Category: Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

Trauma and Imagination: Re-membering Myself

I have to write. It’s been a while.

  Last year I was gifted with a minor head injury, which jumbled my brain. It’s a long story, but essentially, I saved an entire middle school from a T-Rex attack during a meteor shower, and then proceeded to hit my head on the metal corner of my car door while reaching for my wallet. The T-Rex spent 4 months in rehab and is now a vegan attending a culinary arts institute in Reykjavik, Iceland.  I ended up taking 5 weeks off from work, unable to look at a computer screen and wore headphones and sunglasses wherever I went. I couldn’t even listen to music. My brain is mostly recovered, and no children were harmed in the process. Also…the part about saving the children and the T-rex may have been slightly fabricated.

  And now…I need to write. I am going to write about a man who abused me from 15-18, well, 19. There will be few details, and I only write when I can stay present. Friends, we have to care for our brains and nervous systems – too much and we risk re-traumatization. So take care of yourselves as you read… and if you risk being triggered, maybe read it another time or skip it altogether. [Addend: don’t worry, I don’t really say much about him. Turns out, I can only write little bits at a time.]

Here we go:

 Today I felt him…again. It felt like he was hovering  above and behind my right shoulder. I could hear his laugh and smell his smoked up alcoholic garlic breath.

Gross.

How I ended up with a 31 year old “boyfriend” at 15 is a story for another time. The damage he did was so great, that I am still affected 38 years later. Even in writing that last sentence I felt my throat starts to close and my heart race.

  This is how trauma works – it makes the past feel ever-present. But as I hear and smell and feel him , I am aware of the present moment. I am safe in my living room, with my dog guarding the front door as she does every night, my spouse in our bedroom reading a book, our kiddo in her room sleeping. It is 2023, not 1984.

  Last Friday I celebrated 38 years since my last drink or drug. I will write about that another time as well. But I remember so clearly making the decision to break up with this man – I desperately wanted to stay sober and I knew I could not if he were still in my life. There was zero understanding for me that I was being seriously abused. He was my boyfriend – a belief I needed at the time.  I was so brainwashed by him.

 Pause…

I am having some feelings. Not scary feelings, but a feeling of pride – I don’t know how I was able to muster the courage to break things off with him – choosing my life over his desire to control me. Because the “break-up” didn’t last, I have often belittled my attempt at following through with the breakup. But at that time I was 16 with no place to turn but recovery. I chose recovery.

 Of course he would not leave me alone, and after threatening to go after my then 9 year old sister, [he was a sick jerk of a man] I went back to him- managed to stay sober, but became more entangled in his mind games and sexual abuse for another 6 months – with intermittent encounters for the next 3 years. (That’s a long run-on sentence that I am going to leave unedited. Just for fun.)

It was hell.

 I thank God every day for my sponsor and others in recovery for helping me through it. And here I am sober, working a program, and sponsoring other people. That is a miracle, my friends. a freaking miracle.

 Today I could not leave my house, I was too frozen in my body. During my  online therapy session I wondered aloud (through tears and somewhat dissociated)… what would my life be like if just one of the traumas didn’t happen… I allowed that statement to come forward, not as a way to delve into my grief, but as a way to expand my imagination.

Trauma takes away imagination.

It keeps us stuck in a cyclical mindset:

“I am bad. Bad things happened to me. I can’t get rid of the bad feelings. So I am bad.”  Another idea, or a change in direction or tempo or observation introduces a taste of the creative spirit – it’s a kind of jazz of memory, expanding the realm of possibility. It becomes hope, and allows a little more breath and wonderment – maybe I am not going to be this way forever.

   I am sad today…life has not been easy for me.  It is likely that my early childhood and teenage years contributed to a brain and nervous system that still doesn’t operate quite right. This affects my physical, mental, and spiritual health , most likely shortening my life.

  And then there is this thing called “post traumatic growth.” I am alive, present, functioning in the world (most of the time), sober, clean, married to the same person for 24 years…I work, people trust me with their secrets. I can be in high stress situations and somehow manage to be calm. Seriously –  calm.

  I wonder why other people seemingly experience a constant freedom from their past while I often feel tethered to mine. Then I remember the friends I have made along the way who are no longer living in this world – those who died because living was too hard; their precious scars kept breaking open, and they could not move through this realm any longer. Often I feel them coaching me from the great beyond– cheering me on, encouraging me to imagine the space on the other side of the tethering.

  I am so very sad.

I hurt. I feel his breath on my neck and I want to scream. The terror in my mind oozes into the air around me, and every inhale feels like another betrayal; a constant reminder that he still owns pieces of me.

It is not fair.

It is not fair.

It is not fair.

  Erliss…go to bed. May the angels watch over you, dear one.

Sometimes we have to parent ourselves, my friends.

Thank you for listening.

Much love to each of you,

Erliss,  a sad yet deeply grateful recovering alcoholic and addict.

P.S.

The photo at the top of this post was taken through my living room window this morning. When going through difficult memories, it is good to have a resource or two to remind the person of life outside the memory. Trauma memories tend to be encapsulated in such a manner that they have no connection to any other experiences outside the trauma. This view is one of my resources, helping me stay grounded in gratitude, even when happiness is in the far distance.

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.

Remnants: Eating Disorder, Mountains, and Clarity





I am having surgery on Monday. Well, tomorrow morning.


Actually, it’s almost 2 am so…later today.




  They have to fix some things that were probably caused by my eating disorder years ago.


When one purges day after day, one can do some damage to the esophagus and especially


…the lower esophageal sphincter.








Did you know we have more than one sphincter?


Turns out we have several, only one that resembles certain human beings,


(but I have little time for such digressions, I would like to take a nap sometime tonight, or this morning or whenever.)




Where was I…












(The view from the visitor center at Rocky Mountain National Park.)




 The voices in my head have been on overdrive, telling stories of hell.


History has a way of presenting itself in … the present.


And sometimes it’s difficult to differentiate the two.




Here is what happened


– the abbreviated version, with pictures and emojis in between to make it more – palatable.


(See what I did there?)


🤓








(Bear Lake at RMNP. I especially love the reflection


– it’s like a string quartet with mountains, water, rock and tree.)




The eating disorder has always been with me.


As a little girl I hated my body, felt the need to punish myself,


and obsessed on and off about food, weight and exercise.


It amped up when my other addictions began – drinking, using, acting out sexually.






They wove me together – the drugs and drinking helped me lose control,


the sex helped me dissociate,


and the eating disorder put me back in control.




???????????????










When I was 15, in drug rehab, everything changed.






?






   I hadn’t eaten anything of substance in about two weeks.


They were going to force me to eat, so my roommate did what any other caring 16 year old addict would do


– she taught me how to make myself throw up.






?




That became my superpower.


⚡?⚡?⚡?⚡?⚡?⚡








(This is a duck on Lake Sprague.


You can’t see it well here, be we could.


It was adorable )


?






This was in 1984.


I suffered severely for ten years,


hospitalized on a medical unit and then psychiatric unit for 2 months at 17 (at a year clean and sober),


then another eating disorder unit for 3 months at 21,


and another, my last one, for 4 months at 24., followed my a six month hospitalization fro trauma.


Before my last hospitalization, I drank water and ate lettuce just so I could purge.


There were days when I would purge up to 30 times, accomplishing little else,


and (this is hard to talk about) after vomiting up blood and bile, I would often take a box of laxatives just to punish myself.


☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️










 I had so much self hatred and disgust.












(This picture – it’s like I’m looking ahead and behind.


It’s the past and future – in the present. Isn’t that interesting)






And every time I was hospitalized for it, I experienced horrendous flashbacks that I didn’t understand, which lead me to cut myself with whatever I could.




i was not well.












(Plants in the tundra work very hard just to survive.


That’s why they are so precious.)






Poor little Erliss.










(An uprooted tree, root side. I can relate…)




I only wanted to NOT FEEL.






Feeling meant I was not safe, and the way I ate or didn’t eat or purged or worked out hours at a time


– made me feel safe.




Nothing could touch me.




Nothing except, of course, until I was forced to be still,


then I experienced the torture that has resided in my mind and boy since I was little.




I


could not be


still.












(Poudre Lake – up at the Continental Divide.


This water goes to the Atlantic Ocean, and the water on the other side goes to the Pacific Ocean.


It’s weird how that works.)


So tomorrow they will fix a couple of things, and not only does it require me to be still,


but it requires me to care


for


myself.












Why did I go into all of this?


I haven’t binged, purged, or restricted since I was 25.


It’s almost 4 am, and my brain is mush. So what is the point?


I did something on Friday – I took charge of my workaholic self, and decided we were going to the park.






I didn’t care about work, or cleaning or “being there” for anyone else. I needed to go.












And with a clarity that I have not experienced in a long time,


                  I took the 17 year old we care for and we drove up to the park.










(Happy Trails to You – sign at exit of the YMCA of the Rockies in Estes Park.


It was raining in the morning, but then later the rain stopped raining.)


Friends, I am tired.




I’m going to post this, and post the pictures, and remember that I stood still staring at a lake,


and a mountain, and an elk, and a marmot, and the snow, and clouds, and the river,  and  big horn sheep,


and I felt


alright.












 I’m going to take care of myself tomorrow.


All the scary voices in my head are asleep.


 






(A blurry view from the drive at the top, the clouds drifting above the peaks, settling there.)






It’s just me right now.


❤️❤️




Thank you for listening, and following my little journey here.


I apologize for being all over the place – I am tired, but I feel better.














Here is the view at 12,000 feet. It’s a refreshing perspective.








Much Love,


Erliss





	


	





	

		
		
Anniversary Time
	


	
	
	

		


Yesterday was an anniversary of sorts.


21 years ago, my husband/then boyfriend made a decision that would lead us to a rich life together.


12 years ago I made a decision to seek healing; that is still a bit of work, but many others are on that journey with me. We do not walk it alone.


And last year, I experienced the deepest and most profound heartbreak in my life. That heart has since grown, and the loss I experienced has returned as hope, and it has multiplied. I believe in joyous surprises.


Life is terrifying, and its wounds can feel overwhelming. But when I fall down the rabbit hole with a sense of curiosity, a new world emerges; what I once thought was my enemy, is now my friend.


In the crevices of my nightmares hide the Truth – the enemy is me; her cries are my salvation. When I listen, I hear the call of her need: she doesn’t want to destroy my life, she only wants a blanket, a cookie, and a hug.


And maybe a lullabye.


Thank you for listening.


Much love,


Erliss, the Monkey Whisperer


 

	


	







	

		
		
Psychokinetic Girl Power:                                    Sobriety, Resourcing, and Cow Talk
	


	
	
	

		
	

		
 Young, Sober and Angry


“F*ck You! Go to hell! I wish I was never born!” I screamed, and slammed the front door as hard as I could – I felt like the Hulk.  At sixteen I was a few months clean and sober, a fragile clean and sober. And my anger turned me funky shades of green, purple and mauve and I SWEAR I grew six more feet and became psychokinetic – not like Firestarter, she was pyrokinetic. She could start fires with her mind. I loved that book. As a young person I read and reread everything I could by Stephen King. My mother thought he gave me nightmares. She did not understand. Stephen King helped me escape my nightmares, or awakemares, my living terrors. Thank you, Mr. King, for providing me with a resource so I didn’t fade into the abyss.


  Psychokinesis is when you can move things with your mind. My brain held no organized belief system about this, but it seemed like my anger had special strength; it was overwhelming.


That day I was arguing with my parents about something that wasn’t fair. Our home often hosted apocalyptic crusades where I fought to make justice a reality for my mind. It was far worse before I got sober.


A year earlier, when I was 15, (and had a 30 something very scary “boyfriend.” I may write about that someday, or not. The “relationship” lasted 6 months, then 4 months,  then it never REALLY ended for a couple more years – it was hell. Makes me want to scratch my eyes out when I think of it, but I need my eyes to see, so I won’t think of it for now.)  I had a chance to go away with my father for a special weekend. Our church was part of a state convention that included a reunion and performance with my summer music camp. I somehow managed to sing, act, and play the piano while under the constant influence of various chemicals. It’s amazing how we addicts can mimic a functioning human being.


The night before we were to leave,  a  drama unfolded with my father;  I swore, screamed, broke dishes, and threw a vacuum cleaner at him – it landed on his foot. I still believe that his issues with walking in his later years were not helped by that incident. Guilt and shame – the gifts that keep on giving.


Pause.  I have pretty intense attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. Surprised, I know. I hide it so well. ADHD is common with people in recovery and PTSD.  And it’s common for 2 am writing episodes. I invite you to wear protective gear and go along for the ride. Seriously, wear protective gear, it could get…tangential.






Where was I?


Oh yeah, my father said I could not go to the weekend. He had NO clue how much I was suffering, that I had this creepy man after me, and I desperately wanted to get out of town. The following morning as he collected his luggage for the trip, I chased my father out of the house, while everyone who worked at the post office behind our house put their bags down to watch the show. I screamed, called him names, tried to hit him; he defended himself by swinging his suitcase around, then I fell over, tossed about and yelled from the ground “ I hate you! I HATE YOU! F*ck you!!!!!” and he rushed to his car, as the onlookers…looked…on.


We lived downtown, next to the church where my father was the pastor. Yes. Right. Next. To. The. Church. A narrow sidewalk separated the church building from the house. You could almost stand in between the two and touch both buildings. (Well, not unless your arms were 8 feet long. Of course if you ate a few psychedelic fungi thingys, your arms could grow that long; I know, I read Alice in Wonderland. True story, believe me.) I wish reality shows were popular back then – I would be driving a nicer car today. Maybe a Prius.


As an aside to the aside…My father was my hero. Life is complicated. Kids are complicated. Parents are complicated. Addiction sucks.  He was my best friend after I got sober, and now he is gone.


 I miss him.


On this afternoon (we are going back to the main subject of this post. If you have forgotten where we are, here is a quick recap: I was a few months sober and slammed the front door while fighting with my parents – It’s not fair – and swore a lot.) By the time I hit the porch steps, the door hit the door frame so hard the glass shattered. Everywhere. Over the railing into the bushes, and over my head onto my sneakers, and I said “Shit!” and ran.  Actually, I put my hands up to my face with a shocked look like Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone. Here is link, in case you have forgotten: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0099785/


My own rage terrified me.


 Psychokinesis was clearly to blame. So I ran.


I ran.


And ran.


And ran.


I ran, I ran so far away, yey yey yey…I couldn’t get away. Remember Flock of Seagulls? Wasn’t their hair AMAZING? In case you have forgotten, here they are.




I was more of a metal head and classical piano geek in high school, but this is one of those songs I could never get out of my head. Now you can’t either. You are welcome.


I ran to my sponsor’s house. My sponsor was a force – tough, and she always knew what to do. I cried about my parents, how awful and horrid they were (they weren’t) and then I cried about how gross and dirty and awful and evil I was. I wailed that I wanted to drink and trip and die. I hyperventilated as I explained that I was trying to stay away from that “boyfriend” (Same guy I talked about earlier – my sponsor called him “numb-nuts”- the meaning of which was oblivious to my naive sixteen year old brain – I thought it was meant to be cute. Sigh.)


A college student staying at her house  was also sober. He offered to take me for a drive. And I went because I never knew how to say no to anyone, except to my parents, obviously.


Sitting in the front seat of his car, I was waiting for it – the time when he would pull over, give me that look, point to his equipment, and youknowtherest. But it never happened. He talked about getting sober young and how difficult it can be. He shared about how nature helps him center himself, that it’s part of his eleventh step spiritual practice.


We were on country roads by then and came up to a field with cows.


“Do you want to get out and talk with the cows?” This seemed like some weird code for sex. Talk with the cows? Was he stoned?


I braced myself for what was certain to turn into another encounter where the-man-took-what- he- needed, and I got out of the car anyway. We went up to the fence and leaned on it, and looked at the cows.


“If we stay still, they might come closer.” He pointed to the field and smiled.


We watched. Curiously. The wind blew and tasted like daisies and honey. I felt myself exhale, and my shoulders fell a little bit.


One cow came closer. And then another. And another. We talked to them, said “Hello, how are you?” and they seemed to understand. We laughed a little, and noticed. Life was all around us.


He never touched me – not one time. I felt a little less gross and dirty and awful and evil. I felt lighter, as I looked into the eyes of those cows, and they seemed to look back into mine.


I felt safe and secure and


He


never


touched


me.


Never. Not once. I didn’t get the creeps. I was secure. And safe. And he never touched me.


Can you understand how true this is? I don’t mean true as in not a lie. It is true that way. But it’s also true as in holy true, almost mystical. For that 16 year old, barely sober, with superpower rage and self-hate to experience the beauty of cows’ eyes with the safety of a young man who DID NOT WANT ANYTHING FROM HER !   I need a minute…


*** Exhale***


In my present day, I am working on establishing safety: When in my life did I realize I was safe? What memories can I use to resource my healing? How do I know that I am no longer in danger? When have I felt the most like myself? Where in my body do I notice my strength?


You are safe, Erliss. Be curious…and notice what happens next.


This memory came up last week in therapy with my SE guy (Somatic Experiencing; it’s a kind of trauma healing focused on healing from the body – the nervous system. Here is a link; check it out if you wish:  https://traumahealing.org  )  I don’t remember the context, but I remember feeling excited: I have a resource memory – a really good resource memory.


I didn’t drink or use or kill myself. No one tried to hurt me. I broke the door but I was willing to face whatever consequences awaited me. And for that moment, talking with the cows, with a guy who understood being young and sober – and he didn’t touch me. 


It’s late, 3 am. At this moment, all is well with the world. My husband and dog are asleep, the wind is howling, my ADHD is very much alive and well; Gratitude fills my heart as I am clean, sober, and quite safe.


Thank you for listening.


Much love to each of you.


Erliss, The Monkey Whisperer


PS: My Psychokinetic Girl Power is very much in tact – just a little less obvious. 


 

	


	





	

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


	
	
	

		
	

		
 


IMG_20160801_022927


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 3rd 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.”


IMG_20160801_012118117


 


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…


IMG_20160801_015026


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