Dissociaion Archives - Erliss, the Monkey Whisperer

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

Raped by Perdition: A Depression Story

I’m trapped.
It’s a sewage drain. A cloaca. I’m wedged in the middle.

Sometimes there is light peering through the shadows from above. I crawl slowly towards the top, then the dirty-grime-shit-urine soaked water rushes through my intentions.

Holding my breath– aaaaaaaaaaaaaah. (Hold,hold,hold.)
My broken scarred body is flushed further from the light.
Going down, I will for the end – the cesspool. See, I told you this is your home, hell is your birthplace, and your burial.

Then the drain pipe pins me to its sides as if to say “I won’t let you go.”

I’m stuck in a sewage drain pipe, an extrovert claustrophobic, and no one can find me. No one wanders through this kind of stink.

alone

perdition

and

can

not

escape.

Panting through my teeth, it sounds like a hurricane in my head.
My mind, frozen, bleeding…

I give…I give…I give…up…

Then the shadows wave above. I desire the light behind them, and crawl. It hurts. Everything hurts.

Please help.

It’s so tight. But there is hope – I move up toward the light. The light…the light…

Panicked with determination, one motion at a time… I’m closer… closer… almost there…you can…you can…you can…and without warning comes the rush… I am again flushed downstream – down down down with the shit-grime-urine-stain stain stain I am forever stained…

I long for the end – to enter the cesspool so this will stop and I won’t have breath to hold. Hell itself becomes my hope.

But the drain pipe cylinder tears my skin and pins my legs and arms and hips and neck to it’s cold slimy walls “I won’t let you go.” There is no movement, no room for even my anxiety. I am not allowed my anxiety. Where is my fucking anxiety.

I fade, fold into myself,

and am raped

all over again.

In and Out of Sad: An Episode of Dissociation

Cold.

Hands Feet Mouth Ears Nose Heart Brain Cold Cold Cold.

Numbness –face, numb. Ears loud- clang clang clang clang – with a constant – vroooooooooooooooom. And a whistle. Someone is whistling in my head. Like crickets.

My thoughts – I want to die. I am bad. I am evil. I am dirty. I don’t want to be here. I want to go home, go home…where am I?

Coils, scorching twisting coils in my stomach, move their way deeper, through my lower back, my chest, my heart, my heart – It will stop someday, your heart will stop beating someday, maybe now, maybe tonight, without even knowing you it will stop…

I wash my face, in the mirror I see eyes, my eyes, no her eyes, no his eyes, too many eyes, and hands and all over hands please stop the hands – will someone PLEASE STOP THE HANDS STOP STOP STOP.

A vision, horrid, dangling from a tree, wrapped in a wool blanket, gone. Bloody, but not bleeding. Gone.

My throat, now the coils move to my throat, they wrap their wired fists – so many fists – around my neck and I

can

not

breathe.

Exhale. Exhale. Exhale all the way exhale all the dirt mud slime grime shit

Exhale…

Please can I go home.

Clang…Clang…Clang…

Falling…I am falling…my head. Pressure on the side of my heh heh heh head.

Cut out the bad parts, get a knife and cut them out, get a hammer and hammer them out, get a rope and…and…and…

It doesn’t stop. Will it ever stop? When will I be whole? When will I feel connected to beauty not the hate that made me so wrong…

Exhale…you are holding your breath, Erliss, exhale. Come on, EXHALEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

Can I die? Can I go? Can I save my little soul…where is the time who, who, who is there- someone…

It’s OK, Erliss, you are OK. You are here. I am here. Look around the room, look around Erliss…

There are big windows here, beautiful windows. This is my home. I live here. 2016.

I hate myself. I hate my self.

Shhhhhhhhhh…there there, it’s OK. Stay here, you are here, come back home.

I feel like I’m falling and the floor will wrap around me and steal the oxygen, and move through all my parts…

Hey, we are so tired – you are sleepy. Let’s go to bed. We are here now. All is well, all is well.

I am here – sort of…

This is what happens, and it is happening now. My brain, all day, wanting to die, wanting to kill myself, wanting to hurt myself, wanting to live. I don’t follow through, I am, after all, committed to living. Life is beautiful- it is crazy, ugly, terrifying beauty.

Going to bed soon, I will lay with the person I love next to me. I will probably cry. Maybe sleep. And wonder…all the voices in my head will wonder in unison. And someone will touch my eyes until they close and sleep.

I am preaching in the morning on love. I won’t say this, but it is Love that keeps me here. I don’t mean love for my spouse and his love for me. Or family. Or friends. Or even God.

Love for the desire of love, that is why I am still here. It’s desire that keeps me from losing this life. Even though I am not contributing much to this world, I do desire to care for it, I desire to hold the suffering gently enough so when it is ready, it will take space in the air, or under the earth, or wherever it resides next.

Exhale.

Don’t worry, my friends. I will be here in the morning. This happens, you know. I lose myself, and try to maintain curiosity even though I am lost. It’s scary. And difficult. And it is…my burden.

I am not even going to look this through. Just post. It is where I am, and whether I want to be here doesn’t matter. Here is here.

I am sad. In and out of sad. It hurts.

Much, much love,

Erliss, The Monkey Whisperer

Vocalise: An Episode in Dissociation

A “Vocalise” is a musical form, a kind of song or exercise that focuses the singer on creating pure sound without text.

This is my voice—a song without words. There are times when I can not find language. That part of my brain shuts down, or it disappears, or it is abducted by space alien scientist monkeys for various experiments. Probably not the latter.

When I lose language, I don’t understand… Sometimes I can’t even make a sound. All the voices in my head silence the space around them. As they become soundless, I become mute. I have noticed my loss of language more often. It’s a trauma response – my body is shutting down in preparation for some impending doom.

Shame, shame, shame…when I can not speak, I feel…shame. When I search for a word—it’s like a kind of aphasia. Worse is when I say things that don’t reference anything in my mind.

“What did she say?” “ Where is the cookie?” “Mom-Mom? Mommy?” “ I’m…Not sure…what…what…find her…”

And sometimes I go so far away, words melt into an abyss, I can’t even gaze there, and I don’t really remember. It’s like I’m watching myself, and can’t get into the mind of …myself. I try to get back, but I can’t.

I have attempted writing when this happens. Here – See? I’m a hot mess:

Dissociation.

What is the beauty in losing words? Language? What does it mean that I can’t tell you what is happening? Is that because back then, when the sky was falling, when the flowers danced frenzied until they- l- their petals fell and cried, cried… who…who followed their tears to the gravening…who followed their tears and laughed…and the bleeding crocus songing, songing, falling, crawling towards the gravening…gravening…grave…

And so it goes. She goes. Or whoever it is, whatever it is inside this brain that can’t keep above water.

But here…in a vocalise…words are not valued, or necessary. It’s not a mistake, a psychological condition, or a maladaptive coping mechanism –it’s supposed to be this way. A necessary condition for a vocalise is that it be without semantics. Some kind of pre-verbal, or maybe post verbal – condition. Bringing us back to a time where mothers and fathers hummed us to sleep, or forward to the sounds of dying, or whatever comes after. Maybe it’s the only sound we can make when our mouths are forced shut. You can still sing with your face in the sand. With hands over your mouth. With…with…with…ooooooooooooooooooooo…

Music is not about words. It’s about sounds. The movement of sounds. Pure vibrations. This is what makes it live. I do not need language to live. I need a heartbeat.

Heart…Beat…Yes, Erliss, your heart is beating. You are still here.

Here is a vocalise. Rachmaninoff. I listen, and weep.

Try listening, and tell me-do you have language for this?

Much Love,

Erliss

About my art work: I know it looks like a two year old got hold of some crayons. I am a musician. That’s the kind of artist I am. But drawing is…therapy. So there you have it. My art therapy. I encourage you all to try.

Hmmm…maybe that’s my role here, to make you all feel good about drawing. Art is not only for those who can do it well–actually, doing art well is all about the doing.

So draw.

Amen.

ADDENDUM : Here is what I wrote about “Vocalise” on my Facebook page a few weeks ago. I place this here for you, the reader, and for my self.

Language can be a barrier to experiencing our inner world. Sometimes we search desperately for the right word, or even for the ability to speak. We can feel even more anxiety when we realize we can’t…find…the…words…we…want…to…say…

If that happens, my dear ones, know that you are in a place where language may not be helpful. There may be a grief or sensation too great and profound for words. There may be a memory that is working its way through your body. You may be connecting with some power, a love, God – that is beyond your comprehension.

This all can be scary–and it also can be a source of beauty and transformation.

Should you find yourself in a place where words seem futile, maybe try this.

A gentle hum, or even just listening to Kiri, may be all you need to touch into the grace that is within you, the consonance of your soul, your heartsong.

Have a beautiful day, my fellow Monkey Whisperers. Stay connected.

Comfortably Numb: Pink Floyd Meets Gregorian Chant

Three am. The wind is winding, screaming like a thousand ghosts in a Dies Irae chorale. My cat scampers across the living room. And I dread going back to sleep, afraid I might see my shadow again. I tire of these late nights. They hawk me – I feel an eye follow me through every corner of my psyche – which is more like a cornerless maze of spirals centrifuging my prefrontal cortex down, down, down… [Narrator note: Erliss does not yet understand about spirals; they go both up and down, around and through. It’s never “either” – “or.” But we will let her be here for now.]

I am in despair.

Where is my self? My core? Hello…is there anybody in there? Just nod if you can hear me. Is there anyone at all?

I used to listen to Pink Floyd all day as a teen, mostly after I got clean and sober. They never brought a smile to my face, except for Another Brick in The Wall. “How can you have any pudding if you don’t eat your meat?” They mostly reminded me that I was not alone in my crazy mind, after all, I needed nothing to make me comfortably numb –my body could do that all by itself.

I don’t want to use or drink, I just want to…disappear. I am good at disappearing. I have been disappearing since I was a child, and no one would notice. It was like magic – and the “abracadabra” was some kind of uncomfortable tension, a weird smile, a certain stench, or a touch. And my face would tingle, my arms and legs numb out, and

would

forget.

Such beautiful anesthesia we have in our bodies, this ability to self protect. “It looks like the tiger has me in its teeth,” the brain says, “So chemicals, you know what to do. Let’s play dead. It’s our last chance at survival, and if we get eaten, we will at least not feel it.”

I need a musical interlude… here you go…

https://youtu.be/KC86ZCtV6tI

Comfortably numb. I think that’s why I am still here, why I never got eaten alive.

I feel dead.

Sometimes I play dead for hours. It has never brought a smile to my face.

I lay my head on the pillow, and sense a hand pushing the side of my head into the ground. I smell smoky stale carpet, and hear diabolical laughing. My cheek burns. My breath shallows. I no longer am a part of my body, it is someplace else. I am floating, floating, floating…

Then I wake up in a whirlwind. Where is she? Where did she go? I want to go home. No, don’t, please don’t…tell me where I am…where did she go? I do not know what I am talking about here, it’s some kind of madness in another place in my brain.

Now it is 3:30 am, and I am listening to the wind, wondering about deadness.

Dies iræ, dies illa
Solvet sæclum in favilla,
Teste David cum Sibylla.

Day of wrath and doom impending.
David’s word with Sibyl’s blending,
Heaven and earth in ashes ending.

Here is another interlude. I have known this melody since I was a little girl.

https://youtu.be/Dlr90NLDp-0

Gregorian Chant. Eerie and beautiful. Like the wind. Sounds just like the wind outside. Sounds like the wind inside. Inside me.

I should get myself back to bed.

Thank you for listening, my dear ones.

Much love,

Erliss, The Monkey Whisperer