDIATELY brought this to Santa’s attention. The photo my mother took, that I include here, captures that exact moment. I thought Santa should really know he was using the same wrapping paper as that of mere mortals. I considered it a public service bringing the issue to his attention.

That moment, I remember, instantly created an awkward pause, along with my mother’s nervous laughter and Santa’s stuttering. I guess I “busted” them. For a good thirty seconds, both Santa, his one blue eyeball peeking from underneath his hat and strategically placed white wig, and my mother, fumbled for explanations…

“Ah-well- Honey… people use the same wrapping paper… all of the time. It’s not that unusual for Santa to wrap his presents with the same paper Mommy uses- uh- it’s very common…”

Santa chimes in…

“Why- uh-yes, I use… wrapping paper that other families use… all the time!”

Uh-huh.

Something in me wasn’t buying it. All I had to do was go to our Christmas tree and pick a present for proof.

However, because I was raised to be “a good girl,” meaning, don’t question the adults, especially not Santa, I let it go. Thank you very much for coming. Please say “hi” to Rudolph.

Keep it moving.

But, however sweet, innocent and endearing this incident was, it was still gaslighting. For my mother wrapped the gift, gave it to this Santa-posing friend ahead of time, all for the purpose of reinforcing the entire Santa narrative.

Make it believable; sell it!

Something many a parent has done over the decades.

But here was the thing. At six, I was already starting to question Santa’s validity. Some things already were not adding up. Even though we had a chimney, why didn’t he ever use it? He always knocked loudly on our front door.

And even though I heard sleigh bells, why did I never SEE Rudolph? Wouldn’t he want me to feed him some carrots? I could pet him, along with the other reindeer.

No, everything seemed very controlled.

Don’t rush to look out the window or go outside to check the roof. It’s “too cold” and “too snowy.”

Yeah, I know. It’s Minnesota in winter. Christmas, remember?

No, no, stuff was not adding up. I was taking mental notes since I was four.

So, the angel wrapping paper was the tipping point. I KNEW what I saw!

Yet I was dissuaded from believing my experience. They tried to talk me out of it.

I know, I know, I know, it’s all in the name of childhood wonder and memories. And, overall, with this gaslighting incident, I got off light. After all, there was no abuse, no molestation. It could have been a lot more traumatic.

But still, the lesson that incident taught me was… to doubt myself.

And that’s what I’m getting at.

Gaslighting children to disbelieve what they see, hear, think and feel is harmful.

Years later, I’m not bitter about this memory. I know there was childhood innocence permeating it.

But there was a cost. However unintentional, it still laid the foundation for me to distrust what I knew, to forfeit my experience for someone else’s, someone “who knew better.”

Each of us can have that first moment of gaslighting. And, for many of us, that moment can exist within the vulnerable time of childhood.

Gaslighting does, after all, start somewhere.

Rolodex your own holiday and/or childhood memories. See anything? Remember anything?

How about, right now, giving yourself the gift to own and to acknowledge that yes, you KNEW what was going on! You were RIGHT!

You weren’t silly; you weren’t crazy!

You were a gaslit child.

And now, you’re so much more!

It’s now time to heal.

Happy holidays!

Copyright © 2020 by Sheryle Cruse

 

 

 

Happy Thanksgiving!

 

Just Eat Something!

As an eating disorder sufferer in recovery for years now, experiencing both anorexia and bulimia, food issues are never far from my mind. It’s not just food for food’s sake; rather, it has more to do with what it represents.

In a holiday-themed episode of the popular television series, “Mad Men,”, we witness an exchange involving mother and daughter.

A family member at the table asks the daughter character, “Don’t you like your food?” The daughter responded with a no.

And that prompted an uncomfortable force-feeding session. Mother is shoving cranberries into daughter’s mouth- against daughter’s wishes.

Pleasant.

And, even though none of the characters exhibited eating disorders like anorexia or bulimia in the storyline, it got me to thinking about how, once again, it is not the food itself, but rather what the food represents that makes things more tangled.

Observing this mother-daughter force feeding scene, to me, it represented keeping the status quo of appearances.

And it reminded me how family members often assumed the solution to my anorexia was “Just eat something!”

 I had numerous battles with my family members, especially when they repeatedly tried to ply me with cakes, cookies and pies. Sometimes I was defiant. I exerted my starvation rebellion. But, on other occasions, ravenous or obsessed, I indulged. And I remember seeing the look of relief and satisfaction on their faces. It was as if they were saying, “There, problem solved.”

But the problem was far from solved.

Just within my own family dynamics alone, there were unhealthy addiction and dysfunctions going on. Food was the coping mechanism used to escape and endure those things. Food was not just food. And it was insane to think that it could simply and instantly solve any of these deeper pre-existing problems.

Yet, that seems to be part of the expectation attached to the hope-laden statement, “Just eat something.” Desperation clings to those words, promising the instant happily ever after, the healed family, the restored peace, the lasting relief. Don’t face the truth, let alone, deal with it.

“Just eat something.”

What does food represent? It’s an important question to answer.

But, just as important of a question, if not more so, is “What does the disordered eating represent?”

Are you paralyzed by fear, denial or anger? What don’t you want to see and deal with?

Resist the easy answer that “eating something” is, indeed, the answer to eating disorders. It goes much deeper. What is plaguing you and I now did not happen overnight. Likewise, the recovery, health and improvement will also take time. Nevertheless, it is possible to experience healing.

Perhaps the phrase should be “just face something,” rather than “just eat something.”

Healing and the truth are intertwined. This applies to not just the individual, but the entire family as well.

Eating disorders are life-threatening and widespread. They can touch all genders, cultures, and socioeconomic backgrounds.

And this holiday season amplifies the numerous and complicated issues of both eating disorder sufferer, and surrounding loved ones, alike.

“Holidays and special occasions are often very stressful periods for individuals with food and weight problems. The emphasis on spending time with family and on celebrating with food can be very difficult. Based on past experience, and an understanding of yourself and of the people close to you, you may be able to avoid, or cope constructively with, uncomfortable situations. For example:

• Predict high stress times and places; decide which events you will and won't attend, and plan to have some time to yourself to restore yourself and take care of your own needs.
• Predict which people might make you most uncomfortable and plan appropriate ways of excusing yourself from their company.
• If at all possible, allow yourself to enjoy a moderate amount of ‘special occasion foods.’
• Predict what people might say that would lead you to feel uncomfortable. Plan and practice responses. Ask people not to comment on your body, appearance, or eating habits.
• Predict negative thoughts that you might have during the holidays, and practice thinking differently.
• Carry with you a list of phone numbers of friends and crisis lines, and a list of self-soothing activities.

It may be helpful to realize that the ‘picture-book’ holiday sense is not a reality for many people. Some cannot afford it, there are many single people who are not close to their families or do not have a family, and there are many families that do not fit into the dominant cultural model of ‘family.’ Do not blame yourself for family or friendship conflicts. People are not different during the holidays than any other time of the year. Remember that you are responsible only for your own actions and for taking care of yourself.”

NEDIC Bulletin: Vol. 7, “Coping With the Holidays,” National Eating Disorder Information Centre (NEDIC)

Used with permission.

May you be safe, happy and healthy, in not just what and how you eat, but in how you live!

Copyright © 2020 by Sheryle Cruse