Sleeping Like Dracula
Breast cancer upends everything, sleeping included. I’m not talking about the terrifying death thoughts that keep you up all night. That’s a given. I’m talking about the actual sleeping position itself.
I am a stomach sleeper. Face mushed into the pillow, maybe some drool oozing out of my mouth. But, yeah, a stomach sleeper, nonetheless.
When I was diagnosed with Breast cancer, the biopsy was the first thing that disrupted that sleep position. Yep, drilling into my breast, extracting “suspicious mass” tissue to confirm, yay or nay, if there’s cancer going on- that would change some things. And I had not one, not two, but three of these biopsies when all was said and done.
With each biopsy incident, I recovered with ice packs to the affected areas, ever- aware I better not make a wrong move. There was risk of infection to each drilled spot. I was sore, feeling pulsating sensitivity in both breasts.
So, I became accustomed to sleeping like Dracula in a coffin. I camped out on the couch after each one of these procedures were done. I chose the couch to avoid flipping all over the place in my queen-size bed. I needed the “barrier” of the couch’s back to keep me immobilized enough, to prevent me from rolling over, unconsciously landing in the stomach sleep position.
Granted, I could have easily rolled over in the other direction, falling onto the floor. I didn’t have the full protective guard rails of an adult-size crib. But, thankfully, that didn’t happen. I was an uncomfortable, sore-chested Dracula lying on her couch-coffin.
A couple of months after my biopsies, I had my bilateral mastectomy. Now, there were no longer breasts, only bandages, stitches and grenade-looking drains plugged into me like some science fiction creature. Sleeping on my stomach, again, was not an option, especially with those pesky drains. Whenever I moved the wrong way, they pulled at me, stinging me.
Breast surgery recovery meant I had to convalesce for six weeks, with limited mobility. Sleeping, once again, was a factor. I did my best to remedy the situation.
To pillow or not to pillow- that is the question.
Initially, pillows seemed like a no-brainer. Suggestions for a slew of them were made by medical staff and Breast cancer survivors alike. Pillows, pillows and more pillows. Pillows to the rescue.
Easier said than done.
First, the body pillow solution. It was suggested that I sleep with one of the suckers; prop it up against my back, gently creating a, “S” curve to my spine, making me lean ever so slightly to the “unaffected” side. Nice theory. But I had no “unaffected” side concerning my chest. Bilateral mastectomy, everyone. Both sides.
I just couldn’t get the body pillow to work. It was too bulky, always falling off the edge of the couch.
And I tried regular pillows, propping my head and my legs. That just made my neck ache; I felt like I was a fold- up chair. Eventually, during a fitful night’s sleep, they’d land on the floor. I also tried accent pillows. The whole thing was just out of control. They, likewise, all made their way to the floor. At least the floor looked really comfortable. But, for me, discomfort was something I had to resign myself to, no way around it.
Still, tried and true: flat Dracula, on my back, no frills, no pillows, just sore.
Sleeping While Burned?
And then came radiation. Yep, you guessed it, more Dracula in the coffin.
As if biopsies, surgery, stitches, drains, pillow overkill and general discomfort weren’t fun enough, now, let’s burn the skin for extra giggles!
Radiation is self-explanatory. Yes, I voluntarily chose to burn my chest area, again, in the name of eradicating cancer. And I knew sleeping would be affected making this decision.
Burned skin, overly- tight skin, peeling skin- check, check, check. Everyone’s all here. And none of it was conducive to getting a restful night’s sleep, and certainly not on my stomach.
For the majority of my 30-day treatment, things were rather uneventful, just varying degrees of burning. Dracula sleeping, once again. But, oh, probably around day twenty, the tightening started making me feel like my skin was going to split apart. Not a reassuring feeling. Only by applying a wonderful radiation-specific cream to the area did I get relief.
By day twenty-seven, I then started the peeling process. Besides the overall discomfort, now I had another issue: not leaving my peeled skin all over the place.
I know, sexy.
But I was fidgety. So, on the couch, on the floor, on my blankets were pieces of my pretty peeled skin. It reminded me of when I had Chicken Pox at age sixteen for sheer shedding power.
And that complicated the next phase of my radiation adventures: itchiness.
No Scratching Zone!
Burned, tight and peeling skin were not fun enough for yours truly. Oh, no! Let’s have me be at my absolute itchiest at two o’clock in the morning, with a burned chest! Watch the fun!
This was probably the most discomfort I felt doing my Dracula sleeping/Breast cancer recovering. Pain and drains (rhyme much?) were one thing. Not being able to stomach sleep was no fun fest, either.
But itching, itching!
At precisely those burned, peeling spots, especially going into my right arm, there existed such an agony that, of course, in my healing state, I could not alleviate. I could not scratch. My chest was too vulnerable. I wasn’t out of the woods concerning infection and complications. Flashing my care team on a daily basis was evidence of that. The constant skin checking. Was everything Kosher? Or was it, danger, danger?
The radiation-specific cream helped somewhat. But itching is itching. And tentative attempts at rubbing instead of scratching the affected spots did not stop it.
So, there I was, two in the morning, in darkness, on my coffin-couch, feeling irritated, involuntarily nocturnal and tired. I was counting my radiation sessions instead of sheep, hoping there was light at the end of the sleep-deprived tunnel.
Eventually, my thirty days were up. Post-radiation meant its own recovery, just applying lotion to the area, doing skin checks. Gradual healing.
And Dracula sleeping in the coffin, for almost a year.
Now What?
Things are moving on now. Life is changing. Hopefully, I’m continuing to heal. I have finally reached a point where I am able to sleep on my stomach. (Does anyone hear an angel choir, or it that just me?) I was nervous about doing so for the longest time. I constantly worried, “Is it too soon?” “Will I wreck my chest?”
But no. I do now have to sleep with one of those accent pillows wedged just so. But, occasionally, I still sleep on my back. That initially surprised me. I suppose I learned- formed- a newer habit.
It’s been an unlikely head’s up, or rather, chest up.
Breast cancer has showed me that yes, indeed, I can do whatever I set my mind to. I just didn’t know that would include my sleeping Dracula impression.
But you do what you gotta do.
And, “I v-v-ant to get some sleep!”
Copyright © 2023 by Sheryle Cruse
Gaslighting’s Laughter
Gaslighting has become a trendy buzzword lately. It’s used to describe the crazymaking tactics often employed within an abusive dynamic.
Indeed, Wikipedia offers its own definition…
“Gaslighting is a form of psychological manipulation in which a person seeks to sow seeds of doubt in a targeted individual or in members of a targeted group, making them question their own memory, perception, and sanity. Using persistent denial, misdirection, contradiction, and lying, gaslighting involves attempts to destabilize the victim and delegitimize the victim's belief.”
It's about creating a nagging self-doubt, in which we question what we see, hear, believe and feel. Some common phrases?
“You’re crazy. You’ve lost your mind.”
“What’s wrong with you?
“Why are you so sensitive? This is no big deal.”
“You’re imagining things.”
In my personal experience, I encountered those uttered words. But I also ran into another tactic: laughter.
I’m not talking about jovial laughter, good- natured stuff.
Instead, often in tandem with these pointed phrases, I ran into dismissive, mocking laughter, utilized to deflect from real, serious issues and situations.
One family member, uncomfortable with their own angst concerning the abuse existing with our family structure, used laughter as deflection, to minimize how dangerous things were and how much behaviors needed to change.
Once, as an adolescent in pain, responding to the abuse, I bared my soul, sharing how I was experiencing suicidal thoughts. Within seconds of disclosing that revelation, this person started laughing at me, telling me I was silly. Chuckles bubbled up as I was labeled as being a” too-intense” teenager.
I felt betrayed. But even more of a betrayal?
Well, I’m sure you’ve heard how laughter can be contagious. If fact, there are actual laughing groups, sharing a human experience of contagious laughter as stress relief and bonding.
Think of that contagious reality and now visualize me, this upset teen, being laughed at over my suicidal thoughts. Soon, that contagious laughter spread to me.
I was laughing, and it betrayed my very truth. I had betrayed myself because I had succumbed to the dismissive laughter, offered by an individual whose sole agenda was to stop dealing with the seriousness of the discussed subject matter. As I laughed, as I betrayed myself, it was mission accomplished.
The message was further strengthened to both this family member and to me alike: the pain I was experiencing was silly and unimportant. I shouldn’t take my feelings seriously.
For years, I had numerous experiences with me being upset, and then, ultimately, joining in the betraying, contagious laughter.
But this suicidal discussion was the final straw.
I learned, at the tender age of thirteen, I was no longer safe discussing anything important with this person. Moreover, I learned another harmful lesson: people, in general, were unsafe. I could not risk vulnerability, for fear of being laughed at…or worse.
I also learned distrust of my feelings. Was my pain really that bad? That real? That important? After all, it was so easily “laughed off,” even by me?
What could- should- I believe about that?
Laughter, in and of itself, is not evil or wrong. We’ve all had those moments with loved ones, in which we burst out laughing, even at inopportune times, like a funeral. It’s spontaneous. The more you try to suppress the giggles, the more explosive it gets. We have a hard time controlling our laughter. We have all had that.
That, however, is a stark difference to the laughter of gaslighting.
Within that context, there is no spontaneity, no loving, “in the moment” experience of being collectively human, having a human, if not ridiculous and free, moment.
No, gaslighting’s laughter is all about agenda. What is it?
Some purposeful device to try to…
… Stop an uncomfortable conversation…
… Make someone question the validity of their pain and upset…
… Redirect focus to something or someone else…
… “Make” a problem go away.
The laughter of gaslighting is never about resolving an issue; it seeks to negate it, to manipulate it.
So, do you see your experiences here? Have you ever encountered laughter, that may have appeared innocent and jolly, but still, never felt quite right?
Have you felt the laughter was at your expense?
Have you felt it was a diversionary tactic to avoid dealing with an important issue?
Not all laughter is equal. Some of it is sinister.
And yes, some of it IS abuse.
If an episode of laughter makes you feel unheard, unseen, violated or manipulated, it’s probably because it is aimed at doing just that.
Trust your gut.
Laughter is supposed to make us feel better, not worse.
Copyright © 2023 by Sheryle Cruse
Organic Face Tattoos and Other Hijinks
It’s hard to prepare for Breast cancer. We can often believe we know exactly what that landscape looks like: intense fear, surgery, chemo, radiation, hormone blockers and the looming possibility of death.
But that is not all of the possibilities out there.
Oh, no!
There is still more fun to be had.
Since my diagnosis, I have stumbled upon a few instances of this extra “fun.”
First, there was the matter of my chin. Yes, you heard me.
At the tail end of my radiation, I woke up to a parting gift one morning: a black mark on my chin.
And no, it was not a mole. Those are dark brown. This sucker was jet black and noticeable even with makeup covering it.
After several unsuccessful attempts at scrubbing my face, freaked out, I called my radiation nurse. What was this? We were targeting the right side of my chest, not my chin.
She seemed unconcerned as we spoke on the phone. Meanwhile, I’m wondering if this thing was going to spread further; I still had some treatments to go. I envisioned my mug looking like Mike Tyson’s face tattoo.
She examined it when I came in later that day. And, upon closer inspection, my nurse calmly mentioned how, your favorite and mine, stress could change the pigment of the skin. So… black spots.
She assured me, “In time, it will fade.”
And yes, it has, although I still see a faint trace. Souvenir, I suppose.
I’m Itchy:
Okay, so, eventually, my face calmed down and, concerning Breast cancer mayhem, I was able to focus on my chest. Yep, things were quite chesty in the early days of my recovery. And, that’s because I was itch-er-rific.
They say itching is a sign of healing. Well, then, I was healing intensely.
With my bilateral mastectomy, I told my surgeon to take all of the breast tissue. I wasn’t interested in leaving some behind, a flap’s worth here or there, to possibly get reconstructive surgery if I changed my mind. Nope. I really was done.
So, from surgery wakeup on, I had one patch on my right side that was especially “skin and bone.” I’m talking tissue-paper thin… and itchy.
As I went to checkups with my Cancer Care treatment team, no one raised an eyebrow. This is just my brand of healing. Because so much tissue was removed during my surgery, that patch would be sensitive. It was skin over breastplate bone. Sensitivity, plus all breast tissue removed, plus healing, equals itchy, I guess.
And it persists, to this day. It goes with the tight scar tissue band across my chest. Healing. You can probably hear me scratching right now.
With so much emphasis on the loss or change of breasts, there is not much said about personal itchiness. And I could have really used that head’s up.
Dents and Creases:
Continuing on with the lack of head’s up concerning my Breast cancer experiences, there was the matter of me changing shape with dents…oh, and creases.
I knew I would not have breasts on my chest after my bilateral mastectomy. I knew that area of my body would change. After the stitches, after the burned skin from radiation, after months of my skin tightening and healing, I noticed something. On my right side, the side that contained the tumor and the irradiated, slightly swollen skin, I had a couple of dents. It was explained to me, by my both my physical therapist and my surgeon, how part of my healing involved rebuilding that area. Visions of Arnold Schwarzenegger and Mr. Universe competitions danced before me. I wasn’t thrilled about that. But, indeed, as I healed from major surgery and from radiation’s intensity, I was rebuilding muscle and tissue. So, dents.
And the creases, mainly one prominent one where my right breast used to be, also got my attention. This was beyond a person’s face having a crease or indentation from a pillowcase or a bedspread. This looked like the right side of my chest was ironed and folded incorrectly. When I raised my right arm, it formed a “Y-shaped” crease that traveled North. And it did not straighten out as I attempted to push, pull and stretch my skin. Nope, just a divining rod, “Y-shape,” almost smirking from its crease-i-ness.
So, there I was again, panicking, bringing this up to my care team. Again, I was assured I was simply healing. This was how I was sewn up and this was how my skin responded to my scar site. Regenerating muscle and developing scar tissue were all part of the “new normal chest,” with a large “Y” chest crease.
I learned the lesson: if you have Breast cancer, along with its accompanying surgery and procedures, your chest will change in ways you didn’t expect.
And, just when I got slightly comfortable in that lesson’s discomfort, another wackadoodle thing popped up. But this time, it wasn’t my chest. Try my left calf instead.
Yeah.
A year after my surgery and radiation, I felt a discomfort- and a lump- in my left calf muscle. My little imagination went straight to worst-case scenario. I wondered if this was a cancerous mass. And this discovery happened during the holiday season. It wasn’t a very merry Christmas- nope. Amid the colorful lights and “good will toward men,” I was pondering Sarcoma and possible amputation, fa-la-la-la-la. Extreme, you might say? Out of the realm of possibility? Well, cancer already hit my life. And my dark nature bleakly concluded that all bets were officially off now.
When I had it checked out, my primary physician, to her credit, did not dismiss me as a silly girl, patting me on the head. No, after explaining my symptoms, she immediately ordered X-rays and an ultrasound. Top of her concern list? A potential- and life-threatening- blood clot.
Oh, great, something else to think about.
I learned this possible issue could occur after surgery and radiation: yes, both of those procedures put me at an elevated risk of blood clots. Fantastic. Cut nerves and pathways are cut nerves and pathways. I couldn’t avoid the fact that my body was attempting to adjust to itself after some major physical trauma. Anyway, I was zapped and canvased and received my results within the next two hours.
No, I wasn’t dying. There wasn’t a tumor. There wasn’t a blood clot. Instead, it was the return flare up of my chronic back issues, a non-Breast cancer issue. My physician explained I had thousands of miles on me, like a car.
It’s always great to hear you’re old, especially from a medical professional.
But even though this was not directly Breast-cancer related, the knowledge of potential clots showing up in my legs and other weird things happening to my body is still something on my radar screen, as I ponder all manner of “what’s wrong with me now” thoughts.
The fact is I’m more vulnerable to things going wrong. Fun. Call it recurrence, complications, “increased risk,” or “mileage,” it still emphasizes how a weird thing happening to my body can no longer simply be dismissed. Cancer Land, the amusement park that it is, changed that.
So, lumps, bumps, dents, aches, pains, sensations and pigment changes are all possible hijinks now. And yes, that irritates me. Nevertheless, I pay attention and go along for the ride, taking care of each situation, one by one.
I have to say “hi” to the hijinks.
Copyright © 2023 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 © 2023 by Sheryle Cruse
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 © 2023 by Sheryle Cruse
In the Way
“Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you.”
Marianne Williamson
Years ago, at a family wedding, I was navigating a reception full of people. As everyone was milling around, trying to access the refreshments, I made the comment, bumping into people, “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to be in the way.” One person responded to that comment by saying, “You’re not in the way,” and it jolted me. I had a sudden awareness, just then, of those three little words, which seemed to govern much of my life: “In the Way.”
Yes, those three little words seemed to be there from the start, and, perhaps, explain some of my descent into disordered eating. I had been through therapy and had even having written a book about my experiences, including this excerpted poem:
“…I must be as small as dust…
Smaller
just take up
less space
less room…
Just be small,
Nothing,
No trouble
at all…”
“Famine (Little Girl Decided),” from “Thin Enough: My Spiritual Journey of an Eating Disorder” by Sheryle Cruse
I thought I had dealt with things in a thorough manner. I thought I had dealt with the insidious triggers and issues that had plagued me throughout my childhood and young adulthood.
But, come on, it’s not that tidy, is it?
No, rather this wedding moment showed me how “in the way” was still a roadblock I encountered daily. But now, in more recent days, it had less to do with food or body issues… and more to do with feeling inherently worthy.
I know. Cliché much?
Yet, at this wedding I was confronted by my own personal negative associations regarding taking up space.
Subtext: taking up too much space.
The oppressive judgment here was palpable. Always screaming at me, “too much, never enough, too much, never enough.” It went beyond food, weight, and body issues. We’re talking soul level here: my mind, will, and emotions were constantly hounded by self-rejection. I held myself to impossible standards, always condemning myself for coming up short. I could not occupy my place on this planet “right.” I was not taking up the “right” amount of value space. I was, essentially, “in the way.”
So, what are some of the things we, perhaps, tell ourselves, convincing ourselves of this harmful perspective in the first place?
Our mere existence is blocking something better.
Right away, we are confronted by the lie we tell ourselves: we are inherently unworthy and value-less. The good old “not good enough” argument encroaches on us, insisting that someone or something is always “better” than us. No matter what we do or do not do, it doesn’t seem to matter. We are not as good as (insert that someone or something).
It is simply inconceivable to believe that we, all by ourselves, are enough. We don’t need to prove anything. There is no bar we need to reach. And we are certainly not a “placeholder” until that “something better” comes along.
You and I are “it,” right now. Let’s remember to act like it.
We are unwanted… by everyone… all the time.
This old classic.
For those of us who’ve survived any kind of abuse, especially from our family of origin, we have often internalized the harmful message of “I am not wanted.” Maybe we were literally told that, day in, day out, by our parents, partners, or spouses. And no matter how much therapy, positive affirmation, and healthier choices we may make in life, we still grapple with an embedded sense of unworthiness, don’t we?
Everyone wants to feel chosen. Yet how many of us actually experience that state of being on a regular basis? Life is grueling enough, filled with rejection at every turn.
And, for those of us who have endured abuse, that “chosen” or “wanted” status is the elusive carrot, constantly dangled before us, promising us the world and a life free of fear, pain, and unhappiness, only “if” we perform according to specification.
So, we chase the carrot, hoping “this time” it will work. “this time” the lie will be the truth. But it doesn’t quite work out that way.
Just more chasing.
And, all the while, we are in the barren land of feeling “in the way.” After all, what else are we to think? We’re not chosen. We are tolerated, at best.
This is often the mistaken, toxic belief of some other person, forced on us, largely because, many times, this person was an adult, a parent, an authority figure who supposedly “knew better.”
But, oftentimes, at best, they were products of abusive dynamics themselves. Call it pattern, generational curse, or cycle, the same toxic message gets passed down from generation to generation.
Left unchallenged, it continues to proliferate.
But we can interrupt and intercept that harmful message.
We can, after all, want and choose ourselves.
Eye roll all you want, but, having survived our traumas of childhood, destructive relationships, and unhealthy coping strategies (and, if you are reading these words, yes, indeed, you have survived your circumstances), you and I are now in a better position to make another choice… a better choice.
Small choice by small choice. Line by line. Precept by precept.
What teeny choice can we make right now?
We don’t deserve to want and need.
This old chestnut. The deserving of it all.
Oh, where to start, where to start?
Unworthiness messages, again, often start being received in our childhood experiences. Parents, peers, teachers, and other influential adults are just some of the usual suspects. We are told- and taught- that, inherently, we don’t deserve love, peace, and autonomy. Abuse steals those things from us, by denying our very right to experience them, by downplaying why we should seek them out, and by shaming us for desiring them in the first place.
But living with those things in our lives is vital, just, and warranted. We are not wrong for having needs and wants, especially for love, security, safety, and dignity. And if we are told otherwise, if we are told we are “in the way,” for hungering for those basic of human rights, that is simply a destructive lie, based nowhere in fact, only in a harmful agenda to control, manipulate, and abuse.
Remove the Stone.
Life can start out by piling on the avalanche of “in the way” rocks. But, eventually, we can become our own boulder. We can become our own abuser, if we’re not careful and mindful. We can stand as an obstacle to our ultimate purpose and happiness, and we can crush anyone and anything that comes across our path, trying to love and bless us.
We, all by ourselves, can do this. We can get in our own way.
But we can make another choice. We can accept we have the inherent right to take up space, to exist, to be loved, to be treated well. Is it easy? No. Is it a one-time thing? No.
But is it meant for each one of us, no matter what? Yes.
You and I have the right to exist, to thrive, to live, love and be loved, respected, and appreciated by others. We’re not second- class citizens. We’re not scraps, leftovers, or damaged goods.
You and I are not “in the way.” We belong in this life for powerful, meaningful reasons. Let’s find our way with that.
Copyright © 2023 by Sheryle Cruse
