Ruin Your Own Damn Day!

“Ruin Your Own Damn Day!” discusses how our self-sabotaging ways can affect our daily lives.

https://www.elephantjournal.com/2020/07/ruin-your-own-damn-day-discusses-how-our-self-sabotaging-ways-can-affect-our-daily-lives/

 

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Handling My Inner Yosemite Sam

Cancer, enmeshment and caregiving have introduced me to such terms as, “vulnerable adult,” “self-care,” “Narcissistic abuse…” and “Grey Rock.” They are daily parts of my life now.

I can soldier on with the best of them. But, inevitably, there reaches such a point, that I, well… you know the cartoon character, Yosemite Sam?

Yeah, it’s like that.

“Dag gum, rootin’ tootin’ varmint!”

I devolve into him, maybe with steam escaping my ear holes.

Indeed, when it comes to a variety of issues involving my mother, Yosemite Sam is my spirit animal. Mom and I have an enmeshed, mother-daughter relationship. I truly am astounded I haven’t committed a felony (yet).

Coming from an abusive home, I believed, for years, that the main issue was my dad. A control freak, misogynist and possibly, a person who went undiagnosed as bipolar, he ruled the household in an unrelenting, stifling manner. Verbal and emotional abuse were “business as usual.” My mother and I were traumatized, trauma bonded, from the start. I soon, as a young child, came to view my family structure as “Us versus Him.” Survival mode.

Within that dynamic, my mother was in denial of the toxicity. “At least he doesn’t hit us” and “He’s a good provider” were her responses when I started challenging things as a small child.

I knew something was off. Mom, to keep life running smoothly, often employed the technique of gaslighting to protect the status quo.

“No, you didn’t see that. No, it’s not that bad.”

And I believed her instead of believing my child’s intuition. I tried to accept that our family life was just how it was. Play along. Just get through things.

But I saw inequity and hypocrisy. My dad could act any way he wanted; Mom and I, however, couldn’t. There’d be hell to pay if we displeased him. Therefore, experiencing that reality firsthand, my inner Yosemite Sam arose. I was rageful, with no safe place to put it.

By adolescence, I descended into the full-on flareup of my disordered eating issues. Anorexia and Bulimia were my desperate responses to the stressful reality of our personal misery.

I was living in a no-win situation.

As much as Mom downplayed my dad’s abusive behaviors, she also refused to accept her own dysfunction as well. She was depressed. Who knows how long that existed? Shame and secrecy permeated everything she did. Her diary, I later discovered, included many entries, stating, “I’m depressed.”

Of course, she never got help for that depression.

And she further nullified mine. She dismissed, mocked and criticized me. She refused to take my eating disorder behavior as an urgent cry for help.

Life moved on. I grew up, went to college, got married and wrote a book about my eating disorder experiences. I also finally went to some solid therapy at the age of twenty-seven, to address dormant issues that were simmering.

My inner Yosemite Sam intensely processed a large amount of that abuse, neglect and rage and my 2006 book was evidence of that processing.

By the time the book was published, my dad had died. I was safe from his fury.

But, my mother…

Again, Mom, anti-therapy, never sought help. She couldn’t because of the grip my dad had on her. And, of course, her deep shame and denial would not let her access her own dark, painful emotions and experiences.

Not surprisingly, my mother chose not to read my book (she still hasn’t to this day); she only brags about its existence to others. But there was no connection to her role in its creation. Detached denial, a desire to keep an unhealthy relationship with me going and a dismissal of urgent issues that needed attention were a part of her life skills.

This has continued, in more recent years, with devastating consequences.

As my mother aged, I pleaded for her to take care of herself. A socially isolated widow, morbidly obese for decades, she was adamant about, again, downplaying her reality.

And that led to her 2009 stroke. Since then, she resides in a care facility, was diagnosed with Type II Diabetes, and was placed on a restricted diet. And she has not been cooperative with that diet.

Mother-daughter enmeshment and fruitless arguing over her wants, therefore, have come into play.

Case in point: Mom loves salted peanuts. Years ago, she asked me to bring a jar whenever I visited. I did this a couple of times. However, she started gaining weight. Once that occurred, I stopped bringing the peanuts. But that didn’t stop her from asking for them. I told her no; she asked why. I argued the perspective of her health; Mom, countered with “I want them now.”

Mom kept requesting peanuts; I kept telling her no.

During a later visit, I noticed a jar in her room. She told me she had another person bring it to her. And, upon closer inspection, I noticed a two- inch white layer at the bottom of the jar. Mom was salting those already salted peanuts.

My inner Yosemite Sam, along with my codependency, kicked up dust. The care facility, her doctor, the nursing staff, and I were all trying to improve and maintain her health. And this was her response?

I didn’t want to explode. So, after only five minutes into my visit, I removed the jar and left.

Mom’s parting words, punctuated with a chuckle? “You’re taking my peanuts.”

(Calm down, Sam, At least wait until we’re in the car).

I didn’t know it then, but I was already practicing Grey Rock, a technique practiced within the context of Narcissistic abuse and toxic people. The goal is to be as non-reactionary as possible, just like… a grey rock. To do otherwise only gets the other toxic person’s juices flowing, harming us further.

Nope, don’t want that.

Ready for more caregiving fun?

How about the elderly individual’s quarterly care conferences?

Held every three months, these meetings cover all things resident: activity level, diet, various health issues and an opportunity to voice anything that has become a need.

Mom has always wanted people to see her as “nice.” Often, she clams up regarding problems.

I am her health care agent; ergo, I deal with such problems concerning her. However, my mother only sees me as the child playing dress up. That viewpoint, coupled with her nervous discomfort over uncomfortable matters, therefore, regularly sparks her laughter at me during the meeting’s discussed topics. Typically, I ask questions and go over her stats with the social worker, dietician and nurse case manager.

And, typically, Mom laughs at the seriousness of the discussion. Her laughter is distracting; all discussion stops.

“Mom, what’s so funny?”

“Oh, just something,” as her body convulses with passive-aggressive giggles in her wheelchair. Eventually, we wrap up the conference and I end yet another fun adventure in this mother-daughter relationship.

And, just like times before, once I was safely in the car, I become Yosemite Sam. I vent, scream, sometimes cry. My poor husband gets an earful during the two-hour drive back. Years of this.

I thought I could go on like this indefinitely. I convinced myself I could. After all, Mom’s elderly. I’m her only child. We have precious time left. I can tough it out.

Not so fast.

For in 2017, I received my Breast cancer diagnosis. But even then, it took a while for me to access Grey Rock for my benefit, as well as for Yosemite Sam’s.

A year after my diagnosis, I’d finally discovered that my meek, sweet, vulnerable adult mother was, more than likely, a Covert Narcissist.

That was a fun day.

Because of my abusive childhood with my dad, I knew there was codependency. Our lives were spent walking on eggshells and pleasing him, “or else…”

I knew my mother was in a submissive position within that atmosphere. She wasn’t allowed to be anything but that. No voice. No opinion, at least, no opinion that didn’t align with my dad’s views.

I believe that, in the middle of the stifling circumstances, Mom made her choice. We all make deals, in the name of survival. Her refusal to see how bad it was, her desire to be taken care of, to be viewed as a “nice woman,” and to have affirmation any way she could get it, all led her to be covert about obtaining, maintaining and executing power, control and her “voice.” She mostly achieved this via, me, the powerless child.

(And yes, I know, this is not an objective stance).

But my mother has acted in a passive-aggressive manner my entire life. She doesn’t directly voice what she wants. She undermines. She comments. She asks a question, instilling doubt and guilt. She makes light of a distressing situation, laughing about it.

But she does it all sweetly. She’s “nice” about it.

She did this even after my cancer diagnosis. She just couldn’t-or wouldn’t- get that I was preoccupied with treatment and healing, not orbiting around her.

And that’s what she wanted. Me orbiting her until she dies.

Only now, there was a real possibility I could die before her.

So, frustrating conversations with her, trying to reason with her, led to one critical exchange, exposing her victim mentality, a hallmark of Covert Narcissists. She told me that I disappointed her, even though what I was doing was recovering from my cancer experiences and practicing “self-care.”

To her, however, that was unacceptable.

And now, that conversation was also unacceptable to me. Yosemite Sam was not only furious. Now, he was despondent.

Something had to change.

Okay, then, time to recalibrate. I’m still her daughter. I’m still her caregiver. But I’m also diagnosed. And, if I’m not physically dying right now, I’m certainly emotionally strained, remaining in this unhealthy dynamic.

I had to change. Mom wouldn’t. Mom couldn’t. She’s over eighty years old. She is the person she is.

I had to fight for my life.

Therefore, the “Grey Rock” technique would be my paperweight, holding my psyche together and keeping Yosemite Sam at bay. It’s not a perfect method, but it helps me, nonetheless.

I was initially inspired by the fictional character, Lurch. You know, the tall butler on “The Adams Family” television show? Ah, Lurch. A deeply Baritone example of the Grey Rock response, answering the family’s requests with, “You rang.” Even though he was awaiting instruction, he still emitted no inflection.

I needed to do that with Mom now. I needed some go-to phrases in response to her that had the B-flat sentiment attached to them. Staples like...

“I’m sorry you feel that way.”

This is not groveling. For decades, I incorporated sincere grovels as I tried to reason with my mother why I could not meet her expectations. And that never worked. So, no more. It’s a new day.

I now make this remark to her, whatever she says, be it guilt-inducing or martyr-filled. “I’m sorry you feel that way.” It plainly communicates I have heard and am responding, but she is not getting any further past the protective barrier.

Boundaries. “Do not cross.”

Sometimes, she insists on mocking me. Sometimes, she is quiet. In any case, I am resolute. I’m taking care of myself. Simple.

“That’s interesting.”

I use this response whenever Mom insists I make lifestyle choices that would move me geographically closer to her. Perhaps, now, she posits that because of “the cancer,” the only logical option for me is to move into her care facility, residing right next door.

Or better yet, bunk beds in her room! My husband could assemble a cot nearby for himself, I guess.

Ludicrous, right? Even with “my cancer.”

Still, Mom wants me to revert to babyhood. I cannot comply.

So, “That’s interesting.” I give no other spirited Yosemite Sam feedback. And yes, “Y-Sam” still is there, doing some huffing and puffing. But now, I do my best to “observe, not absorb” what is being said to me. Her comments are faulty, anyway.

“I’m hanging in there.”

I say this whenever we speak by phone and she asks me how I am doing.

At first, she didn’t know what to say to that. Sometimes, she comes back with the question, “What does that mean?” and I retort with, “Just that, Mom. I’m hanging in there.” Sometimes, she laughs at me.

It probably frustrates her, sure. But that’s because she’s not getting “the intel” she desires, intel which gets her attention/sympathy from her care facility and intel which she can use against me later. That stuff has happened too many times.

Early in my diagnosis, I did try to inform her, with as little gore and fear as possible. She just didn’t want to hear anything other than “I’m back to normal and I’ll soon be focusing on you again.”

But energy is finite now; I need to be mercenary, even with this seemingly, sweet, meek, old woman. Yosemite Sam cannot get all riled up as he once did.

Mom’s still “covert.” Secret. Sneaky. Agenda-filled.

She has not- and will not- change. Therefore, I need to. Cancer doesn’t give me the luxury of enduring what I once experienced with her.

“I’m fine. How are you?” and “Not much. What’s going on with you?” (In response to her question, “How are you?”/ What’s going on?”)

These responses address the “spin it around” tactic.

Again, I strive to be boring in my answer and I quickly ask my mother what’s going on with her. I’m not talking about me. Let’s interact concerning your life, Mom.

She usually doesn’t have much to say. It’s surface chit-chat. Unfortunately, that’s our relationship. That’s as deep as we are going to go, woman to woman.

And I grieve and resign myself to that. Sometimes, we don’t get what we need from these important loved ones in our lives. Sometimes, circumstances trump our efforts to make that happen.

But I am worth being in a healing, peaceful place. Change concerning Mom is helping get me there. I’m still her caregiver, but I do things concerning her more at a distance. I employ the speaker phone concerning her care conferences. I see her, but now, it’s less frequently.  I tend to her needs and issues as best as I can…mostly, from afar. And that must be enough.

I love my mother. But sometimes, loving her can turn into risking my life. I’m aware of that now. That needs to stop. 

I give myself permission to make it stop.

Life sometimes means that we have not only one life-altering issue to deal with, but we have multiple, at the same time. Cancer and caregiving have been that for me. Both have been fraught with pain and fear. Both demand attention.

Do you see yourself here, in any way?

Are you a diagnosed caregiver, embattled with a vulnerable adult who is toxic to your condition?

There’s so much emphasis on the elderly or designated “vulnerable” person, their health, their well-being. We, as caregivers, can often get lost in the shuffle. It’s just assumed that we’ll be bulletproof indefinitely. Don’t worry about us; we don’t have needs; we’re hearty. We can take it.

Only, sometimes, we can’t take it.

Sometimes, we are the vulnerable adult, requiring extra care and attention. And sometimes, we are the adults that need to choose self over duty. And that is what caregiving is, isn’t it?

Loving, mixed emotion, challenging duty, but duty, all the same.

Dysfunction, abuse, codependency, aging and any myriad of health or personal issues don’t resolve themselves, by themselves. All of this requires our action, especially if someone we care for, is hindering those resolutions. Yosemite Sam can be our alarm, alerting us to danger and informing us of our need to change. But WE must make that change.

It’s not selfish; it’s self-care.

It can be a matter of life and death. And you and I, no matter what, deserve life.

Therefore, care-give yourself!

Copyright © 2020 by Sheryle Cruse

Conditioning

Daily, mundane routines can capture the deeper issues in our lives.

Like a lot of people out there, my hair has vexed me. Memories of snarls and pulling at my head, using “No More Tears” hair detangler certainly did not matters. And I never looked like the pretty, golden-haired little girl, enjoying the bonding experience with the beautiful, blonde mother, featured on the bottle.

I’ve spent the greater part of my life battling my hair. Hence, hair conditioner. And, as I’ve been battling my various OTHER issues, family dysfunction and abuse, being at the top of the list, I’ve recently seen how there is, indeed, a common denominator: conditioning, as the practiced tactic, and, as some would say, the “solution.”

A documentary on hair once espoused that the universal desire of people with hair problems is that they have a “manageable” coiffure.

Whether curly, wavy, straight, kinky, fine, coarse, long or short, people just don’t want to battle their hair all day long.

Therefore, hair conditioner promises to fix our woes. Check out what is declared on the bottles:

“To moisturize, nourish and protect.”

“Tames and smooths”

“Vibrant and beautiful!”

As I contemplated some of hair conditioner’s promises, I saw striking similarities to abusive dynamics.

Like many conditioners out there, abuse’s goals are often to…

Protect:

How many conditioners promise to protect the delicate strands of hair from harm, damage and breakage?

My life has been littered with bottles, assuring me that my snarl-prone ‘do would not suffer any further havoc. I was safe using this magic potion.

Aren’t we all promised safety with this haircare product? Indeed, ingredients like Biotin and Keratin are often offered to keep our manes in their full glories.

Abuse and dysfunction, likewise, in their deluded perspectives, also believe protection is happening, employing their own ingredients:  manipulation, gaslighting, isolation, threats and misuses of money and power.

The emphasis is on the protection of the image, the reputation, the “system” the abuser has going on. Nothing can threaten that “status quo.” It must be protected, no matter what.

The abuser may say things like…

“…You don’t need to work and make money. I’ll take care of you…”

“…I just want it to be the two of us…”

“…You don’t need friends. You have me…”

The “protection” ensures no outsider can peek into the reality, which is often shame and secret-ridden and physically, emotionally and mentally harmful. Protection from outside critiques or influences, therefore, must be prevented and destroyed. Abuse is the only world allowed to flourish.

Smooth Things:

Conditioners often tout their ability to make one’s hair the ultimate in silky smoothness.

I have a slight natural wave that gets feisty with humidity.

And I live in Minnesota.

Therefore, some smooth silky reality would be nice to, again, keep things manageable on top of my head.

Here’s where ingredients like Argan and Coconut Oil are presented as the must-have solutions to hair woes. The focus is on de-emphasizing “unruly” curls, waves and, of course, the dreaded “frizz.”

Beat that hair into submission.

And, once again, the abuser’s playbook has some similar motives and strategies: to keep the peace at all cost. Make things look more “pleasing” than what they are.

“Smoothing out” things, in an abuse context, may look like this…

…Convincing institutions like houses of worship, schools and court systems that there is some “misunderstanding,” usually because the person being abused is presented as “crazy, troubled, sick” and, therefore, needs the abuser to look after him or her…

…Lying, just outright lying. The abuser knows the truth is against him/her. So, building a Machiavellian case, with any ends justifying any means, is necessary. Lying, using charm and, yes, smoothing any circumstance is implemented to prevent and stop an outsider from asking some inconvenient questions…

…Bribing and bartering. Yes, really. A deal, that was “too good to be true” was promised, one often involving- quelle surprise- large amounts of money and, just like that, the person gets sold out. Yes, indeed, deals do get made, secret deals. When an abuser is involved, opportunistic schemes can abound…

Control Things:

Conditioner promises us the illusive guarantee of complete and perfect control.

These products claim to correct and alter our hair shafts, paving the way for perfect hair.

Again, whatever unruly and undesirable state of hair you and I are enduring, there still seems to be this unrealistic expectation that we will reach perfection with it.

So, we apply the conditioning.

Abuse is similar also, in this respect. It is all about keeping things contained. Just like the other mechanisms of conditioning, there is emphasis on keeping something or someone from doing something outside of the bounds of the abuser’s permission and altering another individual’s life.

Such as…

“…Trapping” the victim: in example: taking his/her car keys, relocating the person to an isolated area, monitoring their phone usage…

…Limiting the individual’s choices: their appearance, what they eat, how they dress, what they say, their interactions with family and friends…

“…Convincing” them that they need to live like this. If they deviate from this premise, they are shamed-conditioned- to believe they are wrong, at fault, defective, ungrateful, stupid, crazy or “not good enough” in any way…

Weighed Down:

Here’s a lesson I learned, early on, about hair conditioner. Despite its many promises, it can weigh your locks down. Over the years, I have tried to have smooth, sleek, manageable hair, only to achieve a limp, stringy result.

Too much conditioning? Too much manipulation of my hair when I should have just shampooed it and gotten on with my life?

Still, with all seriousness, as we look at conditioning within the context of abuse, we can also get weighed down, far too quickly, easily and thoroughly.

One can argue that abuse takes a lifetime from which to recover. The conditioning leaves its mark. It leaves us automatically responding to life with maladaptive behaviors that, if we had not been “conditioned,” perhaps, we would have freed us to make healthier choices. It’s an endless, demoralizing rabbit hole to descend into.

Nevertheless, here we are, in whatever condition we are.

Conditioning is all about manipulation. It can be hair; it can be a human being.

The challenge that we face, as we recognize its subtle handywork, indeed, is to reconcile and heal our condition: soul, mind, psyche.

May we all learn what that experience is for our lives.

Copyright © 2020 by Sheryle Cruse

Navigating with the Navigator

Joy*, my breast nurse navigator, has kept me sane (well, as close to it as possible) ever since my 2017 Breast cancer diagnosis.

She was the one who did all three of my biopsies and made that dreaded cancer phone call one Tuesday morning. And, since then, Joy has walked me through the overwhelming gauntlet of tests, appointments, surgery, radiation and “survivorship.”

She did this all while being a girlfriend. I’d like you to know about her heart and her impact in my life.   

First, after my biopsies, I asked her for a copy of my MRI. I wanted a still image of my breasts and I asked if she could rustle one up for me. I knew this request was a little out of the ordinary. Doing biopsy stuff, getting me test results, sure. But this?

“Hi, Joy-

….Is it possible to get a copy of my long boobed MRI scan you showed me on Friday? There is method to my madness- this year's Christmas card.😜...”

 “Hi Sheryle!
You can absolutely get your imaging for future purposes-whatever those may be! I will have a CD made... The Christmas card idea truly made me laugh out loud. What better way to spread Christmas cheer than a glossy breast MRI photo? Ha!…”

But we’re not done yet.

 “Hi Sheryle,

…The lady who works in the CD and medical records assured me that images can be printed from the CD’s, but the file size of an MRI is extremely large (read: might crash the average computer). So, I went ahead and did a screen-shot of what I consider the ‘money shot’...” 
The money shot!

Yes, Joy was going to great lengths for me.

So, I wondered, how did that all start?

She began, in high school, as a home health aide for disabled children. Her official nursing career later started in pediatrics, at a children’s hospital. But, because of the taxing reality of its heart-wrenching pediatric patients, she applied for the navigator position she has now and voilà! 

So, what is a breast nurse navigator, anyway? We can posit, it’s the ultimate connector and guide through one’s diagnosed paces.

 “… The nation's first patient navigation program was initiated by Harold Freeman in 1990 at a public hospital in Harlem, New York… The philosophy of patient navigation encourages a system of health care delivery, which supports timely movement of the individual patient through an often complex and fragmented health care system...”

“The Origin, Evolution, and Principles of Patient Navigation” By Harold P. Freeman; http://cebp.aacrjournals.org/content/21/10/1614

Used with permission.

Joy is, indeed, passionate about her work. Her enthusiasm for it is infectious.

She told me how she loved being there for women at this most scary time. She makes it a point to study each patient during the biopsy, gathering as much intel about her support structure and life circumstances as possible.

That, in fact, taps into the downside of her job, mainly, her frustration of not being able to meet the overwhelming demand of all cancer-related issues. Joy often feels spread thin. Diagnosed women move along to another facet of their treatment plans, like chemotherapy or radiation, and there, indeed, is no breast nurse navigator in place to support them there.

So, she usually gets a phone call from a distressed woman, asking for help. She has to not only do her job, centering on diagnosis and biopsies, but also tend to all other areas of cancer as well.

It’s too much. And we can’t clone her.

Therefore, logically, one would think this reality would be a gigantic impetus for the medical community to instate navigators in all clinic/ Cancer Care areas. Well, unfortunately, not quite.

Frequently, it comes down to the bottom line.

Clinics will assert, however legitimately, they simply don’t have the funds for that scope of care. Or, another possibility? Sometimes, clinics are clueless this is even a problem. They simply don’t hear about the in-need patients, asking for and requiring specific support. They, perhaps, don’t see a problem because nurse navigators, like Joy, are in clinics running around like chickens with their heads cut off, trying to be all cancer things to all cancer patients, getting the various needs met.

And then there’s the reluctance to do a more ambitious sweep of all interconnected clinics. One theory, in dealing with powerful people making these decisions, states that if navigators are fully implemented in one individual clinic, they’d then need to be implemented in all clinics. It’s a matter of standardization. And, what’s more, the argument declares standardization can kill innovation. Therefore, a hesitant response may occur.

Another possibility? Navigator installation may be deemed unnecessary, especially since there are already roles such as radiation nurses and social workers commonly in place in clinics.

Maybe the powers- that- be see it as redundancy.

Perhaps, it’s simply too intimidating a prospect, as this nurse navigator would not only need expertise in all things cancer, but also in coordination, networking and scheduling responsibilities.

In essence, the navigator acts as an omnipotent cancer concierge. Would this, then, be too much to ask of one individual?

Or, could there, indeed, be an emphasis on training, incorporating the “many hands make light work” theory, while working as a cohesive Cancer Care relay race?

Part of Joy’s vision includes a regular meeting of all navigators, sharing information and updates. Whether that’s on a weekly or a daily basis, it still calls attention to the interconnection of everyone, cross pollinating and meeting the needs of the patients in their care.

She has presented her wider installation proposal to her own clinic. She sees potential. She desires this navigator role to be installed, at every phase of treatment, for ALL cancers, not just Breast cancer.

Joy envisions the navigator acting as a hands-on advocate, for each diagnosed person, even going so far as to accompany the patient in her appointments. The ultimate support person. The importance of that cannot be overstated.

For there are too many women, unfortunately, who have no such person in the room with them. Navigators, therefore, would guarantee the patient would not be left alone, to face her intimidating reality. They would do the emotional handholding, as well as the practical matters of taking notes, deciphering the daunting cancer language and coordinating the next appointment, test or procedure.

Again, the powers- that- be might prefer to see the evidence- based practice; they want concrete results.

But, throughout the country, navigators are in place. It IS happening already.

It is why Dr. Harold Freeman was inspired in the first place. In his work, he saw a direct correlation between navigation and increased survivorship.

“After the implementation of patient navigation for breast cancer, the number of women seeking treatment for late stage (stage 3-4) breast cancers decreased from 49% to 21%.”

“Cancer of the Breast in Poor Black Women,” By Harold P. Freeman and Tarik J. Wasfie, 1989; https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/2720605?dopt=Abstract

Harold P. Freeman Patient Navigation Institute; http://www.hpfreemanpni.org/resources/

Used with permission.

As it stands now, Joy is currently awaiting a response from those powers- that- be.

And, in the meantime, she’s still the only breast nurse navigator I’ve encountered, thus far. But her dream of an official navigator, stationed at every port? It’s not happening yet.

So, she works to the best of her ability, trying to meet patient needs.

As I endeavor to maintain my survivorship, Joy and I still keep in touch, dealing with everything that Breast cancer entails. We’re friends, but with that being said, she is still every bit the professional nurse navigator. She executes both beautifully.

So, beyond the clinical, the real value I’ve experienced of nurse navigators, through Joy, is the human, compassionate component. She has been there through the terrifying. She not only scheduled appointments, but she also listened to my fears and concerns. That element of care was more important to me than any cancer test. I needed the “friend” results much more than anything from a lab. Seriously.

Therefore, if/when, you are given an unfortunate diagnosis, I hope you stumble upon a nurse navigator like Joy in the process.

It will make all the difference.

*(Name changed for privacy).

Copyright © 2020 by Sheryle Cruse

Not Your Whole Story

Intentional (Narcissists Attack)

The Trip is Theirs

From Experience

“Things Don’t Look Like They Do in Catalogues”

Magical thinking.

When I was a little girl, I wanted a miniature French doll in a catalogue. This doll right here.

What wasn’t to love? The pink dress? The ENORMOUS matching pink bow in her hair? The pretty Bisque porcelain face?

So, yes, after a lot of pleading, a family member ordered the doll for me. After a few weeks, the much-anticipated package arrived in the mailbox. I ripped that sucker open, expecting to see my beautiful pink French doll. And I was startled/disappointed by its reality.

It was technically the miniature French porcelain, in the pink dress, with the gigantic pink hair bow. But the face…

As you can see by the photo, her little French punim was a bit askew. A few years later, when I first saw Pablo Picasso’s “Guernica,” I noted the resemblance. There definitely was a distorted face thing going on here. No ear in the middle of her face, but, as I compared the doll with the catalogue image, there was a discrepancy.

It was then and there my family member taught eight-year-old me a life principle, “Things don’t look like they do in catalogues.”

It was also here where I learned these same family members could not believe the very advice they gave out.

Because… magical thinking.

This is Appealing:

Let’s begin with coveting, shall we?

We covet what we see. It looks desirable. We see something and decide we want it. The French doll was aesthetically appealing to me. Her face was beautiful; she was small. As a little girl, I wanted her.

The magical thinking concept, on a broader level, seems to equate aesthetics with solution. I found it noteworthy that my family member who ordered the doll for me, who uttered the statement, “Things don’t look like they do in catalogues,” still, however, bought into abusive and addictive dynamics. Rationalizing through mindsets of “It’s not so bad” “I can handle it” and “I want this more than I’ve wanted anything ever before” came into play.

Magical thinking.

Myopic tunnel vision, to the exclusion of everything else, was all numerous family members could engage in. They wanted the appealing thing to be the appealing thing, to stay the appealing thing.

And don’t we all want that?

It’s So Good; It MUST Be True:

After we’ve designated the chosen object of our coveting, next there is the determination that it’s so good, that it has such promise, that it, surely, must be true.

With the French doll, I believed the catalogue image; I had faith in it. I believed that’s what I’d be getting. I didn’t take into consideration that the dolls’ faces, one by one, would be hand painted. There would be some variation, which, for me, included the “Guernica” face on my doll. I expected the doll to be perfectly symmetrical and pretty. Exactly like the catalogue image.

Likewise, my family members counted on the premise of the “good on paper” focus of their attention. They focused on a happy marriage, a perfect child, certain realized dreams, like they were ordering them from a catalogue. There was so much hope pinned to the thing being the answer, there was no room for any other more complicated thought.

There was no room for imperfect life. No room for fallible human beings. No room for the reality of deception.

When it comes to magical thinking, it’s quite easy to be lulled into this assertion, isn’t it? We trust that we are getting what we’ve set our eyes on. No matter how jaded, intelligent or experienced we claim to be, still, there is that naïve wish, that childlike wish, perhaps, we all seem to carry.

This Will Make My Life Perfect:

Likewise, we can also trust in the illusion of perfection.

Ah, yes, the belief that this object of our affection will perfect our lives and remove all pain.

As a little girl, feeling lonely and overwhelmed by abusive family dynamics, looking at that catalogue page, with the French doll featured so beautifully on it, gave me something to hope for. Something to look forward to. If I had her in my life, maybe I could stop being lonely. I’d just play with her. Maybe, she could make up for the scariness I was confused by.

Yet, when she arrived, I was still lonely and scared. And it wasn’t because she didn’t look like how the catalogue photographed her. She could have been an exact replica of the image, perfect and beautifully crafted in every way. When I played with her, she couldn’t erase my reality.

She was just a doll.

My family members couldn’t seem to grasp that concept on a broader level.

Again, things like marriage, children and financial security, in their three- dimensional reality, just did not look like they did “in the catalogue.” That magical thinking overpromised… and underdelivered.

The Promise Versus the Delivery:

Each of us are vulnerable to that magical thinking reality. It can be subtle; it’s not always about believing some obvious fairytale. It’s the little mistaken thoughts and beliefs that can often wreak havoc. Each day can be another opportunity to believe “something” will come through for us. What is it today? A relationship? A shot at status or power? A purchase or a material possession? What looks great “in the catalogue?”

How devastated will we be when reality does not deliver its perfect, soothing solution, as promised?

That’s what it’s all about.

Life dictates we adjust to the imperfect, to the flawed human condition. That means there is no pristine catalogue image solving our lives. That means we’ll get the much-coveted thing with the Guernica face.

That means that we need to face ourselves and our issues, regardless of any catalogue, regardless of what things look like. Accepting “what is” more than “what we wish it was” can give us a better shot at experiencing what we want in life.

Copyright © 2020 by Sheryle Cruse

Oh Yes, The Past Can Hurt...

The Risk To Remain

Unplug It...

The Slap of Narcissistic Injury

Some of us out have been physically slapped. If so, you know how startling it is. It can leave many of us in shock, unsure about how to respond.

Years ago, I encountered the slap of Narcissistic injury. I didn’t know what to call it back then, other than painful and jarring. But now, I’ve been able to learn some more of the finer points of abusive behavior, beyond just the vague, generic labeling of it as abuse.

The specific encounter involved a group project within my church. There were people, divided into teams, in charge of different tasks and responsibilities. Of course, there was leadership involved, overseeing the various aspects of the groups and their execution of activities.

And herein lies a major part of the Narcissistic abuse: the value attached to status, title and power.

As we were working on these different tasks and projects, one group member, (let’s call her Melissa), walked away from our team and the work we were doing.

Where did Melissa go?

Like a moth to the flame, she was drawn to a small circle of pastors, engaged in conversation. With plans to be of that same position and title, she, naturally, saw herself flocking amongst these more desirable eagles, rather than, I guess, hanging out with the lowly buzzard churchgoers of this group assignment.

Soon, another separate pastor alerted each group they needed to assemble and work on their respective assignments. However, Melissa did not return to our team. She merely glanced at the pastor, making the announcement, barely acknowledging the directive. Perhaps, she believed that was meant for others, not her. She continued to bask in the glory of the leaders she aspired to be like. Within our group, itself, without everyone present, things were at a standstill. Nothing could get done.

After about five minutes of waiting for her, I walked over to the small circle of pastors, addressing Melissa, requesting she join our group and help with our tasks. The look of offense in her eyes!

She angrily spat, “I’ll be right there!”

I returned to the group and waited, with the other members, for her to eventually, casually, saunter over to us. She then started making passive-aggressive digs at me, targeting me as the fool, the idiot, the evil doer who dared to ask anything of her.

Hello, entitlement.

She repeatedly did this throughout the work session that day. Some of it was within earshot of the other group members and even the pastors. But no one said or did anything. In a state of shock, myself, I didn’t know what else to do, without inflaming things further. I tried to “go to my brother” (Matthew 18:15) with her at a later point, as Scripture advised me to do, but she angrily rebuffed me again.

Okay, got it.

In recent years, I have become more familiar with the term “Narcissistic injury.” It is when an entitled person, usually a Narcissist, reacts to a displeasing communication with their offended reaction. They perceive it as a slight, an affront to their high-status value.

“How dare you!” is often their driving response. It can also have the subtext of “You didn’t do things my way!”

It certainly felt that way concerning Melissa. Indeed, “how dare I” not see how much more important it was for her to hang around the VIP pastors than the mere mortals of our small group? She was, perhaps, “above it.” Therefore, I should respond accordingly.

And, because I didn’t adhere to the situation the way I should have, because I didn’t do things her way…

SLAP!!!

Yes, I had to be punished and corrected (shamed), rather than have her realize and respond to the original job at hand, the reason we were there in the first place. It wasn’t to hob knob with the elite. She was a member of a group, doing, yes, lowly, unglamorous tasks. But she signed up for that. It was not merely her entrance into the ministry career goals she had her sights set on.

How dare I?

Narcissists, inherently, have this expectation that the word will and should revere them as special, as important. When that does not happen, conditions are favorable the fury of that perceived injury. To the Narcissist, the perceived injury is as real as physically losing a limb. It is that painful to them. And, it is completely unacceptable, and, therefore, worthy of retaliation against us.

I dared to challenge/not recognize the Melissa’s higher status.

Furthermore, I dared to remind her of what we were doing. How dare I do that?

Let’s just be real here. At that time of this incident, Melissa was not a pastor. She was not a high-ranking member of ministry. She was a volunteering member of the church, who, supposedly, agreed to work within a small group setting for a common, shared goal.

But clearly, I saw the “preferential treatment” she subscribed to certain individuals, based on their titles and monikers. And, as time unfolded, I saw her climb higher on the ministry ladder. Eventually, she became a leader with a certain level of status and power.

And, once she reached that level of power and status, it seemed like her entitlement issues worsened. There was a lack of humility, she, instead, reveled in the power she wielded.

She was not as interested in doing “the work” of the church as she was interested in achieving the “perks” of church leadership.

And they are two very different things, indeed.

The Entitlement Ratio:

Entitlement is the engine of Narcissistic injury. It’s often what motivates the slap. It appears to be, the greater the entitlement of an individual, the greater the perceived injury will be for the offender. And then, the greater the slap, in response. It does not matter who the person is or what the circumstances are. In the case of Narcissistic injury, the entitlement, the offense, the injury and the slap are in a category of “when,” not “if.”

It will happen. Just wait.

And while you and I wait, with knowledge in hand, it’s equally important not to view this while this as personal against us. It is not. The Narcissist’s insecurity rests with them. It is not something we need to take ownership for.

Melissa, for her many goals of attaining leadership, power and status, inevitably, had issues that very same leadership. She argued with pastors, impeding the work of the ministry everyone claimed to serve.

Entitlement bumping up against entitlement, perhaps?

“When,” not “if?”

There are no sacred cows when it comes to the Narcissist’s perceptions on anything: truth, power, love, relationships, wants, needs. All are vulnerable to injury.

How important it is, then, for us to arm ourselves with that understanding. Application of this knowledge is the power, if not the appropriate “slap” response to any abuse attempt aimed at us.

Copyright © 2020 by Sheryle Cruse