Until

 

They Couldn't Carry It

 

Not Required

 

Self-Care Bingo

 

No Greater Agony...

 

You’re Not Wrong!

 

“You’re Not Wrong!”

Is that music to your ears? A soothing balm? Something you cannot trust or believe for yourself?

Abuse survivors often live under the judgment of always being wrong: in thought, in word, in deed, in appearance, in beliefs, in identity, in sexuality. You name it; you and I have probably been told we’re wrong, not right, about it.

We are disempowered and deceived into believing we need “fixing” of some sort.

Why is that? The answers can be complicated, unique, and varied. But, perhaps, here are some explanations to this “certainty” that we are wrong, never to be “right.”

An In Utero Job Description:

Well, there’s just nothing like going back to the start of it all.

Trace ALL the way back, before we even arrived on the planet!

And it’s not such an absurd premise to think along these lines. After all, how many expectant parents, preparing for their new arrival, project their hopes, dreams, plans, goals, and yes, jobs onto their unborn child? It may not be intentionally malevolent, but its impact, nonetheless, can be harmful and devastating.

Because, however overtly or subtly, we have a job description subscribed to us.

It could be that we need to fulfill the parent’s unrealized dream. It could be that we need to keep the parent from being lonely or depressed. It could be that we need to carry on the family name. It could be that we provide identity and purpose to the parent. It could be an actual job description that we work in the family business and financially support the parent(s) as the designated moneymaker.

Some examples of job descriptions and pressurized circumstances to rise to the occasion, from birth on, exist all to serve the parent.

Being Made Wrong:

What’s the purpose of being wrong here?

Being the child, just born, assigned this job or role is a set up for failure. There is no real winning here. For, inevitably, our life and performance will not match the parent’s vision of what that looks like in their own head.

We fail to fulfill a job description and a purpose we didn’t ask for, in that exacting specification. Nevertheless, we were still given that job to execute successfully. Therefore, our failure to do just that can better absolve the parent, the family belief system, and the necessary sense of responsibility these individuals have for their choices. The blame shifting begins, from their role, as adults, to us, as the children we are, no matter what age and stage we are, in the situation.

The child is the problem, not the adult.

And that’s easier and more comfortable for the adult to accept. The adult parent doesn’t need to address, face, change, and accept their own dysfunction, disorder, addiction, failure, weakness, or any harmful dynamic, if the child is the solely wrong party.

If the child, you are I, are wrong, then the adult, our family member, gets to be right.

Inability to Be Constantly Perfect:

Often, along with our in utero job description, lies the mandate of perfection. Perfection can translate to any number of associations and meanings. Perfection can equal such things as  safety, comfort, aesthetic image, success, and love.

We must look perfectly, speak perfectly, act perfectly, obey perfectly, respond perfectly, and meet needs and expectations perfectly to be considered “right.”

There is nothing shy of achieving those criteria that will do.

So, we can turn to addictions and eating disorders, as a way of executing this perfection, or consoling ourselves for not achieving it. We can punish ourselves through self-injury. We can get tunnel vision and become Machiavellian in our pursuits, doing “whatever it takes” to accomplish that perfection, including committing crimes and making choices that are not ones of personal integrity.

Image is prized over truth, certainly over human imperfection. That is not allowed.

For some of us, being imperfect is, as extreme as it sounds, punishable by death.

Being Made Wrong:

What purpose does this tactic of striving for unattainable perfection serve?

If we, as the children of this kind of parent, fail to reach and perpetually sustain perfection, we again, get to be designated as “the problem.”

How much more so if that parent is putting out a well-honed and false standard that keeps up those necessary appearances?

If the parent is highly achieving, with accolades, while the child gets all As and one B plus, the message is that it’s the child who is not measuring up, not the parent. The parent can achieve perfection. Therefore, really, how difficult is it for the offspring to do likewise?

The apple doesn’t fall from the tree, right?

It’s convenient for the adult parent, because the focus from others often goes to the source of imperfection, not to the good-looking, pulled-together adult instead.

If, indeed, the proverbial apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, it can, then, be reasoned that the kid, is the “one bad apple.”

“The problem child.” The “issue.” The “wrong” party.

Again, who is exalted and spared and who is punished and made responsible?

Who is right and who is wrong?

And who derives power from that determination?

Being right can feed the ego.

And if a person is dysregulated and dysfunctional, that ego-feeding can reach a desired sense of all-importance, with raising their child coming in at a DISTANT second.

Being Yourself:

“To thine own self be true.”

Act I, Scene III, “Hamlet,” by William Shakespeare

Nope. Forget about that!

There is no such thing as “thine own self.”

We, according to a certain parent, need to be someone else. Sometimes, it’s them, a little “mini-me” or an exact clone. Sometimes, it’s a particular archetype: the “good boy or girl,” the star athlete, “The Star,” in general.

Yes, indeed, many decades ago, some mothers tried to fashion their little girls after famous child star, Shirley Temple. How many two, three and four-years old had their hair set in curlers each night, while being shoved into dance classes against their will? All to become the next Shirley Temple.

Yeah, you get the picture. Maybe some of you have flashbacks from being forced to sing “On the Good Ship Lollipop.”

And although Shirley Temple now is long gone, child beauty pageants and kiddie talent shows, unfortunately, keep the star search alive and well. The promise of “getting discovered” lights up the eyes of many parents who desire to live vicariously through their children. Fame, wealth, attention, and luxurious perks are to be mined within the child who is just ripe for the picking.

With this emphasis on choosing “other” to make up for the child the parent already has, very little focus or positive association is given to the concept that this child is their own unique, wonderful being, with individuality and traits all their own.

Nope, that concept only classifies the child as wrong, defective, in need of changing, somehow.

Being Made Wrong:

What purpose does this tactic serve?

Again, it’s a game of who’s right and who’s wrong. Certain adults, certain parents can decide, with the utmost authority, that any choice a child makes that does not exactly align with their world view, is wrong, wrong, wrong.

And that includes the choice for the child to be their own separate person. How dare they? That’s the cry when the child defies the adult “who knows better.”

So, perhaps, the only way in the adult parent’s mind to be right is to make another person, their child, wrong. It’s ego-driven. Being “right” is more important to them than raising and loving their children. It may be deliberate or unconscious.

Nevertheless, the explanation that the dysfunctional adult needs, even in the context of relating to their own children, is that they are inherently and forever right. A child becoming fully who they are is betrayal, disobedience, evil intent, even. The adult personalizes it and makes it about them. They do this instead of recognizing that each child, including their child, is a separate human being. And that is not an aggressive declaration of war on the parent.

The adult will not, or cannot, see it as such.

You’re Not Wrong! You’re Right!

Maybe you have never heard that before. It’s not about a person being perfect, never making mistakes. We all do. But who you are is separate from what you do. You can have wrong actions; you can make mistakes. But who you are is NOT wrong. The individual, in all of your uniqueness, is not wrong. You are right. And your individuality is to be celebrated not condemned.

The next time you encounter the decree that who you are is wrong, consider the statement’s source.

And its agenda.

Copyright © 2022 by Sheryle Cruse

The Autopsy

 

Autopsy. It’s not a pleasant word. It’s not cute. It’s not fun. It’s grim.

It’s grisly.

But when there’s a dead body, it needs to be dealt with. Otherwise, the rotting corpse will bring about other unwelcomed issues. Flies laying eggs. Maggots. A putrid room condition in which the corpse is stinking up the joint. Eventually, the dead body’s gaseous state, which, left unattended, will build up, until it explodes all over the walls and ceiling.

And those are fun renovations to deal with, aren’t they?

An autopsy, therefore, is necessary in determining what went wrong, sometimes because of criminal activity. But “the dead man’s tale,” in one way or another, needs to be told. What happened? How did the corpse arrive at this state?

Hindsight is twenty-twenty. It often occurs when we have some space, time, and reflection to process what just happened.

If you and I live long enough on this blue marble, we’ll eventually litter our lives with some metaphorical corpses of our own (hopefully, there are no felonies, but life happens).

These corpses, these dead things can be such things as relationships, experiences of poor judgment, sacrificing/compromising our ethics and morality, and self-sabotage. Whatever these things may be, and how varied they may be, they have some common denominators, qualifying them for a good ole’ fashioned autopsy.

Autopsy: It’s pronounced dead.

It’s the first component for an autopsy: it needs to be completely and fully dead. This speaks to the concept of acceptance. Calling a dead thing a dead thing, not holding out unrealistic hope for resurrection.

It’s stark; it’s bleak. There’s no hope.

Because of that assessment, this simple realization is anything but easy to reach. We want hope; we want to hang onto to it.

We want to believe in second chances, in the benefit of the doubt, in “love conquers all,” in “happily ever after.”

That will keep us avoiding the autopsy for a long period of time.

I used to perform this monologue from Christopher Durang’s “'Denity Crisis” in my acting class years ago. It evokes and answers to the brutal approach that we, perhaps, need to take to “toxic hope.”

“...You remember how in the second act Tinkerbell drinks some poison that Peter's about to drink, in order to save him? And then Peter turns to the audience, and he says that Tinkerbell's going to die because not enough people believe in fairies, but that if everybody in the audience claps real hard to show that they do believe in fairies, then maybe Tinkerbell won't die…. and so then all the children started to clap…. we clapped very hard and very long…. my palms hurt and even started to bleed I clapped so hard…. then suddenly the actress playing Peter Pan turned to the audience and she said, ‘that wasn't enough. You didn't clap hard enough. Tinkerbell's dead.’  Uh..well, and..and then everyone started to cry. The actress stalked offstage and refused to continue with the play, and they finally had to bring down the curtain. No one could see anything through all the tears, and the ushers had to come help the children up the aisles and out into the street. I don't think I was ever the same after that.”

Brutal autopsy. Radical acceptance. It’s dead.

Tinkerbell’s dead.

Now what?

Now the autopsy can begin.

Autopsy: It’s laid out on a slab.

Now that everyone has determined that the corpse is, indeed, dead, we need to lay it out as such. We need a slab. We need a place to examine the dead thing.

For those of us reflecting on a certain past issue, be it person or situation, the slab can be a therapist’s office. It usually speaks to the concept of a “safe space,” or a haven.

It’s the setting and the mechanism in which we do our work. We perform the autopsy.

Just like it would be absurd, unrealistic, or dysfunctional to expect an autopsy of a dead body being performed by a coroner in the middle of a highway during rush hour traffic, it is equally insane to expect thorough dissection and analysis of our dead, but painful, things within our own lives.

We need time, space, calm, quiet, information, language, and the permission to employ all of these things as we go about our deeply personal autopsies.

We need to be safe to do so.

And if we’re not?

Recognizing that we are important and valuable enough to have safety be preeminent. This is needed in circumstances in which we are literally not safe: physically, financially, emotionally. It is, of course, not ideal, having this setup in our lives. Determining the power of recognition of this fact, therefore, can be therapeutic, despite the “facts.”

Perhaps, now is not the time. Perhaps, it’s unsafe to tackle the deep work of the autopsy. Perhaps, we are not ready to engage in this. Perhaps, wisdom, time, distance, in addition to other resources, need to enter in. and now is not the time of that entrance.

Instead of beating ourselves up about this, we can make the paradigm shift about these difficult realities, impacting our lives, we can look at our circumstances as the imperfect slab, or a kind of “pre-slab.” This can allow for hope, not despair.

The slab is a real thing, waiting for us, regardless of what our lives look like now.

We may not be “there” yet, but we can do something to prepare to get there.

What is that?

Autopsy:  It’s inspected thoroughly.

So, we now know it’s dead. We have our slab.  Therefore, we are ready for the examination. We need to poke around and see what went wrong. What happened?

The inspection process of an autopsy is gruesome. The top of the skull can be removed to check the brain tissue for blows to the head, or for signs of disease, like cancer or dementia. The sternum and the ribcage are opened, revealing the internal organs. Those organs are removed, weighed, and opened as well, to reveal their contents. What did the person have to eat as their last meal? What tumors, calcifications, or abnormalities are present? Bruising, lacerations, and abrasions on the body are noted as well. How did they get there? And then, there’s a combing for additional fibers or objects that would not normally exist on a human body. What’s their story?

Likewise, our life circumstances can require a similar introspection. Soured relationships, missed opportunities, and personal/dysfunctional behaviors on our part can be the internal organs giving evidence of what went wrong. Were we abused? Do we struggle with anger, boundary, or trust issues? Are we immature? Are we codependent? What’s our self-esteem portrait?

Notice how the common denominator of these questions and these examinations is us. No, not everything is our fault. If we were abused, it’s the abuser who was wrong, not us.

But we are central to what happens to and in us. We respond, react, and behave according to what has happened to us. We can be as enlightened, mature, “well-adjusted,” and wise as we want to be. Still, we are affected. We may rise above circumstances, but we are affected.

Autopsies provide us with the opportunity to become better and healthier. It’s not about focusing on the negative for the sole purpose of beating ourselves up, telling ourselves we’re stupid and we deserve what happened to us.

No. Instead, if we can assess the patterns that have been at play, be they active or passive patterns, we can course correct. Again, therapy can be a vital part of that healthier course correction. Confronting and changing, over time, those things which do not serve us can feel like the equivalent of a full body cavity autopsy of a dead, cold, and blue-tinted corpse. We may, at first glance, only see death and putrid conditions.

But we need to see those things. We need to see the ugly. Then we can change it.

The autopsy helps us to do that.

Autopsy: It’s washed.

Once an autopsy is performed, with the necessary evidence scraped and collected, the dead body needs to be washed. The corpse may need to be presented to the grieving family. The corpse needs to be presentable enough to enable his/her loved ones to make the necessary burial, funeral, or memorial arrangements. This cleansing is needed for a type of closure in the death and grieving process.

It's a similar thing for us, especially as we try to come to terms with the loss, the trauma, and the disturbing upset of life-changing events in our lives.

Closure. It’s something that is not an easy thing to achieve for so many of us. It may not be possible at all. Loose ends and unanswered questions do not provide us, many times, with the peaceful resolutions we are yearning for.

Much of the time, we feel dirty and tired. After all, we’ve faced and wrestled with the ugliness of our painful issues. That leaves its mark. We long to feel freed and refreshed. Some of us desire cleansing and purification, as shame has stuck to us in so many a painful circumstance.

Many therapeutic approached, weekend retreats, and self-improvement workshops introduce rituals that can be a form of baptism or rebirth. Some of my inner child therapy involved a ritualistic bath with rose water. Supposedly, the rose scent has a calming and cleansing impact on the tender inner child.

Whatever the case may be, water and cleansing are forces that cannot be underestimated for their healing potential. How many of us feel better after a shower? This basic hygiene practice is part of many a self-care checklist.

Cleansing, purification, hygiene, self-care: whatever we call it, we seek its regenerating effects and symbolism of the fresh start. It can be the demarcation we feel we need in order to move forward with our lives.

This part of the autopsy process reminds us that cleansing, new life, and positive change can come, even from death and the gruesome things that are associated with that death.

We deserve to be clean, to be purified. We deserve the new beginning.

Autopsy: It’s placed in an organized, proper place.

Hey, here’s a fun piece of information you probably haven’t come across in your life.

You know what those filing cabinets, within the morgues are called? Mortuary Cabinet Lockers.

Why am I mentioning this?

Because, as I’ve been delving into this autopsy topic, of course, a major element of this procedure is dealing with the dead bodies in an orderly, safe, healthy, and hygienic way. We’ve watched many crime shows and movies in which a dead body is placed in the metal filing cabinet, the official mortuary cabinet locker.

Autopsies require that along with the assessment, the dead decree, the mess, the gruesomeness, the cleansing, and the detail- focused process of it all, there also needs to be a level of organization and order.

Something needs to be done with the corpse. It needs to be “filed away,” via the mortuary cabinet locker.

When you and I deal with the painful issue or obstacle that has been contaminating our lives, there will come a time in which we have a need to place its reality and any accompanying insights and healings, in a certain way. Placement, integration, and organization of this dead body needs to be dealt with in a proper, appropriate, and functional way.

It can become a part of our lives, but with the mandate that it no longer destabilize and harm our lives.

That takes the personal, unique choice, for each of us as individuals. What does reconciliation and “filing away” look like? It should be more than just something we can live with, but also something that heals, restores, gives us peace, and a sense of life affirmation.

What will we put away forever in the vault?

What remains an active, daily part of our lives?

What is catalogued with special toe tags that designate something, in particular, that we continue to work on?

These are all the questions for us to probe, hopefully with professional therapy, and arrive at empowering answers, over time. These answers cannot be rushed or forced. They must unfold. Unfolding is a part of the filing process.

Autopsy: The Point:

Autopsies make decrees. They can answer questions. They can sometimes provide a sense of, if not closure or peace, then, at least, a kind of certainty. The decree of death, loss, and finality. The decree of things gone wrong. The decree of some measure of “the point.”

The autopsy is not a perfect, fairytale ending, but it can be an antidote to the regrets and the “Coulda-Shoulda-Woulda” mentality. It can, through its alchemy, create an opportunity for better versions of ourselves. It’s the work, possessing dignity and healing. The work of addressing the death, and the hopeful potential that loss can bring life.  If we can consider facing it.

If we can consider the autopsy.

Copyright © 2022 by Sheryle Cruse

Beauty Marks

 

Marilyn Monroe. Cindy Crawford. Madonna. Some ole timey saloon girl.

What do they all have in common?

Beauty marks.

I am amongst those ranks, both pre and post-Breast cancer diagnosis.

Pre-diagnosis. I have a dark brown mole perched on top of my collarbone. Growing up, I often fell for the prank, “Oh, you have a tick on you!” I’d shriek, panic, trying to get the insect off me until I finally remembered, nope, that’s just my mole. For most of my life, my beauty mark buddy and I have peacefully coexisted, as I remained vigilant concerning peoples’ “tick pranks.”

And then came my Breast cancer diagnosis, followed by my bilateral mastectomy. I was prepared (as much as someone undergoing this surgery can be) for the reality, yep, my breasts will be gone. A quite visible chest change, yes, indeed-y.

But I hadn’t counted on other changes to the area. My little beauty mark was included in that. Because of the drastic nature of the surgery, yes, all breast tissue was removed. Besides my stitches, closing my wounds, my skin was pulled- stretched- to accommodate that breast removal.

And, that meant that my notorious tick/mole traveled south. Not a dramatic change. It didn’t wind up on my knee. But post-surgery, my little beauty mark now hung out about half an inch below my collarbone. That took some getting used to. It was kind of like when you see a photograph of a person reprinted in reverse. It’s the same person, the same image, the same features… but it’s different. If looks “off.”

I looked at my reflection in the mirror, not only taking in my flat, bandaged chest, but also seeing the “off” placement of my collarbone mole. I didn’t obsess about it; I wasn’t weeping in the streets. But this was another aspect of my changed life. My beauty mark- and my beauty, itself, were different now. Not less than, just different.

But I wasn’t done with my beauty mark odyssey. Nope. For, six weeks later, after I recovered from my surgery, next came my course of radiation… and the reality of my radiation tattoos.

This was not the stuff of a sexy trip to the tattoo parlor to get some rebellious, feminine image forever “inked” on my body.

Rather, it was me, in a machine, making sure my chest site measurements were accurate and precise. I received three black radiation tattoos. Three new beauty marks. They spanned a triangular area on my chest, synching up coordinates, I suppose. During each radiation dose, I’d look at the machine’s neon number grid above my chest area, aligning me for the treatment; I hoped my beauty marks were truly “X marks the spot” when it came to eradicating cancer. There was massive important purpose to these beauty marks. A matter of life or death.

Now, as I go about my “survivorship” phase, with checkups to my oncologist, it’s regularly suggested I cover them with an elaborate, beautiful tattoo. A butterfly, a hummingbird or some hyper-powerful battle statement. Some women do that. I have seen photos of women who tattoo a peacock with fanned plumage or an entire bra, lacy and exquisite, onto their chests. And, that’s gorgeous. But, ouch! I hate needles- and pain. So, no. Getting my three dots was enough of a tattoo experience. These black dots remain on my body, just as they are.

Breast cancer has spotlighted yet another lesson about beauty for me. It’s re-introduced the constant of change. Those of us, having been dealt the cancer cards, with surgery and changed bodies to prove it, are faced with the dilemma of how to see ourselves. With stitches, scar lines, and body parts removed or changed, are you and I still beautiful? Still valuable?

And those questions don’t just apply to the diagnosed.  Everyone has been scarred. How many of us are, in some way, marked? Did we lose a part of our physical bodies? What about our psyches? How are we changed from who we once were?

And, when we answer those questions, do we come back with a response like, “ugly,” “unacceptable,” “damaged” or “worthless?”

I see beauty marks much differently now. They go beyond a famous face like Marilyn, Cindy or Madonna.

Beauty marks provide evidence that you and I have lived, that you and I could have died, that you and I have fought. They are not just dots. They can symbolize the essence of change.

And they are beautiful.

Copyright © 2022 by Sheryle Cruse

 

Yup

 

Layers of Hoarding

 

Hoarding can kill. A family member of mine created once life-threatening circumstances for herself. We conducted a welfare check of her home and encountered disturbing evidence. Yes, there were boxes and bags piled from floor to ceiling. There was disarray of newspapers and magazines, littering each room. There were narrow pathways to walk in, room by room.

But I was not prepared for the actual layers of hoarding. I was first hit with it as I encountered her small kitchen table. It was crowded with stale cookies, coffee cups and silk flowers in a vase. Nothing glaringly screamed “dangerous hoarding conditions.”

At least, not at first glance.

Let’s call my family member, “Hannah,” for privacy’s sake. Hannah withdrew from human contact after her husband’s death. Hence, the welfare check. She neglected her health and personal care needs. In fact, she stopped taking her blood pressure medication two weeks before her devastating health crisis. She was found lying on the floor for two days, unable to reach the phone.

As paramedics scrambled to maneuver the house’s hoard and attend to her, no one paid much attention to the kitchen table. Yet, that piece of furniture held much backstory about Hannah’s decision- making process and state of mind. Both were dangerously unhealthy.

As we cleared the table, the red tablecloth felt “padded.” Removing it, we came to discover “layers” of tablecloths, covering the surface.

Tablecloth Layer #1: Bills:

We lifted the first red tablecloth and discovered its secrets.

Strewn throughout were various bills, both current and not so current. Some weren’t even opened. They had Hannah’s scrawled handwriting, on the envelopes, informing her that this bill arrived in 2003; this bill arrived in 2009. There were overdue bills, second notices, all requiring a complicated, tedious unravelling process. It took weeks to accomplish.

And it showed my family that Hannah was letting things go. Was is merely absent-minded? Or was it deliberate? After all, she didn’t pay- or even open- these bills. She simply covered everything up with a tablecloth. That was her solution?

Unfortunately, for the hoarder, that often appears to be a viable remedy to unpleasant realities. And bills, if nothing else, are unpleasant. This “symptom” signifies, oftentimes, how the hoarder can no longer be viewed as financially responsible. Guardians and financial powers of attorneys, therefore, need to step in now.

Hoarders may not utilize the tablecloth technique when it comes to bills. Some hoarders simply lose track of the mounds of accumulating paper. But there is a common disconnect:

“I don’t want to deal with this, so I won’t.”

Tablecloth Layer #2: Depression Denial

We pulled off another layer, this one pink. Packed sheets of notebook paper covered the table. The content of these pages contained Hannah’s written prayers asking for help with losing weight and meeting her “goals.” Sprinkled amongst her wish list were repeated mentions, “I’m depressed.”

And I immediately flashed to remembrances of her defiantly declaring, “I don’t need therapy. That’s for other people.”

This was a woman who endured abuse, trauma and severe poverty. But, not surprisingly, because of shame, she could not admit she needed help from anyone else besides “The Lord.”

She denied she was sad.

She denied she was depressed.

She denied there was a problem.

And, I guess, looking at her notebook entries, which abruptly stopped a year before her health crisis, she eventually denied there was a problem to even “The Good Lord.” She decided, again, to cover the table.

Hannah was suffering. Yet she was adamant about refusing help. She self-medicated instead with food and shopping, which, of course, exacerbated the hoarding.

What could have happened if she just received some professional counseling? What could have happened if she admitted she was miserable?

Tablecloth Layer #3: Dangerous Coping

The table still felt padded. We pulled off another layer (this one was floral).

The surface here was covered with various family members’ Social Security Numbers written on index cards and notes to herself about how to operate appliances and where she kept various “important things” that she was, I guess, afraid she’d lose track of.

Yet, with the event of her health crisis, the evidence was overwhelming. She had lost track of everything. A progression of mental fogginess was, perhaps explained by her massive stroke (or strokes)?

Hannah was disorganized and desperate, never wanting to admit to herself that her strategies to “get by” further jeopardized her life and safety. And her methods of staying on top of important pieces of information was, inevitably, only covered with another layer of tablecloth.

Hoarders often make notes to themselves, reminding them of important matters: people’s phone numbers, where the car keys are, how to operate the car, how to turn on a light or lock the front door. They believe these instructions will keep them safe. But these notes are often lost and buried somewhere. Their whereabouts, many times, is long forgotten.

Tablecloth Layer #4: The Sacred and the Meaningful

The padding on the table still existed. There was one more layer.

We removed the red and blue floral tablecloth to find scattered mementos: family photos and even the postcards my husband and I sent Hannah when we moved Westward…in 1999. It was shocking to see how these mementos were not in picture frames or even scrapbooks, for she insisted on keeping them. Hannah wouldn’t throw anything away.

Did these items mean anything to her? And, if they meant something, why did she bury them?

Perhaps, it was an all too common hoarding behavior: people bury their treasures, again, often forgetting where they buried them. The hoarder wants to keep not only his/her treasures safe, but himself/herself safe as well.

Hannah wanted to be safe. And she also wanted a clean house. Maybe she felt her tablecloth method achieved both. She could keep everything, yet still have things look pretty. Because, let’s not forget, on top of that first layer was a vase with silk flowers. She was trying for beauty.

Aesthetically pleasing, but at what price? Her health? Her safety? Her social life? Hannah didn’t let anyone “in.” She chose to shut out those people, representing those photographs and mementos. The biggest reasons? Probably shame and self-protection, which were both in overdrive. But what emotional damage did this do to not only her, but to others, as well? No man is an island.

Safekeeping. It appears to be a hallmark of a hoarder. Stay safe. Build a barrier. Build a cocoon. And somehow, over time, that morphs into a death trap. People have been found dead under the layers of cocooning, known as their homes. It’s private and quiet.

Usually, by the time the hoarding is discovered, it is at crisis level. It requires professional help of the “many hands” variety. It requires counseling. And that requires willingness from the hoarder. And if he/she is anything like Hannah, that will be a challenge, as they assert, “I don’t need help/therapy. I’m fine on my own.”

In fact, concerning the hoarding, the only way to effectively stop the madness was to remove her from that multi-room home and place her into a more contained care facility. Hannah is now limited to her bedroom. Facility staff frequently check on her, monitoring her hoarding tendencies so they do not flourish in this environment.

And sometimes, that is the best one can do. Hoarding is a compulsion, often born from trauma. You cannot reason with it. And it’s not as simple as “just get rid of the junk.” More will appear quickly in its absence.

Hoarding, from start to finish, is a layered issue. And we often must pick things apart, layer by layer, dealing with it.

Copyright © 2022 by Sheryle Cruse

Meditation for the Antsy

 

A field of flowers. An ocean of crystal blue. A sandy beach.

Nope couldn’t picture it, let alone, sit still for it.

Since my diagnosis, I’ve tried to get into meditation. Being still. Being present. Centering myself. And then, two minutes in, I’d remember I have to return a phone call or pick up cat litter. Wham-o, just like that, I’m out of my meditative state. So much for my still, present, centered self. So much for any trace of flowers, blue ocean, or being beachy.

As I’ve hopped along the bunny trail of de-stressing, detoxing, learning healthier life skills and keeping cancer at bay, I’ve taken stabs at this mindfulness stuff. Already praying since childhood, I thought, what’s the harm in adding meditation/visualization? It could be helpful.

However, most of these “guided meditations” I’ve been encouraged to try, again, focused on nature, and on some flute playing in a forest somewhere.

Don’t get me wrong; it’s pretty. But I found myself soon thinking about a weird piece of trivia from my past. I’d be asking myself a question like, “Did I have physical education class for first or second period when I was in the seventh grade?”

Over and over and over again, I’d start out with beautiful scenery and then devolve into remembering who was my math teacher when I was nine. After numerous attempts, it finally dawned on me to stop with the flowers, landscapes and mysterious flute playing and just skip right to whatever school memories I could entertain without trauma counseling.

No easy feat, by the way.

But I needed to stop fighting my mind when it wandered away from the pretty scenes. I had to channel it, instead, to those notorious school days.

I’m not talking about the bullying or the mean girls. That’s not helpful. I’m talking about something a bit more mundane, perfect for its meditative possibilities.

I’m a detail-oriented person. So, I first started to meditate on some of the details of my school building.

Originally built in the early 1900s and named after President McKinley, my high school had two major parts to it: the old and the new. The original old part of the school always struck me as being quite wooden with red painted walls throughout the small hallways.

Eventually, in the 1950s, because of the explosion of rural teenagers, they tacked on the newer addition. And, that part of the school struck me as being incredibly green and tiled. I don’t know. Maybe there was an unconscious desire to celebrate the complimentary color wheel or promote Christmas all school year long. Whatever the case, as a scurrying adolescent, I remember making hundreds of treks, zigzagging from red and wood to green and tiled classrooms, connected only by a bland library.

My first school meditation, beyond a building, focused on the class schedule from my senior year, mainly, the route it took small town, public school student me to get from class to class.

 

I remembered all of those treks, Mondays through Fridays, to and from seven periods of classes and classrooms. And, my senior year stood out the most. Maybe because it was equal parts “yay, I’m almost out of here” and “I’m soon going to be an adult; uh-oh.”

Regardless, focusing on that last year of high school, I visualized myself at the start of the day. Arriving at 7:45, I’d wind my way up two flights of green- tiled stairs, to greet the long expanse of the second floor, which housed lockers for grades ten through twelve on the left side, classrooms on the right. So, there I was, getting set for first period, French II, which was almost directly across from our lockers. Not much zig, not much zag.

After about fifty minutes of being called by my French class name and feeling like an ignorant American, the bell rang and I’d start my first really big zig zag of the day, from the new to the old part of the school: art class. I’d plow down the length of that long, green- tiled hallway, dodging my fellow adolescents, weaving through the library connector. I’d go down one flight of stairs, lined with red painted walls, through a dark wooden area which sported four major classrooms. My art class was in the room closest to the original old steps, exiting the school. I’d walk into the wood-centric space and proceed to draw and paint.

Art class was one of my favorites. The fifty minutes sped by and, before I knew it, I’d have to clean my brushes of acrylic paint, mentally prepare myself for my least favorite class, Business Math. I’d hightail it back to the edge of the old school, bordering on that connecting library.

This classroom was an odd mixture of early 1900s wood and not- quite- sure- why- they- decided- to- add- it, 1970s wood paneling. An arsonist’s dream come true, possibly? One lit match and poof! The whole thing goes up like a tinderbox!

I had a lot of those kinds of wishes as, for the next fifty minutes, time crawled. Did I mention how much I hate math? No? I hate math! Math hates me! It’s a mutual hatred society.

Okay, so the bell rings again, mercifully, and I skedaddled from the too-wooden math room, winding through a white tiled hallway, half a flight up from the library. I descend three small steps and again, look at the long, green hallway on the second floor, with one of three classrooms close to the end of it. I make my way to fourth period, Choir.

Located in the newer part of the school, not surprisingly, this mostly white, “soundproof” classroom was right next to the band room. As the choir began doing “Me-May-Ma-Moe-Moo” vocal warmups, we’d often have to compete with the sound of a tuba. Almost always, a tuba. I never actually saw the tuba.

Anyway, after a musical (?) fifty minutes, the bell rang, signaling feeding time for the animals. Lunch.

Do I go to the cafeteria, located on the first floor, in the old, red, wooden part of the school, to enjoy pizza burgers and whipped potatoes? Of course not! Senior, remember? Cafeteria lunches were something only seventh and maybe, a couple of eighth graders did, before they reached the age of reason.

But being a senior, top of the totem pole? Where did we convene? Remember that three-classroom cluster, comprised of the choir and the band rooms? Well, that one remaining room was heralded as the senior room. I remember we were the first class to enjoy such a privilege.

Not that it was much to exalt. A classroom, with scattered desks and chairs, including one beanbag chair (not sure how and why it got there). And, when we weren’t going off campus to a local restaurant or grocery store (or, for some, smoking, drinking, possibly getting pregnant in a sketchier part of the school property or parking lot), we’d herd into that space and feel ever so adult as we huddled in cliques and had disdain for one another. This would go on for about forty minutes and then, ding!

Fifth period has arrived: Senior Social.

How can I explain this class? Part sociology, part history, part “To Sir with Love”-themed, we- gotta- get- these- kids- ready- for- the- adult- world.

Huh. Ready for the adult world.

This was my one and only class held on the first floor. I’d take the two sets of steps and go downstairs in that green-tiled part of the school and camp outside of the classroom, three doors down. Eventually, our teacher would surface, unlock the room and, for the next fifty minutes, we’d learn all about current issues, sex education, birth order and how to do taxes. Eclectic.

Bell rings again, signaling my sixth period class: English. Another favorite, neck and neck with art. Up we go again, to green-tiled, second floor, three doors down and closest to the bathrooms. This classroom was especially green and white. I don’t know if this was intentional from those 1950s blueprints, but I must admit, all of that green did have a soothing effect on me. Not that I really needed it in this beloved class with my favorite teacher. And focusing on words. I loved words. Those fifty minutes also flew by until the next bell rang.

Where to now? Study hall, held in this same classroom, with the same favorite English teacher in charge of the motley crew. As motley as rural can be, anyway.

Not surprisingly, I loved seventh period study hall. I spent most of it, doing my homework, getting hall passes to finish some art project, wa-a-a-y in the older part of the school. And, because my favorite teacher was also my drama and speech coach, I spent time writing and reciting lines, essays and speeches.

This last period of the day was a great way to wind down. Some would even say meditative?

If you’ve hung in there with me all of this time, first, thank you for that.

And second, why am I taking this stroll down memory lane when it has nothing to do with you and your challenges, you may ask? Well, by virtue of taking these strolls, concentrating on various details of the rooms, the routes and everything else occupying my senses, I am, indeed, meditating. I’m actually doing it!

And that’s really the point of mediation: to concentrate, to do it, to focus on something that gets you out of your stressed head and transports you to another dimension. You may not choose to go with the high school dimension. But is there another time, place and set of details you can comb over? Call up as many exacting memories as you can. What does that look like for you? Go there. Be there. Forget about the flowers and the beach. Work what works for you.

Namaste. I bow to the light in that!

Copyright © 2022 by Sheryle Cruse

 

Signs of Trauma Bonding

 

You are My Sun

 

I celebrate you

 

You are Enough

 

Friendships: Silver and Gold…Really?

 

If you were a Girl Scout, perhaps, you remember this friendship song. In my troop, we usually sang it right before we joined hands and wound ourselves into a cinnamon roll hug.

Anyway, this song has been imbedded in my head ever since. As I’m typing, I’m humming it. And, in recent days, it’s prompted a challenge to that friendship ideal...

“Make new friends, but keep the old,

One is silver and the other gold.”

Really? Should we focus on that? Accumulating- hoarding- friends?

Popular culture is all aglow with Marie Kondo and her art of tidying. She encourages each of us to get rid ourselves of whatever doesn’t “spark joy” in our lives, while we roll our socks and t-shirts. An anti-clutter principle is employed in her method: if it no longer fits your current life and you don’t want to carry it into your future, release it.

Therefore, I started thinking about “Kondo-ing” my relationships, a very anti-Girl Scout friendship song thing to do.

I had expelled bags, boxes, papers, clothes and material clutter. I felt better, having done so. However, I was still overwhelmed, distracted and drained. Why? Look at my sock drawer! Look at my closet! Look at the freer, emptier space in my home! Surely, new, fresh air was circulating, right?

Not quite. I heard the song again.

“Make new friends, but keep the old,

One is silver and the other gold.”

Hello, Clutter of my unprofitable relationships. Relationships akin to that fluorescent green crop top I purchased, believing with complete confidence, I’d wear it real life. Or that jaunty hat. I tend to look like I’m doing a bad impression of Diane Keaton in the movie, “Annie Hall.”

Still, it could not be denied. My so-called friendships were taking up space…and mocking me in the process.

So, why do I keep these relationships around? Well, like the stuff of clutter, I found there to be similar excuses, pleading for their right to exist.

1)      “I might need this someday.”

It’s that dress, the one that does not fit. The “go-to,” even though I haven’t gone there in years. But I hang onto it because “it’s always been there.” Familiar. Comforting. A safety hatch.

I had a once-close friend that fit that bill. I thought we were inseparable. We shared eerie similarities, both coming from an “only child” world view. And those suckers have been hard to come by for me.

Anyway, I moved away years ago and we stayed in touch by phone for a while. And then, things trailed off. The calls lessened. Even Facebook messaging screeched to a halt. No “explanation.” After attempts by phone, email and social media, I got the message. The two of us “once-close” friends…weren’t. No explosive argument. Just life moving on. Time to let go.

Most of us women live and die by our relationships. It starts early. How many best girlfriends did you go through by the time you reached the third grade? How many times do we proclaim, “Friends forever?”

“People come into your life for a reason, for a season or for a lifetime.”

I usually roll my eyes whenever that gets quoted. But sometimes, it’s dead-on. I struggled to hang onto a temporary “seasonal” person, trying to make then a “forever” variety. It doesn’t work that way. The incessant attempts to stay connected frustrated, drained and blocked me.

Indeed, for each person you and I cling to, who is not a willing party, we say no to someone who is an enthusiastic candidate.

We need to admit truth. The “we” that represents us plus them has changed. And we cannot change it back.

2)      It’s not that bad; I can still get some use out this.

I had a purse that was kept together by safety pins. But I was convinced I could still use it. Straps would give way in public. I’d scoop the purse up and once home, try to repair it with still more safety pins. The thing was still falling apart.

In one friendship, I was free counseling. Repeatedly, I chose to be on the listening end of the latest tale of woe, a bad divorce and other assorted drama. Yet, whenever I managed to slip in an issue or two of my own, all of a sudden, she “had to go.” Until the next crisis. She had a wicked sense of humor and whenever it wasn’t about the crisis du jour, we could have some great back and forth. But alas, the lion’s share of our discussion was me as a sounding board, her as a patient.

I stayed connected to her for those few fleeting good conversations. I convinced myself, “If I can just get through this hump, it’s all good. Just hang on.”

It was not about devotion. It was about some sick need that gets met from the dysfunction.

And it wasn’t just my friend’s needs. No, I got my need met from the crisis-heavy discussions. I was the comfortable therapist, nonchalantly peering in on someone’s problems. I was safely at a distance. My issues must not have been “that bad,” because I never felt an urgency to plead for them to be heard.

But that became more difficult to maintain after my Breast cancer diagnosis. Now I needed to be heard and the status quo, one-way therapy did not work. After fifteen years, it was time to end things.

3)      It over-promises, yet under-delivers.

“I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

Maya Angelou

Years ago, I bought some high heels with leopard print all over them. They were fabulous and hobbled me every single time I tried walking in them. I was Bambi struggling on the frozen pond.

But I believed they were a staple; animal print, after all, is a neutral. They’ll never go out of style. I can always count on them.

I had a twenty- year friendship with someone who I thought was a supportive person.

Yet, once again, I placed myself in a situation to chase someone who really wasn’t interested in being caught. I tried to reach her by phone. She was always “busy,” “en route to a conference,” “in a meeting.” When I finally got ahold of her, voice- to- voice, the obligatory “what’s going on with you” question surfaced. And I finally had the chance to tell her about my Breast cancer diagnosis. She was shocked, asking why she never heard about it.

I had posted about my diagnosis on social media. We were also Facebook friends. I was not hiding.

After that voice- to- voice recap, I tried, again, to reach her by phone, to no avail. We kept setting up times to speak. She kept cancelling, again, citing “busy.”

I heard- and felt- something different. I was not a priority relationship in her life.

I get it. Busy.

We’re all busy. Life is busy. But come on, somehow, in life, you and I find the time, make the time for who and what are truly important to us. Once is an event, perhaps. Twice, a coincidence. But if a behavior keeps happening, that is a pattern; that is a habit. Actions do speak louder than words.

Clutter, here in this kind of relationship dynamic is represented by the accumulation of experiences in which we are not treated as an important priority. I believe that too often, “busy” is code for “I’m not interested in you.”

Again, does it keep happening? When you walk away from this person-or this attempt at connecting with this person- how do you feel?

Pay attention to that and declutter, if necessary.

4)      I don’t know. (Is ambivalence the silver or the gold? I can never keep it straight).

Once, upon receiving an online clothes order, the company threw in a gardener’s bag for free. For customer appreciation. The bag was yellow and came with a set of tools, to boot. I hate gardening. But, don’t look a gift-bag in the mouth, right? So, I added it to my closet. And never once used it. It didn’t spark joy. It was just there. Mocking me with its abundance of pockets, just perfect for holding the gardening tools.

Social media gives us the illusion of “friends,” from different eras, from different walks of life and from different locations. But how many are exactly that? Friends? Maybe counted on one hand, maybe even two?

I have accumulated clutter on social media. I’m guilty of allowing this relationship hoard to exist. I’m in the process of culling my list of individuals “following” me. Because, let’s face it, there’s no following going on with some of them. I have gotten rid of many “people of my past:” theatre comrades from my college days that I’ve never met for coffee, a few stray acquaintances from a passing interest like axe throwing (don’t judge, please).

And, yes, unfortunately, some of my supposedly true-blue friendships have also gone by the wayside because, apart from the internet, there is no evidence of the two of us in each other’s lives.

Does this sound like I’m an impossible person to know, let alone, befriend? Perhaps. I’m working on my internal, emotional clutter.

But I think there’s a bigger issue we all share. Some people just need to exit our lives. No yelling, no fighting, no crying jags need to always occur. Sometimes, things just end.

Instead of singing the Girl Scouts’ friendship song, maybe we should start singing “Let It Go” from Disney’s “Frozen” (Yes, I know, it’s an insufferable earwig. Many of you have probably heard a toddler belt in out at high volume in your minivan. Sorry).

Still relationship endings can be okay. When we end a friendship, another will surface in its place, sooner or later. And, in the meantime, we can clean ourselves up a bit. We can address why we’ve gotten comfortable allowing this clutter to exist in the first place.

What need or excuse does this person fill?

What is comfortable about him/her?

What is masochistic about this dynamic?

How are we the sadist in the relationship?

Clutter obscures everything.

It could be possible that the true, meaningful relationships are from people we deemed least likely. Or, maybe they are people we have yet to meet. Regardless, we have a difficult time seeing anything silver or gold in its quality, if distracting quantity is all around us.

So, we need to ask…

Does this person truly “spark joy?” How?

Are they interacting, supportive and healthfully involved in my life?

Do they still fit in my life?

Why is this person still here?

Is this relationship silver? Is this relationship gold?

That is the song we need to sing.

Copyright © 2022 by Sheryle Cruse