Princess Diana Remembrance (Beauty For Ashes)

 

I remember where I was when Princess Diana’s death was announced. My husband and I were up late watching movies. When we finished, we turned CNN on, to discover “breaking news” of her death. I suppose you could call it my “JFK” moment.

Princess Diana has always meant so much to me. As a little girl, her engagement and royal wedding to Prince Charles captured my fairytale dreams. 

Her beauty, style and glamour was the stuff of aspirations.

And then, when the media revealed a troubled marriage and her struggles with eating disorders, I gained a different view and respect for her; she was human, even while being a princess. She was fragile and imperfect.

Struggling with eating disorders myself, I watched how she dealt with the international disclosure of such personal matters. Secrecy and shame were such huge hindrances to my recovery; I only saw the ugly stigma of the realities I was living. But Princess Diana, by example, illuminated another possibility through her choices: empowering hope.

It’s been years since her tragic passing, yet Princess Diana has left a substantial imprint. Her legacy is in her sons, Prince William and Prince Harry. She’s also known for her charity, for her intuitive response to people and for her transcendence of seemingly hopeless and painful circumstances.

I reflected on my life as I viewed hers. I see how God can take anyone and anything, creating hope and redemption from the blackest of situations. He still is in the business of beauty for ashes…

“The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is on me,
    because the Lord has anointed me
    to proclaim good news to the poor.
He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,
    to proclaim freedom for the captives
    and release from darkness for the prisoners…
to comfort all who mourn,
and…bestow on them a crown of beauty
    instead of ashes,
the oil of joy
    instead of mourning,
and a garment of praise
    instead of a spirit of despair.
They will be called oaks of righteousness,
    a planting of the Lord
    for the display of his splendor.”

Isaiah 61:1-3

He’s still in the business of restoration…

 “And I will restore to you the years that the locust hath eaten, the cankerworm, and the caterpillar, and the palmerworm, my great army which I sent among you. "You will…praise the name of the LORD your God, Who has dealt wondrously with you; Then My people will never be put to shame.…”

Joel 2:25-26

And, of course, He still heals, not just bodies, but lives, reputations and legacies…

 “…I am the LORD that healeth thee.”

Exodus 15:26

As we mark another anniversary of Princess Diana’s passing, let’s allow her legacy to remind us of God’s power, love and hope for each of us. Addictions, disorders, traumas, loss, death and failure may touch our lives, but they never determine our incredible value and hopeful possibility for prosperity, love, joy and restoration. God does that. And His determination always is as follows:

“For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, says the Lord, thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you a future and a hope.”

Jeremiah 29:11

 

Speech given by Diana, Princess of Wales on "Eating Disorders"

 

Speech given by Diana, Princess of Wales on "Eating Disorders"

27th April 1993

Ladies and Gentlemen

I have it, on very good authority, that the quest for perfection our society demands can leave the individual gasping for breath at every turn.

This pressure inevitably extends into the way we look. And of course, many would like to believe that Eating Disorders are merely an expression of female vanity - not being able to get into a size ten dress and the consequent frustrations!

From the beginning of time the human race has had a deep and powerful relationship with food - if you eat you live, if you don't you die. Eating food has always been about survival, but also about caring for and nurturing the ones we love. However, with the added stresses of modern life, it has now become an expression of how we feel about ourselves and how we want others to feel about us.

Eating Disorders, whether it be Anorexia or Bulimia, show how an individual can turn the nourishment of the body into a painful attack on themselves and they have at their core a far deeper problem than mere vanity. And sadly, Eating Disorders are on the increase at a disturbing rate, affecting a growing number of men and women and a growing number of children.

Our knowledge of Eating Disorders is still in its infancy. But it seems, from those I have spoken to that the seeds of this dis-ease may lie in childhood and the self doubts and uncertainties that accompany adolescence. From early childhood many had felt they were expected to be perfect, but didn't feel they had the right to express their true feelings to those around them - feelings of guilt  of self revulsion and low personal esteem. Creating in them a compulsion to 'disolve like a disprin' and disappear.

The illness they developed became their 'shameful friend'. By focussing their energies on controlling their bodies,  they had found a 'refuge' from having to face the more painful issues at the centre of their lives. A way of 'coping', albeit destructivly and pointlessly, but a way of coping with a situation they were finding unbearable. An 'expression' of how they felt about themselves and the life they were living.

On a recent visit to 'The Great Ormond Street Hospital for Sick Children' I met some young people who were suffering from Eating Disorders. With the help of some very dedicated staff, they and their parents, were bravely learning to face together the deeper problems, which had been expressed through their dis - ease.

With time and patience and a considerable amount of specialist support, many of these young people will get well. They and their families will learn to become whole again. Sadly, for others it will all be too late. Yes, people are dying through Eating Disorders.

Yet all of us can help prevent the seeds of this dis - ease developing. As parents, teachers, family and friends, we have an obligation to care for our children. To encourage and guide, to nourish and nurture and to listen with love to their needs, in ways which clearly show our children that we value them. They in their turn will then learn how to value themselves.

For those already suffering from Eating Disorders, how can we reach them earlier,  before its too late?

Here in Britain organisations such as 'The Eating Disorders Association' are currently being swamped with enquiries and requests for support and advice, so overwhelming is the need for help. Yet with greater awareness and more information these people, who are locked into a spiral of secret despair, can be reached before the dis-ease takes over their lives. The longer it is before help reaches them, the greater the demand on limited resources and the less likely it is they will fully recover.

I am certain the ultimate solution lies within the individual. But with the help and patient nurturing given by you the professionals, family and friends, people suffering from Eating Disorders can find a better way of coping with their lives. By learning to deal with their problems directly in a safe and supportive environment.

Over the next three days, this International Conference, has the opportunity to explore further the causes of Eating Disorders and to find new avenues of help for those suffering from this 'incapacitating dis - ease'.

I look forward to hearing about your progress and hope you are able to find the most 'beneficial' way of giving back to these people their self esteem. To show them how to overcome their difficulties and re-direct their energies towards a healthier, happier life.

Hugging

 

Pet Names: Standardized Patient Care…or Just Insulting?

 

When I was five, my family nicknamed me “Lutefisk.” They got great joy out of seeing how much the name annoyed me. For those of you unfamiliar, Lutefisk is a popular Scandinavian food; it is white fish soaked in lye. (I am not kidding).

Those of us hailing from places like Minnesota and Iowa, who boast either Norwegian or Swedish descent, often serve this fish as the main dish during many Christmas and New Year’s celebrations. And, as a child, encouraged by my relatives to “try it,” I hated it. To me, it tasted like the slimiest, fishiest fish, soaked in detergent. Soap was a distinctive flavor, no matter how much hot butter you tried to add to it. No thank you.

Anyway, having been christened after this white fish soaked in lye, enduring family gatherings as a tiny tot, I gradually gained some feistiness in the attitude department. And that led to one of my first memories, one of me being quite vocal and confrontational.

On a shopping trip with my mother, we encountered a “family friend” who greeted me in the following manner:

“Hi there, Toots!”

I never met this man before. I was, however, all fed up with being called a fish by the people I, supposedly, did know. I had had it! I retorted, with as much five-year-old indignation as I could muster…

“Oh yeah, well how’d you like it if I called you Lutefisk!”

I remember the awkward shock, the uncomfortable laughter and the looks on both my mother’s and this guy’s faces. Clearly, my clapback created a moment.

It wasn’t long after that my family stopped called me Lutefisk. Maybe word finally got out.

Anyway, this memory has gotten a lot of replay for me lately as I have been in doctor’s offices and assorted appointments since my 2017 Breast cancer diagnosis. It has been within this context that I found myself not that far removed from five-year-old me. You see, as I have undergone tests, treatments and now, “survivorship” checkups, I have repeatedly run into complete strangers calling me by pet names.

“Honey”

“Hon”

“Sweetie”

“Sweetie Pie”

“Baby”

“Baby Doll”

“Darling”

“Dear”

Everything but my actual given name, even though that’s the first question I answer at the beginning of an appointment, test or procedure: name and date of birth. No pet names exist within either of those pieces of data.

Yes, within two minutes, I, inevitably, get called a term of endearment, usually, “Honey” or “Dear.”

I have nothing against pet names if there is an endearment present in a relationship, say, older than five minutes. My husband usually calls me “Honey” or “Baby;” I do, likewise, with him. But we’ve been together for well over twenty years. And, with my good girlfriends, I admit, I’ll also drop a “Honey” or “Sweetie” their way.

Why is this name calling a-happening? Because there is love and a relationship there, not name, rank and serial number kind of stuff. But, if there is a patient number or code attached to me in a clinical setting, maybe we can agree there’s not automatic love and long-term relationships going on here, huh?

It’s just something that has gotten me a little cranky. And yes, I know, I can hear the murmurings already. It’s harmless being called a pet name by an ultrasound tech, doctor or even a receptionist just checking you and I into a medical appointment. It can be argued, I suppose, that this medical professional simply wants to make the patient feel more comfortable, relaxed and cared for.

I admit I am a fussy patient. So being called “Honey,” “Sweetie,” or “Baby Doll” does none of those things for me. Especially if I hear those pet names falling from the lips of someone I could have once babysat. Yes, not just motherly women in their fifties and sixties are addressing me this way, I get twenty-somethings, with freshly scrubbed faces, calling me this stuff also. Male and female, by the way, as well.

That is especially patronizing. I have encountered a male medical professional, especially someone meeting my “once- could- have- babysat- you” criteria, calling me by a name I reserve for my loving hubby. When not irritated by this fact, I sometimes envision this same male medical practitioner calling me “Sweetie” in the presence of my tall, dark and handsome (and intimidating-looking) husband. I note, these male doctors and techs never do such a thing within his earshot. Coincidence?

Regardless, at the end of the day, I’m still the one who is hearing the pet name applied to my person. Even though they have, in black and white, in the computer system, my vital statistics, including my name. My name is Sheryle Cruse. I will gladly spell it again for you if that makes things crystal clear.

I’m not “Honey.” I’m not “Dear.” I’m not “Sweetie.” And I am certainly not “Baby Doll.”

Ruminating about this madness in many a waiting room, I’m reminded of a list of negative reasons for name calling and bullying I encountered years ago. I know there’s not the malevolent intent to bully or harm a patient here. Like many of the irritating and harmful things within our society, it, unfortunately, has more to do with the insidious, underground attitudes which seep into a person’s assessment of an individual, especially, if, yes, that individual is female.

According to this bully/name calling list, some of the reasons for the behavior point to the following…

To cover up mistakes…

To disarm…

To distract or divert attention…

To manipulate into compliance…

Huh. Interesting.

Again, it’s not some maniacal villain cackling and wringing his/her hands with plans for dastardly deeds. But there is a reason, perhaps, an infantilizing reason, why you and I may be called “Honey” and “Sweetie” at our next medical appointment. It’s assumed, however wrongly, perhaps, that this is a part of standardized patient care. We are reduced to pet names, ignoring our very real and documented given names.

Again, if I know you and love you, pet names are generally welcome, except for Lutefisk, of course.

Everyone else out there, especially those who tout themselves as “professionals?” You don’t have the privilege of calling me anything other than my given name. To do otherwise is assumption and it’s insulting.

Call me by an unwelcomed pet name and you may hear me respond with, “Thanks, Lutefisk.”

You have been warned now.

Copyright © 2020 by Sheryle Cruse

Just Realized My Trauma...

 

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 © 2020 by Sheryle Cruse

 

Believe the Wounding

 

Abuse is insidious, taking many shapes, including physical, sexual, verbal, emotional, mental, financial, legal and spiritual expressions. All are damaging. There is more than one kind of wound.

Growing up, I experienced verbal, mental and emotional abuse. That was bad enough. However, the secrecy, shame and the reality that I have often not been believed for my experiences have been just as painful, if not more so, than the initial abuse itself.

Physical abuse has existed within my family. However, I only heard of encounters secondhand, but those secondhand accounts were traumatizing, nonetheless. Certain family members used threats, control and lastly, physical violence to make a point. Male figures hit their female counterparts on the head with hammers and, of course, their fists.

Not surprisingly, unfortunately, the abusers were not arrested. The family, the church and the community protected the abusers by believing them instead of the victims. There was nothing to be done except “mind your own business.”

I directly experienced emotional/mental abuse within that toxic mentality. And it had its own harmful effects. One of them was being believed for that abusive reality, which was difficult to achieve. After all, there were no bruises; there were no visible marks.

Therefore, I’ve been in positions in which I had to “prove” that what I experienced was, in fact, abuse and was, in fact, damaging, even though I was never physically struck. Verbal, emotional and mental beatdowns, in some peoples’ minds, didn’t seem to count.

And again, family and the community, too often, rallied around the abuser, defending that person with fervent conviction.

But I was still harmed. Beginning in childhood and resurfacing in some of my encounters as an adult, the abuse experiences I lived instilled a “fear of God,” worst-case scenario as a normal baseline in my being. I learned to fear in that corrosive atmosphere. Power inequity, threats, name calling, humiliation, intimidation and deceit were all just business as usual.

Constant rumblings of perpetual danger, constant messages of needing to keep the peace “or else,” imprinted toxicity into my childhood. I learned this was the way I needed to approach the world. Every interaction required hypervigilance. Every person was a person I needed to please, in order to avoid trouble. I learned silence about reality was mandatory. Family image was more prioritized than truth.

I learned no one would believe me over my more powerful abuser.

I learned emotions weren’t safe.

I learned how to make something pretty on the outside, no matter how ugly or painful it is on the inside. Keep quiet; don’t tell. Be unheard. Continue to walk on those eggshells.

And verbal abuse, inevitably, went along with that.

Who Told/Taught You That?

 “You’re never going to amount to anything!”

“You can’t do anything right!”

“You’re so stupid!”

“You’ll never change!”

“You’re no good!”

I heard these statements daily. No, there were not any fists hitting me, but the words were weapon enough.

Because there was an inequity of power (I, especially as a child, had none), I could not defend myself against the daily onslaught of demoralizing statements. They were uttered by adults and authority figures who were not to be challenged or confronted.

The Argument I Couldn’t Win:

The hopelessness was debilitating, because how could I prevail over an adult telling me that I will be nothing, that I am good for nothing? But further injury occurred, as I turned to get help.

I was met with minimization and told me it wasn’t as bad as I thought it was. Being yelled at and told that I wasn’t going to amount to anything was not a life or death issue. It was just something I had to deal with, that’s all.

Individuals who said these things were often coming from their own physical abuse situations.

So, to them, I suppose, verbal/emotional abuse wasn’t so awful. These individuals were convinced if I would just “try a little harder,” things would be different.

“It’s just words; it’s not that bad.”

And so, I did try harder. It manifested in things like eating disorders, perfectionism and constant anxiety.

Words do create.

And abusive words don’t always have to be the most hateful, venomous insults, either. Sometimes, they can include the word, “love,” but the abuser will distort it for his/her own agendas.

You and I may, indeed, hear, “I love you” from an abuser. But it’s not unconditional love; it has “strings.” It involves some transaction or performance on our part to “earn” and “keep” that love. Pleasing the abuser achieves the love; displeasing disqualifies us from it.

And, there are also too many of us who have never heard the statement, “I love you” from an abuser.  Abusive words can take the form of words of omission. Our abuser may withhold, again, to achieve a certain agenda, power or purpose.

We ache to be loved as human beings. Therefore, if we feel that love is “just out of reach,” unattainable or even nonexistent, we learn wrong things about ourselves, about healthy relationships and about life itself.

Yes, It Is Abuse!

And then, there’s another kind of abuse, the disbelief…

You and I can encounter this form of abuse as we share our experiences. Again, we can tell a supposedly “trusted” family member, friend, teacher, coach, co-worker, doctor, attorney or member of the clergy or the police about our plight.

And, instead of getting support and help, we get accused and punished. We get doubt about what we’ve experienced.

(Uttered about our abuser) “I just love ______. He/she is SOOO nice, sweet, funny…”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“At least you weren’t beaten.”

“Unless he/she was arrested for it, you can’t prove it happened.”

It’s all too common with any reports of violence: abuse, rape, sexual harassment. The MeToo Movement may help with some of that harmful disbelief.

But still, too often the burden is upon the abused person to prove heinous things are done. We are not given the benefit of the doubt. Unfortunately, many times, the only person who experiences that benefit is the abuser.

I know there are some people falsely declare they were abused as a financial moneymaker.

But, most of the children and adults reporting a violating act or set of circumstances are, indeed, being abused.

We complain about “the system.” It’s broken, imperfect, overwhelmed. They are too many cases on the docket. There is too much legal red tape.

But we still cannot get away from one disturbing truth. It’s not about intent. It’s about IMPACT.

If someone approaches us and tells us they were abused, do we believe them?

I have been abused.

Do you believe me?

That is the starting point. That can be the determination between getting help… or getting abused all over again.

Copyright © 2020 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 © 2020 by Sheryle Cruse

 

In the Way

 

“In the Way” explores how this harmful sentiment governs and impacts our lives.

https://www.elephantjournal.com/2020/08/in-the-way-explores-how-this-harmful-sentiment-governs-and-impacts-our-lives/

 

Someone Needs To Hear This...

 

You are a Story

 

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 © 2020 by Sheryle Cruse