How I Got Out of Bed at 4:30 pm,

How do I get out of bed?

It’s after 4:30, my legs and arms and face feel empty of life… yet my heart is beating rapidly. I hear the magpies outside, and there is a bee in my bedroom window.

I wonder what that bee is doing. How did it get in here? It must feel so trapped.

My bedroom, a mausoleum for bees and other creatures that can’t escape. Creatures like me.

I shift my legs from side to side, knowing I must move and create some deep breaths. It hurts to inhale…. So I exhale all the way until I have no more within me to give out-then my body sucks all the air it can possibly hold.

There is the magpie again.

And I need to help this bee find it’s way outside… it can’t seem to do it alone .

And like that…I am standing on my feet. Looking out the window… a storm is gathering itself.

Thank you for listening,

Erliss

Ghost Story

Content Warning: Sexual Predator

I still smell you.

That aroma of cigarettes and booze.

This grime encased carpet that you shoved my face into

time after time after time

and the dirty pillowcase that tasted of your drool.

I feel rug burns on my cheeks.

I can’t breathe… again…again…again…

I saw your face for the first time in many years the other day.

You are a sad old man, who apparently still likes teenage girls – and younger – they crowd your friend list.

What are you doing with all these children? Hmmm? Do they make you feel like a man? Do they provide the little you a sense of superiority?

Do you make them earn money for you, or do you pay the assholes who pimp them?

Someday you will have no power over them.

Someday you will have no power over me.

Someday you will have no power over anyone.

I can not wait

for the ghost of you

to be

gone.

Thank you for listening,

Erliss

Image: Screenshot of lightening from video.

PS: This has been reported.

Ag·o·ra·pho·bi·a: An Episode in Terror

I could not leave the house today.
I tried leaving the house at 11 to go to a meeting, but my body was fused to my bed like a mosquito on fly paper.
I tried leaving the house at 1 to attend a book study at work. But I went to put on my shoes and could not feel my feet and thought I might fall and fall and fall
and fall
and
F

L
.
   I tried leaving the house at 3:15 for therapy.
I really tried leaving the house at 3:15 for therapy.
Put on your shoes Erliss. One step at a time.   Stretch our your arm so you can feel your coat sleeve. One foot. Other foot. One arm. Other arm. We can do this, Erliss. We. Can. Do. This.
My heart beat so hard it felt like a machete thrusting through my sternum.
  Keep going Erliss.

I stood, and something gripped my throat – creepy slimy voice

“You are going to die today, Erlisssssssssss.”

“i can’t breathe”
The door – get through the door Erliss.
But the door was angry – It’s fiery bones pulsated as I reached towards it
i was scared.
Just turn the handle, Erliss. You can do it.

I thought I could, I tried.
But the only portal to my salvation erupted with flames and smoke and epic hurricanes, earthquakes, floods, asteroids
all the beasts of the air the beasts of the water the beasts of the sky
Leviathan and Behemoth and a thousand tongues screamed in unison

“You can’t do anything right
You are stain on humanity
I hate you I hate you I hate you
You have no right to be here
Don’t touch me
Don’t touch me
DO NOT TOUCH ME!”

Their hands on my ankles my shoulders my thighs my waist my neck my eyes my throat
my reach twisted inward
SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEZE

i can’t breathe
i can’t feel my feet.
my body is fused to the floor
like a mosquito on fly paper.

Mocking whispers tell me stories of their conquest.
My chin to my knees, I melt into their vocalizations as the door towers above,
a cross awaiting my crucifixion.

I am not leaving
the house
today.
?

Thank you for listening,
Much love to each of you,
Erliss

Doubt: God In Her Eyes

You are bad.

You are evil.

You have no right to be here.

God can not love you.

God can not see you.

God can not know you.

The incessant speeches accent a haunted hysteria. Their laughter is declamatory, regardless of accuracy, as if they are the voice of prophecy.

And they curse me while pummeling six feet of soil on my brow, making mud with my tears. My burial becomes a mud hut for the waste they say I am…

I can not speak up for myself. I yearn to demand: ”I’m real. Turn around God, look into me, I am real!”

But I open my mouth and thousands of flies surge the insides of my cheeks, and I remember the words from long ago “You can never speak of these things.” A hand covers my eyes and I fall

I fall

fall

I can not differentiate between my “self” and the voices who parade my shame to all the world; the embarrassment and horror overwhelm my little one, and she disappears. In her place is a siren who can prance her own humiliation – for her shame is powerful, and can make them rue their lust. She is strong, and tells God “Fuck you.”

But she never stays long…the voices overwhelm even her, and she slithers away the moment the tobacco pipe cigar smokes and whiskey smells—they initiate her disappearance with one puff as if she never existed –and I am left in a kind of unholy terror wondering if I

Will. Ever.

Breathe.

Again.

There are other people in there, who come to my rescue for a few moments, with great courage, but they too leave me stranded.

My little one, my little self. ☹

It is almost impossible, maybe completely so, to uncurl from under the couch and show your face to the sun without burning holes in your eye sockets. And then it’s more impossible not to make a sound.

Where is God?

As I write that question in my adult state, sitting on my couch in the middle of the night with my dog at my feet – I am in terror. I am not five or four or six, but nearly fifty. It all comes back, the forsakenness of my tiny being – who could not fight, who could only hide or disappear into the one they wanted her to be.

And she believes everything. She believes that God can not love her, because God can not look upon evil, because she is Depravity’s sin, the spawning of God’s disgust.

I wish…I wish I could show her God’s eyes so she could discover her reflection there. But I have to say I am – even my adult self – quite unsure if she would find it there.

But Erliss, what if God is the one who doubts?

Maybe God is searching…

for God’s self

in

her

eyes.

Thank you for listening,

Much Love to each of you.

Love,

Erliss

Split Into

I am in my bed. Tired from a long day. I spent half of it crying about my intrinsic evil-no good-disgusting-smelly-dirty-rotten-useless nature; And the other half laughing, feeling grateful, excited, learning hope…learning hope…learning…

But now I lay me down to sleep as a tiger growls and screeches and claws through my insides and I am
back
in
the
world
of
disgust
ing
me.
🙁
Thank you for listening.
Erliss

Break on Through To The Other Side: Terror in My Shoes

3:30 am. My dog wonders why I am up and dressed. She looks on, pleading “Please go to sleep, mommy. You are getting loopy.”

Yeah, she talks to me in plain English. Don’t judge or argue, just accept it as fact.

Sigh.

But I can not go to bed.

I can not even get myself to change my clothes, or take off my running shoes. And I am NOT a runner.

My heart beats through my chest, my foot tap tap tap tap tap on the floor, and the other leg can’t stop swinging.

Time for bed. You are so sleepy. Get up and go to bed.

Instead I get up and pace…

I gotta get out…I can’t be here…Help…help me…GET ME OUT OF HERE!

There are invisible bugs crawling on my arms – they feel gross, like I need to burn my skin off. I know there are no bugs or creatures there, it’s just how it feels. A sensation – something is eating away in my core. I do crunches every day to strengthen the muscles there, but now I sense a hole forming, like a punch in the stomach, only it goes all the way through to the other side…

Break on through to the other side, break on through to the other side…

(Jim Morrison, how did you get in this story? )

There is some paranoia as I search the space behind the couch –

No one is there, Erliss.

I am afraid to take off my shoes.

I am afraid to undress and change my clothes.

I am afraid to position myself for sleep.

I am afraid to not be conscious.

Such vulnerability.

I say the word and my entire body cringes –

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

VULNERABILITTTTTTTTTTT TT TT TT TYYYYYYYYY!

Hey, when you type two “T’s” together, it looks like pi… TT I never noticed that before. I like Pi…

The distraction brings some relief, then…

My eyes get heavy, my head turns down, and I feel like someone just scraped the skin off my private parts and showed them to my teachers, who then show the entire 3^rd grade class. They burst into hysterical laughter and point. I am in a different time—Oooh, I DO need to get out of here…I “come to” pacing the floor again.

Where am I? What…where…huh?

I recognize this great room, with huge windows, and a Great Pyrenees looking at me, as if to say “Hey, you are OK. I will protect you.”

I remember my self.

The year is 2016, you are married and have a dog and a house in the mountains. And it is late. VERY late.

This is not my normal – I am usually more shut down, in and out of freeze.

But now I feel terror…in my feet…like they remember some danger I have forgotten. Or tried to. Or am trying not to remember.

I feel electricity shoot from my tummy to my toes, it jolts me towards the door, my dark barks and runs towards me and I tremble…

Please go away – please stop – please go away–

God I HATE THIS!

I am exhausted. The dog looks at me – she is tired too. She implores me again “Go to sleep. I got this.”

Maybe tonight I will sleep in my blue jeans and running shoes, you know, just in case…

You know the day destroys the night
Night divides the day
Tried to run
Tried to hide
Break on through to the other side
Break on through to the other side …
(The Doors)

Thank you for listening.

Much love to each of you.

Erliss, The Monkey Whisperer

Hysterectomy Hysteria

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WARNING: This post contains explicit language. Not George Carlin’s “Seven Dirty Words You Can Not Say on Television,”(though I have been known to use and even love some of his words.) [Oh, here is a link, if you need a good laugh and can handle a little profanity https://youtu.be/kyBH5oNQOS0] No, I mean explicit as in proper terminology, not slang. But for some of us it feels like slang. And yet this “explicit language” contains words that reference every day existence, at least for women.

The following body words are simple. Say them with me: face, hands, feet, lungs, hearts, medullas, amygdalas, toenails, hair. See? No problem.

But THESE words, I could never say them without embarrassment and shame. I still have some shame with them, but it’s lessened with practice.

Repeat after me if you wish. I will go from easiest to most difficult.

Fallopian tubes.

Ovaries

Uterus. (Ok, it’s getting more difficult.)

Cervix. (ouch)

Labia. (ewe)

V…V…Vug… Vagina.

There are hundreds of slang names-some endearing, some disgusting, for vagina. I am ashamed to say that all of them are easier for me to say than vagina. We have:

Va-Jay-Jay (which is kind of adorable)

Coochie

The “c” word (it is so vulgar and abusive; I refuse to say it.)

Pussy

Hoohah

Golden Palace

Venus Butterfly

Pooter

Beaver

Kitty cat

And the one I have used most of my life… “Down There.”

It is much easier to say “penis” than “vagina.” Once when I was doing my chaplaincy residency I went to visit an older gentleman in his room. He excitedly exclaimed to me “You should see the giant scar right next to my penis!!” And before I could respond “No, I shouldn’t,” he flung open the sheets and there it was. Friends, you can never unsee that sort of thing.

I have never heard a woman say, even after giving birth, “My vagina hurts,” or “Look what happened to my vagina,” or anything about her vagina at all. It’s like some unwritten code, women do not talk about their vaginas.

I forgot the point here.

Oh, that’s right. I am having a hysterectomy. Tomorrow. I have severe endometriosis, always have, and the pain has recently become unbearable. I can no longer spend half of my days curled up in a ball, sucking my thumb while calling out for my dog Agnes. Which is the weirdest part, because I do not have a dog.

I am not freaked out about the possibility of getting cut open. I find that fascinating. I am freaked out about them not cutting me open. They will try to begin robotically, with a couple tiny incisions. And if they can get the tools in there, they will clip away at things, and then go up my vagina and suction everything out. They will go up my vagina and suction everything out while I am not awake. THEY WILL GO UP MY VAGINA AND SUCTION EVERYTHING OUT WHILE I AM NOT AWAKE DO YOU FUCKING BELIEVE THIS SHIT?!?!

I need a break. Hold on. Here, look at this cute kitten video my therapist introduced me to.

https://youtu.be/4I9BUnL6TFs

I’m back.

It’s not like my vagina hasn’t seen a lot of traffic. Before I was married it resembled a drive through for Chinese take-out. And when I was using and drinking, I didn’t know what was going on down there. Much of the activity was unwanted, forced. I felt like my choice in the matter was gone. It wasn’t a part of me anyway. It was foreign. I didn’t care what happened, I told myself. You deserve it.

We won’t discuss my experience as a child. There aren’t enough cute cat videos for that one.

My therapist suggested that I envision something less invasive, or maybe even silly. Like a Muppet Show episode, with The Swedish Chef as the surgeon and Waldorf and Statler (the balcony judges –remember them?) as narrators. One friend informed me, assuredly, that they will find Amelia Earhart up there. Another friend suggested the lost jewels from the Titanic. Personally I think it would be cool if they found a teratoma – one of those growths, usually benign, that can have hair, teeth, eyes, even a jawbone. A friend of mine had one years ago. She was freaked out, I was psyched out. Her coolness factor skyrocketed in my eyes that day.

My uterus and ovaries have been operated on three times. They have never found anything cool, gross, or extra-terrestrial. Each ended with “It’s a mess down there. I don’t know if you will be able to have children.” After my first surgery, where they thought they could go in laparoscopically, but had to cut me open, they put me on Lupron. I was 26, and wanted children. If they used Lupron, maybe it would clear up the endometriosis, and I could get pregnant. After six months of living in a state of mock menopause, I had doubled over in pain. They performed another surgery and removed a huge cyst. I was on Lupron for five years, terrified that the lining of my uterus would take over my entire body and choke me to death. We tried over the years, to get pregnant. We did hormones, the family planning method, homeopathy, and voodoo stuff. About every six months, the pain became so great that I had to go back on the pill and stop my periods altogether.

I remember my first period. For 3 days prior to its glorious entrance, I obsessed about killing myself. And when it came, I felt like a grizzly bear was about to burst out of my belly. It was hell. (And we called it “my friend?” WTF?) Every period was a reminder that I was bad, somehow morally corrupt. And ALL-every, ALL of my suicide attempts happened just before my period. When I got sober at 16, I became anorexic. Not only did it make me less attractive to the men I had been with, but it stopped my periods. It kept me in a state of amenorrhea. I did not like being “woman.” “Woman” meant powerlessness. I needed power. If my period was gone, I felt power. I was safe.

SLIGHT DETOUR AHEAD. When my mother was pregnant with their fourth child, my seven year old self pestered her with the most craziest, wonderfullest, awesomist possibility ever in the universe or anyplace else: “Hey mom, what if you had the baby, and then that baby had a baby, and then that baby had a baby, and then THAT baby had a baby—you would be a mom, grandma, great grandma, and GREAT GREAT GRANDMA all at once!” I knew this was going to happen. It had to happen that way. Babies were perfect. I thought the angels flew from heaven and placed them in mommies’ bellies. I had no idea that something so beautiful was made by such…blech. And worse, that it came out of that dirty place.

Sigh. Time for a break. Here is a Zen Koan for you to ponder: What is the sound of one hand clapping? When you have an answer, let me know.

RETURN

I want something good to come from…all of that…down there. I longed…Someday, some beauty will come from the ugliness inside of me… my shame will birth joy.

Oh…

This is a painful, wounded place in me. I cannot be here long before I float away. And I must acknowledge these parts, these states of mind. They hold tremendous shame, grief, fear, memories. As I go there now I feel the wound open, I hear her weeping – her tears salt my face, turning the numbness into a breath, a tingling, rolling, breathing shape of ash and glitter. The loss of innocence. The loss of expectation. The hope…hope…where is the hope…

I used to hate my uterus, my ovaries, my cervix, and certainly my vagina. In the last few months I have felt a sense of forgiveness. They didn’t start out with great chances. She did the best she could. There was so much happening. It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t your fault, Erliss. Now I don’t want to say goodbye. But it’s been like hospice care for the last several years. It’s time to let her go. She wants to go. She is ready to go. Say what you need to say.

What do I need to say?

Yesterday a friend threw me a “Farewell to My Uterus” party. It was hilarious. She made head bands and slippers with panty-liners. She gave me chocolates and a stuffed uterus – like a stuffed animal, only it’s a uterus, with fallopian tubes and ovaries, and a great big smile. Another friend gave me yellow roses, and another a cute little pumpkin and some lavender. I collected donations for the local battered women’s shelter- crayons, coloring books, nail polish, maxi-pads and tampons. Of course a couple of months ago I ordered a bulk supply of tampons and pads, so this shelter will be set for a while.

We sat in a circle, talked about life. Our cycles. The moon. We did some art prayer. We wrote affirmations and smudged them with sage. It was healing. Hilarious healing. Hilarious hysterialectitious healing.

I am ready for tomorrow. I would rather be awake, of course. I would like to perform the surgery myself. You don’t want them all “down there” doing their business without your supervision.

Slow down, Erliss. I thoroughly back checked these guys. They are kind, well trained, and do this all the time. You even liked the surgeon’s voice, remember? You told him if he sang during the surgery, your uterus would float out? Remember?

I could not have the surgery. No one has forced me into this. I am not being violated. This is my choice. The doctors are my choice. The procedure…well…I want them to NOT touch my vagina. I want them to cut me open completely and take everything out the old fashioned way. God, I hope my abdominal cavity is in such disarray and disorder that the robot won’t fit, and they will STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY VAGINA!

What a thing to wish.

Breathe.

Last week my surgeon asked me “If I see a really good ovary…” then he paused. I responded “Are you gonna ask it out on a date?” My poor ovaries. I do have empathy for their suffering. I am not angry at them anymore.

I usually hold immense self-hatred and anger. I don’t feel any of that right now. I feel…I feel…pity? Sad? Numb? Separated? Lost? Confused?

In the deep shadow behind my mind, I hold her. I hold she who tried… to survive, to be born, to hide, to be loved.

I hold her.

I fade.

It’s hard to say goodbye to a dream. Even when the dream is a nightmare. Even when the dream has surpassed its viability. Even when the dream should have never envisioned itself. You should have never wandered in desire, in longing. You should have never let them…never let them inside…never…never…

Erliss, honey, you did nothing wrong. It will be all right.

This…hurts…so…deep…

It’s hard

to say

goodbye.

My final words? What needs to be said? What am I afraid to say?

Thank you for always being there with me. I am sorry I hurt you. I am sad to see you go. I love you.

By this time tomorrow, my uterus, fallopian tubes, cervix, and ovaries will be gone. It will just be me and my vagina. It’s getting easier to say… my vagina. My vagina.

MY vagina.

Much love to you all, and thank you for trudging this way with me.

Erliss

Afterthought…I wonder if it’s OK for me to ask the surgeon to talk to me during the surgery? Maybe say “OK, Erliss, now we are going to make an incision here…” or “Erliss, we are about to go up through the vagina to take out your uterus.” Or “Don’t worry, about a thing. ‘Cause every little thing’s gonnna be alright.”

Cue Bob Marley.

Here is a link. https://youtu.be/EYi5aW1GdUU

Babysitting My Amygdala

My mouth is wedged open and my body immovable, a toxic mix of cadmium, mercury, and lead. Where …am…I…

I can’t breathe. Inhale. Inhale. Inhale.

My self…my body… Nothing. Then…

A black oil covers my skin—sticky, black, wet asphalt. It hardens. Pressure. With a heartbeat. Thumping, it crawls through my toes, my ankles, my knees, up my thighs, and into me.

Wet, sticky, stinky, oily, asphalty, demonic, beastly, alive, pressure, pressure, pressure.

Inhale. Inhale. Inhale. Please inhale…

It enters my mouth…it’s inside me and I am inside it. I have been consumed.

I am dying. I am dead. I am here forever.

Powerless.

Shut down.

BREATHE!

I jump up. My skin all knarly. Hyperventilating.

“Everything is OK. I’m here. You are safe. It was just a dream.” My spouse’s words bring me back to the moment. I am in my home. In my bed. It is 2 am. 2015. October. I place my hand over my heart.

Just a dream. Just a dream. Just a dream.

All day I have repeated that mantra “just a dream.”

Today was a day of numbing out, losing my self. Babysitting my amygdala. Observe. Behold. And help her away from the edge. Stay with, Erliss, stay with.

There are things I do to keep her from falling away completely. I did them all today. Pray, tap, yoga, meditate, vocalizations, gratitude, connect. Still I feel suffocated. I am told this can happen. Not to worry, don’t be afraid. It’s just the body doing “it’s thing.”

This is why you are here, Erliss. To watch her, to make sure she is safe and help her be curious.

It’s here – the oily asphalt is paving a highway on my body, the highway to hell, where the gnashing of teeth and groans of the dead and call of the devil itself reign… Let’s not go there, dear one. Trust me, it won’t help.

My skin feels like it is pulling itself away from me. It’s ashamed of me. Disgusted. Readying to elope.

Good luck on your own, skin. You kind of need the rest of me to get anywhere, just sayin’.

I have to leave the house soon, and I don’t feel my body.

Wiggle your toes. Put them on the floor, wiggle your toes. Feel each toe. Feel the air come into your nose. Feel it slide down the back of your throat. Hear the sounds – like the ocean. Look out the window and watch the trees dance. Smell some peppermint. Mmmm…

I have a hunch I need to let go of the judgments. The thought that my own skin wants to run away from home and the whole “highway to hell” thing increase panic in my system. The point in noticing my sensations is not to judge them, but to let them be and move through whatever cycle or process my body needs to experience. (Barf.) I know this, but my brain is in the habit of assigning meaning as a form of control. I want to feel in control. But that is illusory. My ways of exerting control over my body have not helped. Sigh. And I honor those attempts anyway. No point in beating myself up for beating myself up.

Good try, Erliss. You are doing your best.

OK, I have to drive.I have an AA meeting, then therapy with a Somatic Experiencing guy. Maybe they will help me back to my self. Or at least give me a chance to visit her.

I will listen to some AC/DC, Led Zeppelin, and Metallica on the way. That’s the best therapy I know.

https://youtu.be/a3HemKGDavw

Now I can go.

Much love,

Erliss

P.S. The image at the top is The Scream, 1893 by Edvard Munch. A favorite of mine.

To find out more about him go to his website: http://www.edvardmunch.org/

Night Terrors

“Danger danger DANGER!” My brain is freaking out. I am alone in our house high in the mountains, light years from human civilization, waiting to be digested by some barbarous mountain man. [Narration break: Dear Erliss is prone to exaggeration from time to time. She lives in the foothills, and there are other houses around containing civil human beings – one of whom gave her car a jump the other day when she left the lights on overnight. Still she feels lost in a sea of poisonous reptiles, carnivorous cacti, feral humanoids, and the Ents of Fanghorn – you know, those tree creatures in Lord of the Rings. Erliss is scared to be alone. We will let her be there for now.]

I MAY NOT survive the night. So I am writing my thoughts. My terrors. My shadows. My Monsters. (My heart is thumpering through my chest, ready to flee/fight/collapse/freeze./turn-into-a-milkshake. I will take a breath, and continue. Innnnnnnnhale…ex…ex…ex…ha…haaaaa…hal..hehehehehehe…hale.)

Here is the true story:

There are bears that smell my gluten-free-lemongrass-chicken- frozen-dinner- leftovers from miles away, and they will break in through the windows for a midnight snack. A bear did that to a neighbor’s house just the other day and ate their Entenmann’s crumb cake and the lasagna from the fridge. Even with all the windows closed and locked, I am told these bears have claws that can pry open anything. Great Big Claws. And you can’t run away from them, by the way. You are supposed to fight the bear. Seriously, there are signs around that tell you “Don’t run-fight the bear.” Bah!!!

And the mountain lions—forget it. They silently stalk their prey – and will do so for days. I won’t even know it’s a mountain lion eating me because they clamp their jaws around your neck and have invisibility powers. That’s some CIA/FBI/PETA top secret info I’m not supposed to know. Oh, but I know.

This house is not like my metro- apartment—where I lived on the 5^th floor and could block the escape window with the refrigerator, and the door with the vacuum cleaner and ALL my shoes. I could scream and someone would hear me. And the only critters to fear were the occasional mouse and cockroach. (Who I found to be quite friendly, by the way. Good ole Frederick and Elsa. I wonder what they are doing this evening?)

Here we have windows everywhere on the ground floor, and a basement with its OWN DOOR – uh – oh, did I lock it? Isn’t it always locked? What if I go down there to check, and someone is waiting to bop me over the head and steal all my precious jewels and money? But I don’t have any jewels or money, so they would hold me for ransom, and my family doesn’t have money, so they would behead me in the forest or sell me as a house maid. Crap. I can’t go down there without my mace, and that’s in the car, maybe I should take the bug spray and a lamp…

“I have no jewels, I have no gold, I have no money – but you may take my student loans! Please take my student loans!” I scream through the basement door. It casts a shadow on the stairs. I hate shadows. There are monsters in shadows. I stomp around the living room “I’m dialing 911 right now! The police are on the way! I know kung fu and judo and I’m a Ninja Warrior Tiger Princess!

AND I AM LUNATIC BAT SHIT CRAZY!!!!!!!!!”

Shhhh! I freeze. There are noises, just now,coming from the wood burning stove. I think it’s an anaconda. I’m screwed.

Two days ago I commented to my therapist that the picture on his wall was soothing. It was a forest. Green. Calm. That night I dreamed I was walking through a forest with boulders, butterflies, and birds chirping. Ah…I felt like I was floating. Then I heard gun shots. They came closer. “Shit, they found me!” I woke up out of breath, in a pool of sweat, certain that I was being hunted in my bedroom.

Last night I dreamed that I was looking out of my window, and saw a creature five times bigger than I, with its mouth gaping open so I could see TWO sets of teeth, a giant slimy tongue that kept slurping silvery beige sticky goo out of its mouth onto the window making a “nails screeching on the chalkboard” sound, 15 eyes of fire burning a hole in my skull (I swear) and ten arms with fangs and mouths and slime of their own. It was dirty, stenchy, disgusting, and it wanted me. I could tell.

I just threw up in my mouth thinking about it. I am sure it’s peaking in the window now, only I can’t see BECAUSE THERE ARE NO CITY LIGHTS JUST PITCH BLACK DARKNESS AND I’M ALL FUCKING ALONE IN THE WILD WEST WITH OWLS AND TERRORIST MONGOOSE, KILLER COYOTES , WILD BOAR BEARS LIONS AND SLIME!!!!

I had night terrors as a child. I saw devils and demons and monsters floating around my head, crawling under the covers, tickling my feet. And my dreams – screaming, suffocating, giant hands, panic panic panic. I hate bedtime. If I could have one super power, it would be the power to always be awake.

As I write, I imagine lying on my bed and closing my eyes, and my face goes numb, my throat closes up, my breathing becomes shallow. I may die tonight. It may not be a lion or a creature or a person that kills me—my own heart could murder me in the middle of the night. I could just…stop…breathing – like I seem to be doing now.

Quick—find three things in the room that are purple – yoga socks on the floor…that’s it, no more purple –crap, pick a different color. Blue? Black? Green? It’s too stressful.

Tap your face, Erliss… I tap and I say things like “even though I am afraid I will get eaten by a slimy ten foot by eight foot by five foot beast with freaking TWO ROWS OF BLOOD SUCKING FANGS, I completely and fully love and accept myself.” Nope.

Erliss, imagine a time when you felt safe, at peace, loved… and I start remembering a calm feeling, then the cat freaks out and runs up to the loft, and I know she sees something I don’t –my heart pounds uncontrollably – the Grim Reaper is here. Damn reaper. They say cats know these things. They walk in both worlds.

Oh God, how am I going to sleep tonight? I need to sleep—I have to pretend I have my shit together so I can preach to the sweet little church ladies and gentlemen in the morning.

And this is my mind. My monkey mind.

I imagine that I should welcome the terror. The Buddha might say “Hello fear, hello smelly monsters with giant fangs, what can I do for you tonight?” Rumi tells me to welcome the unwanted and uninvited creatures as guests and serve them tea. Gulp. I would rather destroy them, pulverize them, mash them into patties and sell them to McDonalds. But I have tried that for my entire life – it hasn’t helped. I guess its time for something new.

If I don’t sleep, then I don’t sleep. If I sleep, I sleep. If I dream of flowers and fairies, then I dream of flowers and fairies. If I dream of monsters and headless horsemen, then I dream of monsters and headless horsemen. Acceptance. Acceptance. Acceptance. Acceptance.

If I don’t make it through the night, which is a possibility for any one of us, then know that I loved deeply, and did my best to end suffering in the world. Hopefully, (and in all likelihood) I will survive. In which case, I thank God ahead of time for letting me try this life again, for one more day.

May it be known – I want to live.

Goodnight monsters. See you later.

Much love, Erliss

PS- My husband comes home tomorrow. I hope he knows how to fight bears.