13 years ago today, with 21 years of sobriety from alcohol and drugs, I went to a treatment facility for trauma and other behavioral addictions. I had been on a 4 month binge of acting out in various ways, was severely suicidal, could not stay present for more than 15 minutes, was dissociating and “losing time.” I had behavioral issues with spending money, debting, acting out and “acting in” sexually ( self abuse, pornography, compulsive avoidance of intimacy) with severe consequences to my nervous system, my finances, my relationships, and my soul. I was terrified of men, especially white men, including my own husband – who did nothing but love and support me. My sleep was filled with nightmares and night terrors, which sometimes continued well into my “awake” life.
I was 35 years old, married, clean and sober, and working on my second Master’s degree. And I
Could
Not
Protect myself from the incessant reliving of history in my mind and body.
And the shame…God help me, the shame was like a bacteria eroding away at my flesh and bone. I could not escape. I felt like a disgusting, worthless corpse.
Isn’t that a bit extreme, Erliss? A corpse doesn’t feel like a corpse because it’s dead and there are no senses – period. Just an FYI. Maybe you felt like a decaying body – with a leprosy-like disease. Or maybe you felt like your were dying because your body was trying to heal a memory, when you felt or wished you were not present, maybe you thought you might die…The important thing is that you did not die, and are very much alive.
Yes, I need that reminder. Anyway…
A trusted seminary professor and the dean of students helped me find a place I could afford for treatment. The center had 11 men and myself in one house. Even though there were no women present at the time, I was so desperate that I went anyway. My life changed with this decision. I started on a long, slow, and very painful journey of recovery.
I had worked the steps many times in AA, NA, and other programs. I had been in various therapies for years. But I needed more help. My mind was divided against itself – or so it seemed. The DSM calls it “Dissociative Identity Disorder.” I call it survival. I have come to understand that my very body – which I despised and believed to be “the enemy”- was trying to heal me.
I will never forget the drive down to treatment – alone. I thought I might drive off a bridge. I had already researched which bridge, angle, and speed would work the best.
I am grateful that I did not do this. I am grateful that I listened to the small voice that said – “Just get to treatment.”
Treatment was not perfect, but when I arrived, I knew I was safe – at least safe from myself. The dissociation, the nightmares, the terror, even the suicidal ideation -they didn’t stop altogether. They are still there. But I am more aware, and their power over me has lessoned. I am not acting out in those ways. I have a support system today. I “carry the message” that there is hope.
There is always hope. As long as I have breath.
Friends, please listen to that voice, whether it’s your inner voice, the voice of a therapist or friend , or even myself. Keep going.
I understand. Trauma can makes us do a lot of things that often perpetuate the trauma – trying to fix it or trying to “get it all out” or trying to completely avoid it – the trauma is not just in our minds, it’s in our bodies. And our bodies have an innate wisdom that wants to heal us. They just need guidance and compassion.
I may write more about this later. It’s quite late, and it turns out I need to sleep. Imagine that.
Know that I love you and am sending healing thoughts to each of you. You are not alone.
And thank you for listening.
Much love,
Erliss, The Monkey Whisperer
