If Someone Treats You Poorly...

 

Be Like Water

 

“Be like water making its way through cracks. Do not be assertive, but adjust to the object, and you shall find a way round or through it. If nothing within you stays rigid, outward things will disclose themselves. Empty your mind. Be formless, shapeless. Like water. You put water into a bottle and it becomes the bottle. You put it in a teapot, it becomes the teapot. Now, water can flow or it can crash. Be water, my friend.”

Bruce Lee

That’s a tall order; be like water.

Still, within the past ten years, I’ve been placing that order… with myself. I’m hardly the sinewy animal, fighting and adapting to each adversary; it’s not quite Bruce Lee.

Rather, it’s more like this. I’m coping. It doesn’t sound as ferocious. But I’m doing my own adaptation of the “be like water” principle. There are three main forms it can take: liquid, solid and gas. I started seeing, however unconsciously, I have been taking on those varying forms within the past ten years.

Liquid:

This is what most of us visualize when we think of water- its liquid form. And it’s powerful.

Water can drown. Water can give and sustain life. Water refreshes. Water ruins. But always, water, in liquid form, is fluid, ever- changing shape, adapting, coursing through its pathway.

As my life has become more complicated, through the caretaking of my mother and my diagnosis, I’ve become more familiar with it, via tears.

Yep, I’m crying a lot these days. And, while that may not seem especially noteworthy, the context of those tears, for me, is. I have cried in public more often now. Cancer and caregiving can do that to a person.

I’ve always been self-conscious about crying in front of people. My early abuse experiences taught me that vulnerability was weakness- and could, therefore, be exploited. So, don’t cry. Have your limbs torn from your body, bleed profusely, lose everything dear to you and be eternally lonely, but whatever you do, do not cry.

Since my diagnosis, I have cried in front of therapists and specialists who were virtual strangers. Often, my tears were a surprise to me, as I convinced myself I could keep it together. But, inevitably, things would bubble up when a certain person asked me questions about my life, even something as mundane as the spelling of my name or my birthdate. Tears. Ever-so quietly and slowly, a tissue box is slid in my direction. I get empathy eyes. And no one pounces on me.

But here’s the caveat to that point: these individuals are safe. One still needs to be wise about who is around them. Not everyone is to be trusted.

Still, realizing that I could cry and the world would not explode on me was helpful. Granted, it’s not the most comfortable feeling to cry in front of others, especially when they’re strangers, but I give myself the permission to have the release valve I need. Tears allow toxic, painful emotions to flow away from us, literally.

After my diagnosis, I finally realized I had to get more honest and accepting of my true feelings, tear-driven ones included; to refuse to do so could be deadly.

So, yes, Bruce Lee, I am like water here.

Solid:

Of course, with all of these tears, and all of this feeling, I still encountered harmful instances of people who were just not “getting it.” Here comes the unsolicited advice and judgment from people who believed they knew more about my body, my thoughts and my life than I did. And, after politely telling them, “no thank you,” regarding their responses, I employed the next form of water, my icy backbone.

Yes, sometimes, I have had to take a rigid stance, especially with boundaries. Some people I’ve come across have made thoroughly upsetting comments. They have told me “it’s too late for me.” Maybe, they thought this was “Scared Straight.” Maybe they thought fear was motivational. Here’s some feedback; it’s not, at least not for me, anyway.

So, I have gotten a primer on being this solid form of H2O. Ice is rigid water and may, at first glance, look like a formidable spine. But never forget, it can fracture easily. Care must be taken with this solid form. This icy incarnation can shatter into shards.

And, depending upon the circumstances, I must act accordingly. I will freeze out harmful people.

Sometimes, in life, I have to be a real icicle.

I follow Bruce Lee’s advice again; I am like water.

Gas:

Piggybacking this sentiment, I have had revelations about the third form water takes: gas (or mist). Sometimes, for all of the feeling, boundary- enforcing and backbone-creating, I am left with only my final option: dissipation. Sometimes, I just have to get gone and completely remove myself from a harmful situation.

I dissipate, when I need to. Mist is stealth. It’s the least visible of all three forms of water. My lack of presence in some people’s lives is quiet. Dying by attrition. Paraphrasing Dr. Maya Angelou’s advice, “I saw these people for who they were- and I believed them.”

Case in point: one particular event, involving my blood relatives. I went a few rounds with them, in which I said “no,” firmly and politely, to their requests that were simply too expensive for me to grant. More to point, I didn’t want to grant these requests. So, I said “no.” Cajoling and retaliation have since ensued, not the least of which was being called a ***** for my stance. Family fun.

And, this was long before I learned the empowered acronym entrepreneur/hairstylist, Tabitha Coffey employs: Brave-Intelligent-Tenacious-Creative-Honest.

I know this acronym was certainly not my blood relatives’ intention. Using the word as an insulting slur, however, was. So, I’d finally seen- and heard- what I was encountering. Abuse isn’t just getting hit; it’s the refusal to respect a person’s “no,” especially, when another party is only wanting a “yes.” My final recourse was to stop all contact. I evaporated from their lives. And, more than likely, these individuals have not noticed. They only notice if they “need” something from me. I am not readily available for that.

So, here I am, again, following Bruce Lee’s advice. I am like water. I am mist.

States of Being:
Concerning water, we’re still quite clueless about this its mysteries. Water holds power in what we do not know (yet). But it exists, nonetheless, being, without apology. Be like water. It offers no explanation; the onus is on us to discover more about its savage beauty, healing and purpose.

Maybe that was what Bruce Lee was trying to say.

Copyright © 2020 by Sheryle Cruse

 

The One Thing

 

Remember To Practice Self-Care

 

Redefining Angels

 

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

As a little girl, I was drawn to angels. No. I was obsessed with them. To look at photographs of me around the ages of five through eight, I made a habit of “posing” like one of them, hands pressed together in prayer. There’s one photo of me standing in a gigantic empty china closet (don’t ask me why), in that angel pose. I thought they were beautiful and I aspired to be just like them “when I grew up.”

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

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

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

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

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

But all ethereal is not good ethereal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For me, that’s truly angelic.

Copyright © 2020 by Sheryle Cruse

 

 

“

 

Oh Chaplain, My Chaplain!

 

Cancer initiates a wide spectrum of treatment approaches. Blood is drawn, we are scanned, operated on, injected and burned. We can be pumped with hormones, have body parts removed and see specialist after specialist. It can send the toughest of us into mental breakdown.

Before I go any further, please allow me to introduce myself. I am known for my writing, mostly of a sort of Christian/spiritual bent. I think I can hear your eye roll right now. I mention my “background” to give context to my current ground. I consider myself to be a person of faith, holding tight to certain principles of that faith.

But, with that being said, I have, over the years, evolved, morphed and changed. Like most of us out there. Some people would say I have even “strayed.”

However, it’s not that simple.

I had lived a life, repeatedly smacking into hypocritical walls and a lack of compassion within a religious setting. For years, I had reached out for help and support concerning both my eating disorder struggles and the abuse from my childhood.

Once, I had one pastor who, upon my request for help stated, “Counseling is not really something I do. I suggest you talk to someone else.”

You mean, like a pastor?!?!?!?

Yeah, that’s typically the stuff I encountered. “Church hurt” is often how it’s described and, man, was I ever!

So, now, the dilemma. After distancing myself from “the church,” I was diagnosed with Breast cancer. Now what?

I went through testing, waiting, freaking out, getting my mastectomy and radiation treatments. I saw specialists; I made tough decisions. I prayed, a/k/a, I begged and whined.

And, after doing this for a while, I cautiously enquired about the chaplain associated with the Cancer Care department in my clinic. I called her extension and left a rambling message about my concerns that my version of spirituality and her version may not be able to co-exist. I had done the cliché church program. I was not looking to do that now. Would she, could she, accept that?

I was skeptical, because, when most of us hear the word, “Chaplain,” we automatically think of a straight-laced pastor in an equally straight-laced dogma.

It can be intimidating, as, in our very gritty cancer experiences, our words and responses often appear to be less than “Holy.” What if we let an “F-bomb” accidently drop? What if we’re not “cleaned up enough” for the Chaplain? What if we’re too sad, too anxious or too angry, because of our cancer and life experiences, to withstand the scripture solutions doled out to us?

So, now, not only do we have cancer, but we also have additional fear and guilt added on to it?

Yeah, sign me up for that.

Let’s call her “Serenity.” It’s not her real name, but it might as well be. The woman is peaceful. I, indeed, respect Serenity’s privacy and, let’s face it, naming her “Mimsy” is not going to cut it.

So, this chaplain, Serenity, returned my voicemail and we spoke about how she and I would approach things. I told her about my denominational background, how life had taken me through some twists and turns. I told her I had a significant faith experience that sent me moving away from my denominational start and into the land of the megachurches. From that place, I encountered tremendous growth, opportunities… and also being “church hurt.” I saw, firsthand, the priority image, money and hierarchy played; often, they were emphasized to the detriment of helping “the flock.”

I was explaining this to Serenity and she was nonchalant about it. No ruffled feathers of panic like I was used to. She told me she operated from a universal approach, all-inclusive. After all, cancer patients come in all sizes, beliefs and faiths. She herself, had roots in Catholicism. But, over the years she admitted she has “branched out.”

Okay, so, we’re branching. I think this could work.

And, since that initial phone call, Serenity and I have been branching out on many cancer-related themes. She has the personal experience to back it up; she’s a Breast cancer survivor, herself.

We have talked a lot about the fear, the uncertainty. She knows I’m “high strung” and, over our conversations, has encouraged me to locate my “anchors,” the solid, dependable structures that exist for me whenever fear, change and painful things occur. Writing is one of those anchors.

Likewise, she’s advised me to keep “a short horizon.” I’m to focus on here and now more than the weeks, months and years that intimidate me. This is a struggle; I’m a planner. I’m also a catastrophizer. Chicken Little, sky is falling, let’s build a cancer bunker kind of stuff.

(I’m a great party guest).

And, throughout our sessions, she has always respected my boundaries. That’s a biggie for me, having come from childhood abuse and toxic relationships. “No” is my close friend.

One meaningful incident illustrating her respect of my limits involved a phone conversation that was particularly intense. In our past meetings, she and I would typically close with prayer. And I was okay with that… typically.

But this conversation was too heavy. I felt I needed to end our conversation; I requested that she not pray with me over the phone, but on her own. I wasn’t “anti- prayer.” I was anti-further upsetting myself. Things were just too intense for me. Her response?

“I’m glad you said that.”

Wow.

She didn’t try to strong-arm me into Albrecht Dürer’s “Praying Hands?” She respected me, in my less than Kumbaya mental state and supported the truth of that moment?

Uncharted spiritual territory!

This locked it in for me; she and I can continue talking. There was no judging, no coercion. There was no “you’re wrong and evil; repent, sinner!”

No. There was “I will support you; tell me what that support looks like.”

And, I think that’s what true Chaplaincy should look like. It doesn’t come with Ecclesiastical robes, a priest’s collar, or even the mention of a denominationally-specific, incarnation of God. It is support and the recognition that yes, there is something at work, larger than us, freeing us from needing to control everything (as much as our control freak selves fight that).

But it always comes back to support, a listening ear, not a judging mouth or mind.

Spirituality can, indeed, be a large piece of cancer recovery: prayer, meditation, a code of conduct we follow. The chaplain experience can be a bridge between full-on religion and practical life coach.

And, each of us needs to take some time to figure out what that means for us. What are we wanting? What are we needing? It’s not about proselytizing; it’s about genuinely experiencing this cancer thing, in its brutal complexity, with another fellow heartbeat. Sometimes, that involves simply sitting, with no immediate solutions and being aware we are heard, seen and cared for.

Is this the true religion? I don’t know. But is it truly help?

Yes, I believe it is.

Copyright © 2020 by Sheryle Cruse

 

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