This Side of the Sink

“This Side of The Sink” confronts our worst-case scenario imaginations.

https://www.elephantjournal.com/2019/07/this-side-of-the-sink-confronts-our-worst-case-scenario-imaginations/

Who Are You- Gilda or Rita?

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

That red hair cascading over her shoulders…

That pin up figure, often known to decorate World War II fighter planes…

What wasn’t to love about screen siren, Rita Hayworth?

At age of twelve and on, she was one of my earliest beauty icons.

And, of course, when I saw her stunning 1946 film, “Gilda,” her “Put the Blame on Mame” song and dance routine thoroughly convinced me she was a woman reveling confident in her beauty. No hint of fear or insecurity for miles!

She had it all together.

But, like any beauty icon, there was a more complicated back story going on concerning her success and image...

“Hayworth was born… in 1918 as Margarita Carmen Cansino, the oldest child of two dancers. Her father, Eduardo Cansino, Sr., was from… a little town near Seville, Spain. Her mother, Volga Hayworth, was an American of Irish-English descent who had performed with the Ziegfeld Follies…

 Margarita's father wanted her to become a professional dancer, while her mother hoped she

 would become an actress...

…In 1927, her father took the family to Hollywood. He believed that dancing could be

featured in the movies and that his family could be part of it…In 1931 Eduardo Cansino

partnered with his 12-year-old daughter to form an act called the Dancing Cansinos…

Winfield Sheehan, the head of the Fox Film Corporation, saw her dancing at the Caliente Club

 and quickly arranged for Hayworth to do a screen test a week later. Impressed by her screen

persona, Sheehan signed her for a short-term six-month contract at Fox, under the name Rita

Cansino, the first of two name changes for her film career…

Studio head Harry Cohn signed her to a seven-year contract and tried her out her in small roles.

Cohn argued that Hayworth's image was too Mediterranean, which reduced her

opportunities to being cast in ‘exotic’ roles that were fewer in number. He was heard to say

her last name sounded too Spanish… Rita Cansino became Rita Hayworth when she adopted

her mother's maiden name...With a name that emphasized her British-American ancestry,

 people were more likely to regard her as a classic ‘American…’

… Hayworth changed her hair color to dark red and had electrolysis to raise her hairline and broaden the appearance of her forehead…”

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rita_Hayworth

Indeed, after years of peering beyond the beauty façade curtain, I now empathize at how fragile she was at accepting herself.

Being rejected for her name, her hair color/ hairline and her very ethnicity were all just the beginning. When her career skyrocketed and she became known as a sex goddess, a movie star and a world famous beauty, things certainly did not get any easier. Hollywood’s definition of beauty didn’t line up with Rita’s…

“I have always felt that one of the secrets of real beauty is simplicity… Perhaps if we

thought for a second of the classic, simple elegance of the Spanish lady it might help

us to be ‘simply’ ourselves.”

Article written as guest columnist for Arlene Dahl, headlined "Rita Hayworth

Sees Simplicity As Part Of Beauty" in The Toledo Blade (11 March 1964)

Like that of legends, Marilyn Monroe, Grace Kelly and Jayne Mansfield, poor Rita was mostly confined to the restrictions associated with the beautiful woman. She was viewed as only that, never viewed beyond her beautiful face and body.

And certainly, that hindered her personal life; she couldn’t find the peace and contentment she strongly desired in her life. Her sad admission tells of her less than glamorous struggle…

“All I wanted was just what everybody else wants, you know, to be loved.”

Through the years, Rita sought that love; she was married and divorced five times, including to actor/director, Orson Welles.

He specifically noted her struggles with alcohol as all-consuming, a fact, personally confirmed by that of Hayworth’s daughter, Yasmin Aga Khan…

“...She had difficulty coping with the ups and downs of the business … As a child, I thought, 'She has a drinking problem and she's an alcoholic.' That was very clear and I thought, 'Well, there's not much I can do. I can just, sort of, stand by and watch.' It's very difficult, seeing your mother, going through her emotional problems and drinking and then behaving in that manner … Her condition became quite bad...”

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rita_Hayworth

And, again, among her most famous quotes, I’m struck by this sad one…

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

As quoted in Rita Hayworth : Portrait of a Love Goddess (1977) by John Kobal

Image expectations, self-acceptance issues and the need to be loved are all there as human beings. Scripture taps into our spiritual need to be viewed and accepted on that basis…

“For he knoweth our frame; he remembereth that we are dust.”

Psalms 103:14

“Since you were precious in my sight… I have loved you…”

Isaiah 43:4

“The LORD hath appeared of old unto me, saying, ‘Yea, I have loved thee with an everlasting love: therefore with lovingkindness have I drawn thee.’”

            Jeremiah 31:3

“Thou art all fair, my love; there is no spot in thee.”

Song of Solomon 4:7

Rita was no different. Beyond the film noir of “Gilda,” beyond the glossy black and white Hollywood photographs, there was another person- a separate person- apart from the beauty displayed before our captive attention.

For her legacy is not only “Gilda” and her beauty, but rather, the real, struggle-filled life she led.  In 1987, at the age of 68, she succumbed to complications from Alzheimer’s disease.

Once upon a time, I only saw Rita’s beauty and glamour. I didn’t see her complicated actual life. None of us did. None of us do as we view her still and moving images years later. Reviewing some of her more famous quotes, it’s also easy to get tunnel vision at the aesthetic image meaning. And that is certainly there.

But, if we get past the surface, we can experience more of Rita: the good, the bad and the ugly. We can learn of her human struggle.

And that can be said of each one of us. No matter what our battles are- to be loved, to be valued, to be safe, to be sober and healthy- each of us cannot live fulfilled if we go sleep as a lie, and wake up a fictional, untrue character. We cannot live removed from the truth of who we are.

Perhaps, the “real us” is disappointing, not just to others, but to our own self-acceptance. Be honest. Are you disappointed when you wake up with who you really are, warts and all?

“For as he thinketh in his heart, so is he...”

Proverbs 23:7

Or, do we incorporate the tedious, painful and imperfect process of learning and accepting that person? That is as much of the process to life and recovery as attending any meeting or implementing any step.

So, Rita Hayworth touches upon a spiritual question for us all:

“Do you and I live as Gilda or Rita?”

Whatever the answer may be, let’s choose to recognize our real identity, in harmony with God’s estimation of us, is freeing.

“The truth shall set you free.”

John 8:32

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

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

And so it goes. Gilda or Rita: it’s our choice.

Copyright © 2019 by Sheryle Cruse

Reality Check...

And Now...

Tell the Story

Start Over

The Response to "Not Really..."

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 © 2019 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 © 2019 by Sheryle Cruse

The E is Silent

Why did this happen to me?

Why did I get cancer?

What’s really the story behind that “e” at the end of my name?

I have been intrigued by questions, starting with my name’s spelling. It’s “Sheryl,” but with an added “silent e” at the end of it. Because of that letter, I have been called “Shirley” my entire life.

In classrooms. Shirley.

Over the phone. Shirley.

At appointments. Shirley.

Whenever there’s an opportunity for someone to see my name in print. Shirley.

According to my mother, the “e” was added after she made her decision to not name me after the famous child star, Shirley Temple. She chose, instead, to go with her other personal favorite, “Sheryl.”

But Mom also liked Judy Garland. Why wasn’t I named after her, with an “e” tacked onto that name?

Judye.

No, I guess that wouldn’t work. Then I’d be called Ju-die.

People would probably get creeped out by the Grim Reaper kind of death association.

Or, maybe, people would mistakenly call me “Juddy,” thinking it was pronounced like “Buddy.”

(Sigh).

Anyway, again, going back to Mom’s love affair with Shirley Temple. It was all about connection to her, even if that was only achieved by approximate letters spelling my name. So…

S-h-e-r-y-l- “silent e.”

Seven’s my lucky number, huh?

Eh…

Still, why didn’t she just name me “Shirley,” and forgo all of the exacting letters, in the first place? Why did “Sheryl” with a “silent e” win out? I’ll never know for sure.

That one annoying letter. Who knew it’d spurn my future questions?

Why did I have an abused childhood?

Why did I fall prey to disordered eating and body image?

Why did I get Breast cancer?

The short, irritating answer to each question? I don’t know.

I have addressed and I am working through numerous issues, looking at backstories, explanations, unmet needs, all beyond my control. I endeavor to get healthier in body, mind and spirit. I’ve sought deeper wells of my faith, praying. I’ve strained to see purpose. And, I’ve logically accepted time and chance happen to us all.

I’ve covered the human cliché responses.

Still, there’s way too much silence, in response to my questions. At least, there is, in my opinion, anyway.

And, before I launched into a toddler temper tantrum on a grocery store floor, I remembered a statement I heard, years ago…

 “When the student is taking the test, the teacher is silent.”

Really? That’s what this is? Education and character development?

I hear your groans chiming in with mine.

This is only a test?

But it doesn’t feel that simple. After all, we’re talking about an individual’s human life experience. Certainly, that cannot be reduced to a test of character. Isn’t a person’s life worth more than merely that?

Again, I don’t know, because there is silence in the atmosphere. No satisfying explanation that soothes and gives closure.

Nada. Zip. Zero. Zilch.

So, you and I are only left to ourselves, to writhe, to get educated via pain, discomfort and uncertainty?

Yep, it kinda looks that way.

Why, why, why?

Usually, as I’m ranting my why’s, I get a mental picture of a tapestry. On one side, there is this exquisite pattern. On the other, there is a mess of knots and zigzagging thread. Both sides are real; both exist. You cannot have one without the other.

Does it answer every question, struggle and dilemma?

Nope.

It’s a silent tapestry, hanging out with my silent “e.” They’re probably good friends on social media.

 (Stomping my feet) I WANT ANSWERS! I WANT ANSWERS!!!

But instead?

Confusion, angst, anger, and a bunch of other non-peaceful responses are my party guests.

What am I supposed to do with that?

Shaky answer: I don’t know, maybe just be?

It’s beyond the “silent e,” beyond the abuse, beyond cancer, beyond pain. But it’s there, even if I don’t quite know where “there” is just yet.

I am still a seeker. I ask, seek, knock. This is how I go about my life, such as it is.

And I believe there’s something to that.

The writer, Anatole Broyard, in his book on illness, encourages the reader to “find your own style,” especially when it involves a diagnosis.

And, well, we’re all diagnosed with… something.

So, okay, that’s it. I guess I continue to “be,” even if it’s this current messiness. This is my style… with a VERY loud “E” attached to the end of it.

Copyright © 2019 by Sheryle Cruse

Learn To Say...

You Cannot Hate Them...

Know the Difference

“Know the difference between those who stay to feed the soil and those who come to grab the fruit.”

This sobering statement recently came to my attention. I don’t know who originally said it, but it resonates, all the same.

It has personally factored in heavily as I have learned, firsthand, who was a part of my healthy support system...and who was NOT.

Indeed, this concept plays a MAJOR role for each of us as we navigate our addiction/recovery journeys. It is usually not too long in life, before we encounter the all too common cliché dysfunction of co-dependency, narcissism and/or exploitation.

To protect the “guilty,” the parties I mention shall remain nameless. Nevertheless, their actions reveal much.

“When people show you who they are, believe them.”

Dr. Maya Angelou

Long story short: much of my experience involves me only hearing from certain people when they want something from me. And yes, the majority of that “something” is money.

Nothing brings this more into view than the context of family.

As I have addressed before, I don’t have a close relationship with most of my relatives. That is not, ideally, what I would want. However, experience has shown me how high I exist on various family members’ priority lists. Often, I’m not even ON those lists in the first place. I know this because there have been decades of time which have passed since I have last seen or spoken to certain relatives. That is even with social media’s prevalence. Come on, now. In today’s world, it’s not THAT difficult to “reconnect” if you truly desire to do so.

Yet, I have absolutely NO family members as my Facebook friends.

So, from that, I glean relationship with me is just not that important to them.

And yes, I understand life is busy. Marriage, family, career and health challenges are keeping us occupied. We are ALL inundated with the stuff of life.

But that does not jive with the next phase of my family interaction pattern.

With years, sometimes, decades, passing and no communication, let alone, no exchanging of contact information present, it’s a little strange then, when “out of the blue,” my phone rings. The initial “pleasantries” attempt to spill from my particular relative’s mouth for the first few seconds.

And then, here it comes: the question, the financial, and/or the “can-you-help-me-out-here-and-now” question.

It would be one thing if it was the emergency phone call, life or death. But it is not. I’ve learned (the hard way), upon granting a request, I cease to hear from that person again... until the next time, that is.

“...In the mouth of two or three witnesses shall every word be established.”

Matthew 18:16; 2 Corinthians 13:1

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

My phone rings again. “Can-you-help-me-out-here-and-now?”

Suddenly, I am important to them... again.

An old saying usually springs to my mind here: “Use things and love people, not the other way around.”

(I wonder if any of my family have ever heard that statement).

Regardless of whether or not they have, the important distinction here is I HAVE.

And, because I have, it is imperative I check the fruit.

“You will know them by their fruit.”

Matthew 7:16

If I come to the same rescue here, will I have to come to the same rescue again?

The answer’s not too difficult to reach.

Therefore, within the last seven years, I’ve become best buddies with the word, “No.” I have had to.

And, it shouldn’t be too surprising the reaction I got when I introduced this best buddy TO my asking family.

Expletives were hurled; I was called a quite common, unflattering name used against many a female.

 And I didn’t hear from that person again.
In that extreme, unpleasant moment, I learned with acute clarity, how to “know the difference.”
I have heard it said you know who a person truly is when they hear- and respond to- your no. Judging the reaction of my relative here, there was no respect for any answer that was not what he wanted to hear.
Nothing new under the sun about that: human nature.
However, an unexpected, surprising wrinkle developed after this incident. And this crossed from family...to clergy.
Upset by this abusive phone call, at the time, I contacted a pastor for counsel. On staff for years at a church I attended, he seemed to be a committed shepherd. Therefore, I sought his help. I hoped to receive prayer, wisdom and advice.
So, it felt like a FURTHER slap in the face when he bluntly responded to my request with, “This is not my area.”

“...‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’”

Genesis 4:9

What? Are you not a pastor, a shepherd, purposed to help the flock?
I walked away from that encounter, feeling like I was discarded. I could not even present my case. I was shut down. I was dismissed.
Why am I mentioning this? Because, it leads to the next “know the difference” phase of an education I received, albeit, this time, from the Church.
For, a short time later, low and behold, I hear from this same pastor. And He has a question: will I contribute financially to his church project?
Before the necessary advent of his particular project, I was invisible. Even while reaching out for his help, I was invisible.
But now, that he needs something from ME, I shoot to the TOP of HIS list?
I know I come across as a sheep who has, very much, her wooly axe to grind. But this underscores a troubling, yet, too real and common issue, even affecting those of us who need, in any way, help/recovery.
Certain people, including, unfortunately, certain family members, pastors and even churches themselves, are not to be counted on as part of healthy support network.
In an ideal world, yes, they would all be there unconditionally.
But is this world ideal? No.
So, the discernment NEEDS to kick in.
Basic questions need to be asked as we build our recovering lives.
Will this party commit to being there for me? What does that look like for me? What does that look like for him/her?
Is this person participating in healthy or unhealthy behaviors and choices?
Is this person good TO me?
Is this person good FOR me?
Does this persona have my best interest at heart?
Does this person have his/her own agenda? Are there ulterior motives for his/her presence in my life?
Is this relationship a one or a two-way street? Is reciprocity here?
Again...

“Know the difference between those who stay to feed the soil and those who come to grab the fruit.”

There is no shame in needing help, asking for help, expecting a relationship to be mutually beneficial.

Sadly, that is often not what we experience, even as we are at are most vulnerable. We must not sacrifice our recovery for any other entity. This becomes challenging as we are confronted with “should expectations” from this entity. Yes, in example, family expects things of us; Church expects things of us.

But really, the hard question posits, “Are these expected things healthy for me, supporting my recovery?”

Is our soil fed or depleted?

Is our fruit respected or trampled?

Know the difference. Discern. Test the spirits (1 John 4:1).

This, sometimes, can be the biggest spiritual work we do in our recovery.

Copyright © 2019 by Sheryle Cruse

Society- Yikes

It Takes One To Know One

“The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun.”

Ecclesiastes 1:9

It’s been said “It takes one to know one.” I now see this concept repeated in my life.

The first occurrence? Well, that was at the apex of my anorexic condition. I was a college freshman, hell-bent on distancing myself from my teenage overweight body as possible. Hence, the serious restriction of calories, interspersed with starvation periods and excessive exercise (up to six hours a day).

My freshman year, therefore, found me whittling to smaller weights. To those unfamiliar of my former self, I was only seen as thin. But, to those who knew me “way back when?” Well, I couldn’t quite convince them everything was okay.

Carrie (not her real name) attended both the same high school and now the same college as I did; she was also a recovering anorexic. As I started the year, she was keenly interested in my changed appearance. It started out casual; she remarked about my weight loss. However, by spring, I was at a disturbingly low weight- and that’s when she pounced.

During that term, we took the same world history course and Carrie pulled me aside one day after class. She, once again, remarked about my weight loss. And then she revealed her battle with anorexia and expressed concerned that I was veering down the same path.

I was “caught,” but, as eating disorder sufferers are often prone to do, I told her I was “fine.” No, of course, I was not anorexic. My racing mind panicked, “Don’t be ridiculous! That kind of thing doesn’t happen to me.” But Carrie read my mail.

Once I extricated myself from that encounter, I thought I had fooled everyone.

Nope.

Cut to the middle of that following summer. Carrie and I both came from a small town; it wasn’t unheard of for us to run into each other. Both of us were living at home until the fall term started. And, because there was only one major shopping mall in our small town locale, this was the meeting place of yet another “It takes one to know one” encounter.

Because of my already intense eating disorder behaviors, I tried to occupy my mind with anything I could think of. One of my latest “answers” was crafting.

Yes, that’s right, I said crafting.

I guess I believed pipe cleaners and glitter could save me. So, I was a regular at the mall’s hobby store.

I was close to my lowest weight, attempting to keep from passing out, while looking at the dollhouse miniatures section. I was staring at teeny furniture when bam. Carrie appeared out of nowhere. I felt busted. I had lost another ten pounds. She and I started some chitchat, but, c’mon, we both knew the score. Eventually, she brought up the dreaded words, “eating disorder.” And I had no where I had to be. I had no class I needed to escape to. I just had to stand there in the hobby store and be cornered by the truth.

“It takes one to know one” was getting too close to home.

And it wouldn’t be until many years later when I would experience the other side of this phenomenon. After the publication of my book, I had a signing event in Oregon.

A young anorexic woman was eyeing me for the entire four hours of the event. She kept pacing in front of the bookstore. But she kept her distance. There was this weird synergy of “I know you know” going on between us. Finally, after four hours of her pacing, lurking and eyeing me, she rushed the book table, spurting, “I had gone through it, but not the six hour exercise stuff you did.” And then she took off. I think she left skid marks.

In that moment, I saw how when we are in any kind of dysfunction or disorder, there’s still a part of us which wants help.

Sometimes, it does “take one to know one.”

Right now, is there someone out there who is experiencing the exact same thing? Is it you? It’s worth reaching out.

Disordered eating and image issues can affect anyone, regardless of age, gender or socio-economic factors. Just because someone doesn’t “fit” the stereotype, doesn’t mean they’re not afflicted. If you suspect someone is suffering, please reach out with love and support. Here are some helpful strategies to do just that.

When You Want to Help Someone You Care About

What to do if…

If your child is younger than 18

Get professional help immediately. You have a legal and moral responsibility to get your child the care s/he needs. Don’t let tears, tantrums, or promises to do better stop you. Begin with a physical exam and psychological evaluation.

If the physician recommends hospitalization, do it. People die from these disorders, and sometimes they need a structured time out to break entrenched patterns.

If the counselor asks you to participate in family sessions, do so. Children spend only a few hours a week with their counselors. The rest of the time they live with their families. You need as many tools as you can get to help your child learn new ways of coping with life.

If your friend is younger than 18

Tell a trusted adult—parent, teacher, coach, pastor, school nurse, school counselor, etc.—about your concern. If you don’t, you may unwittingly help your friend avoid the treatment s/he needs to get better.

Even though it would be hard, consider telling your friend’s parents why you are concerned. S/he may be hiding unhealthy behaviors from them, and they deserve to know so they can arrange help and treatment. If you cannot bear to do this yourself, ask your parents or perhaps the school nurse for help.

If the person is older than 18

Legally the person is now an adult and can refuse treatment if s/he is not ready to change. Nevertheless, reach out. Tell her/him that you are concerned. Be gentle. Suggest that there has to be a better way to deal with life than starving and stuffing. Encourage professional help, but expect resistance and denial. You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink—even when he is thirsty—if he is determined to follow his own path.

ANRED: When You Want to Help Someone You Care About.

www.anred.com

 Used with permission.

Copyright © 2019 by Sheryle Cruse