“To Protect and Serve: A Personal Reframing”

I did it again.

After a long day, when I was ready to sleep, I did it.

It has been about 3 years. Or 2. I can’t remember. The swallowing of my self confuses all time; who knows when or where or what or who I was then and now.

But I did it. I unblocked him to see what he was up to on social media. It feels like 38 years and 7 months ago is right now.

That day… when my 16 ½ year old self gave in to my sponsor’s persistence that I talk with her “dear detective friend” about him.

“He” was over twice my age when it began the summer I was 15.

This was a year later, after failed attempts to break up with him, his constant following me around, his threats to go after my baby sister (who was 8 1/2 years younger than I – you can do the math), and fear that he would use his gun. He told me he had used it before.

I was sober for about 7 months when I sat in my sponsor’s kitchen – my sanctuary. My sponsor Ruthie and her husband were there, along with a soft-spoken man wearing dark pants, dress shoes, and jacket – was there a tie? He was Ruthie’s friend. I think there was another person, but who knows. The room is filled with fog in my remembering. The detective was standing or sitting – no, standing, both, in front of the sink. I was sitting 10, 20, 100 feet away. Tunnel vision. It is dizzying to think about.

I hear his voice:

“They will be hard on you. In court. They will make it look like it’s your fault.” I already knew that it was my fault. It had to be. But his eyes…they were gentle. Like he was actually listening to me.

“I want to stay sober and clean, and I am scared that he will make me use again.” I blurted out. Something like that. Also, my “boyfriend” wanted to pimp me out. He was excited at the prospect of earning money from me.

Interlude: While I do not write specific details about the abuse, I go to some painful places here. I have never written about this particular time, and it may be difficult to read. It was difficult for me to write. Please take care of yourself. Peace of mind is precious for trauma survivors. I know how activating it can be to read other people’s stories. I will insert a few irrelevant images, to divide up the reading a bit, and give your nervous system a rest.

Like this one here: I took the picture in Bruges, Belgium. I went there by myself last year. Isn’t it like a fairytale?

A few months ago in a therapy session, I talked about an incident involving a woman I met on an inpatient psychiatric unit before rehab – and her husband. She had been writing me for a year. The event occurred around one month before I met with the detective. It involved them driving me around for several hours with a few stops on a beautiful sunny day. I can not write more about that now, there is too much trauma.

But I asked myself out loud in that therapy session.: “Did he set that up? Did (insert boyfriend’s name) get paid for it???” As I write about this scary afternoon with that couple, I start floating away. My face is numb, my throat is closing up… I can’t feel my legs.

Dissociation, the gift that keeps on giving.

Here you go: A Picasso in Chicago. Reminds me of how I feel when I write about some of this crap.

My sponsor hated the man I called “boyfriend,” whom she called “Numbnuts.” (See this post for further discussion on that designation. It also contains more comic relief should you need it. Psychokinetic Girl Power: Sobriety, Resourcing, and Cow Talk – Erliss, the Monkey Whisperer (erlissthemonkeywhisperer.com).

This was in the days before mandatory reporting, when a 15 or 10, or 5 year old could be considered a contributing factor in a 30 or 50-or 70 year old’s wandering body parts. I just threw up in my mouth as I typed those words.

Back to 38 years and 7 months ago.

My legs were shaking all morning before I went to my sponsor’s house. I believe I rode my bike there, carrying my pink diary. That diary had an image of a little girl in a bonnet with flowers all over it. The first entry was from New Years Eve when I was 6. I wrote with excitement about how we “had the Community Chest cards where the Chance cards should be, and the Chance where the Community Chest cards should be!” Monopoly was my favorite game at the time. A friend and I played it on the floor of my dad’s office that night. We laughed so sillily when we noticed our mistake. I guess I thought it was important enough to document.

When I was shipped off to drug rehab early spring after turning 15, my parents took the journal I had been writing in for a couple of years. It was brown and had a date on each page. My best friend gave it to me for my 13th birthday. They read it and said they “don’t want that filth in my house!” (In fairness to them, the “Hail Satans” may have pushed them over the edge a little. They did their best.)

SO much of my life is missing. Memories of my worst drug experiences involving men who I will never remember were in that book. They are lost forever, wherever the trash goes. I thought I should have gone with it – trash felt like a mirror reflection of my soul at the time.

When I got home from rehab, I needed to journal. So I pulled out that pink -6-year-old-self diary and began writing. It didn’t have everything in it, but it had enough for the detective to know I was telling the truth.

The summer of 1985 was hell. I was sober, but I felt everything. My sponsor’s kitchen held that hell with the most sacred of confidences.

The detective (or were there 2?) gave me a couple choices. One was to press sexual assault charges. (There may have been more charges. I guess the word for “he followed me everywhere and called my house and hung up and left me weird notes and messages and would not leave me alone” is “Stalking.”)

Damn’t… I am 55 years old and have walked with countless women through their trauma stories. Only now, as I write this at 3 am on a Thursday, am I realizing that he was stalking me. Not only did he manipulate, control, assault, blame, shame, threaten, (repeat ad infinitum) – but he also stalked me – almost daily for over a year, and less frequently in the 3 years that followed. No wonder I am so fucked up.

“Hey…Erliss…you are not the one who is fucked up. HE is the one who is fucked up. The fucked- uppery is on him, not you. It is fucking amazing that you are even alive. Holy fuckity fuck girl!”

My ears are ringing, I can’t catch my breath, where am I?

Breathe, Erliss. Feel your toes wiggle. Look around the room for 5 blue things…

What do I do with this new information?

Erliss, you look sad. Are you crying for that 16 year old girl who tried her best? She is ok now. She is here. She made it.

I need to pause…no I need to finish writing…after a pause.

PAUSE

Silly me, I thought I could write about this encounter with the detective in my sponsor’s kitchen and “keep it simple.” But trauma is never simple.

This flower from my yard is simple. Beautiful, and simple.

38 years and 7 months ago the detective took my journal. The pink flowery one with the little girl in a bonnet on the cover, and the silly 6 year old’s entry about a Monopoly game mishap on New Year’s Eve.

An aside: memory is a funny thing. It’s possible I have it backwards – that I gave my sponsor the journal, she gave it to the detective, who read it before meeting with me. Or maybe we met twice. I feel like I gave him the diary. I do not remember. Often in trauma, order becomes disordered, and puzzle pieces are reshaped and resized. But trauma wants to be heard…it craves a good listener, a non-anxious presence to walk it from the far end of hell to its front door. Or at least a balcony.

At one point the detective leaned in and handed my journal back to me. He said he was proud of me for staying sober, that he knew life was hard for me. There was something about his voice – was it compassion? Did I remind him of his daughter or niece? Did he work with someone else – like me – who died either from suicide or homicide? Was he afraid for me?

He knew I wanted sobriety more than anything. This kind and wise man shared his fear that the defense attorney would be cruel, that the wounding would be irreparable, and I could relapse, or die with my next suicide attempt. He offered that he and this other detective (there was definitely another cop there) could “talk” to the “boyfriend,” tell him to leave me alone, and they were watching him. If he ever bothered me, I could tell them, and they would get him. Or stop him. Arrest him. Scold him. Maybe castrate him. I forgot which – probably all of the above.

It was maybe 5 or 6 months ago, while working with our local police as a volunteer chaplain, that I came to understand what was happening in that kitchen. All these years I believed that I was to blame, that the cops didn’t believe me, and probably laughed at me behind my back. But when I remember his eyes, with a tinge of sadness, and the care he took in explaining my options – he knew I was telling the truth. Maybe he knew that there were dirty cops in town that were “friends” with that man, that he was “connected” to more dangerous people.

The detective was serious – he wanted to help me. I know this, because I have seen that look in other cops eyes – the longing for justice coupled with the need to keep a victim safe; the frustration that the perpetrator will get out of jail on bond and go back to harm the victim; the lack of resources to help the victim gain a sense of empowerment; the counter-transference when “this could be my daughter/sister/son/mother/parent/grandchild/spouse/etc.”

While it has improved immensely, the law still doesn’t allow for an easy marriage between “justice” and “protection.”

Anyway, back to the point: I said “Yes, please” to the latter recommendation. I felt very small, like I was a 5-year-old saying “yes, please” to hot fudge on my ice cream.

As for the alternative choice – the thought of being the cause of that man’s arrest, having to tell everyone in court, being afraid he would come after me – I cannot describe the terror it all brought me.

Here is a picture from a rest area in eastern Wyoming. I love how the clouds frame the sky and sun.

So they did it. I went home after that meeting, and the “boyfriend” did not call my house. A couple of days later I went away on vacation with my family, attended a wedding where I found myself with a bottle of vodka in my hand (another story for another time) and put it to my mouth – then saw the phone on the wall, and called my sponsor instead. That was a fucking miracle. A holy hell damned FUCKING miracle.

A few days after vacation ended, I had a week at music camp – one of my safe places that I still refer back to when needed. And after that – about 2 weeks after the cops had their “talk” with him, (which, I imagine in those days, involved a little bit of roughing him up- at least a part of me wishes that happened.) I started feeling like it all worked. It was the longest time I had gone without hearing from him in over a year. I didn’t have to be with him, do what he said, smell his alcohol smitten breath, be afraid all the time – I was free.

Eleventh grade was fast approaching, and I was ready to start the school year with hope.

In early September I went to the grocery store across the street from my house. It is the same grocery store where I first met him, the ONLY man to ever call me “Princess,” the year before. Who knows what I bought, but while in the check-out line I heard my name. And there he was. He told me “You didn’t have to go do that BULLLLLLLLLshit!” “You will always be my princess,” “ I will never leave you alone.” And “I am watching you always.” Then he handed me an unsigned letter and walked away.

I was dazed, like in a trance.

Memory is strange. What happened after that? Did I go back to the cops? Did I tell my sponsor? It’s a blur. I know that I did not have sex with him again for about 8 months. Instead, I tried to shrink my 5 foot 5-inch-tall body as both penance and protection. At my first year AA sobriety anniversary I weighed 86 pounds. See, the man liked young girls, but they needed breasts. I was still wearing a bra but went from a C to an A cup. He left me alone. I ended up on a medical unit for anorexia nervosa– the first of 3 longish inpatient treatments for my eating disorders. I felt like if I could disappear, so would he.

And yet…the point of my sharing is to say I now know, 38 years and 7 months later, that those cops wanted me to be safe. They did not blame me. They blamed him and wanted him to pay for what he did. And I imagine they were sad and angry that they could not get him. Maybe they even questioned their own calling and sense of purpose.

No one was able to get him. Not for what he did to me, not for what he did to my friend who was a year younger while I was in the hospital for the eating disorder, not for what he did to myriad young girls in the years since then, and not for what he is most likely doing today.

It is hard for me to think of myself as a victim. One of the benefits of shame and self-blame is the illusion of having a sense of power. If it was my fault, then I had some power in the abuse. I COULD have stopped it but didn’t. See how that works?

I cried when I connected the detective in my sponsor’s kitchen with the cops I work with today. If I could talk with him right now, it would go something like:

Thank you. You believed me. You were wise and protected my sobriety – I would never have been able to testify and stay sober. And even though he didn’t stop completely, you said something that scared him, because he slowed way down.

I got to graduate high school; go to college; attend graduate school. I even got married to a kind, loving, smart person – you would like him. I have sponsored countless people, often sitting on the listening, non-anxious presence side of their trauma hell stories. I needed a lot of help, and maybe some would not see this as a success.

I know you are angry that you could not stop him from hurting other girls. It was a small town, with few resources, and he had power from beyond.

But I am here today, clean and sober, because you listened to me. You gave me a chance, you believed me – when so many others did not. I am grateful for you, my dear sponsor’s dear detective friend. Thank you.

It is now 5:15 in the morning. I wrote more than I expected. I feel sad and confused. There is a bit more for me to work through than I thought.

And I am crying.

Here is a picture of a special tree. It stood at the entryway of my graduate school campus. I love how it shapes itself over the earth below, hugging the space between its limbs and the grass. I find it comforting, protective, safe.

My therapist reminds me that when I am in ptsd brain, when I dissociate and feel like it’s all hopeless and I am a bad person blah blah blah– that I can hold more of my story than I could in the past. As I wander off to different parts of myself, I don’t wander too far. I have a greater capacity to witness without judgment. I don’t hurt myself to stop the pain. And I have more compassion for the traumatized little girl I once was.

There are 48 hours before I can block that boyfriend/abuser/sick-fuck-jerk-off man again. He probably doesn’t remember I exist. And now he is over 70 years old. Don’t worry, I reported him twice a few years ago. I have no proof of what he is doing today, only instinct. I hope someone is watching him. I don’t want revenge. I want justice for what I imagine are hundreds of his victims.

I still have fear that he is doing it today to some poor teenage girl – and that it is my fault. And I have to have compassion for that part who self-blames. It hurts to carry such responsibility.

Erliss dear, you are not accountable for his actions. You are not accountable for any of their actions.

I need to get a little sleep – take a nap for a few hours before I start my day. A day which conveniently ends with an evening therapy session. I wonder what I could possibly discuss in that hour and a half.

Thank you for listening.

Much love to each of you,

Erliss

PS- Maybe, someday, I will be like Dignity. I love her.

Dignity of Earth and Sky, South Dakota. I took this picture on a solo drive from Wyoming to Wisconsin. When I saw her from the highway, she compelled me to come closer. I wept in her presence. She is a force.

Soul Healing – Trauma, Addiction, and Recovery

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

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

Remember You Are Dust: My Suicidal Eucharist

It’s Ash Wednesday – the day Christians remember their mortality – that we are nothing, come from nothing, and go to nothing. Nothing but dust and ashes.

Worthless sinner – You are a sinner child, the Devil is in you! Get on your knees and pray for your soul…you are going to hell…

And there she is, that voice, rousing the haunting from my childhood.

Blech.

My brain becomes a chaotic whirlwind of blame, confusion, and theological inquiries:

You deserve ash – You were never anything before, but ash. * Hey! I thought the ashes came from the Palms on Palm Sunday! That’s not nothing! * NO! You go from the dust of the earth back to the ash of the earth…

And then with numbing force, as if I’m falling off a cliff or into some chasm of forgotten souls: I am dead. The isolation of my inside reveals it’s corpse- it is my song…I sing the body electric – I celebrate my Corpus Christi – my unholy incarnation – my…

That’s just great Erliss. What are you – the embodiment of a lost Addams Family episode? Are you Wednesday Addams? How goth of you.

I almost always debate my existence with a touch of sarcasm.

But the self hate is sincere.

I wake up wanting to die. I go to bed wanting to die. Ash and dust are my salvation.

AshAshAshAshASH!

OK… I understand that Ash Wednesday is not about suicidal ideation. But the sense behind the ideation – living into the realization that I am nothing, every breath wiser than the one before –

This may end now…or now…or maybe with the next one…you are definitely closer to the ending…yep, almost there…well, maybe a few more breaths…I think it’s going to take longer than expected, but it will happen…eventually…

Usually I am alone in these thoughts – if they ever escape my head, people try to fix me.

You have so much to live for/Your life is important/You gotta love yourself/ Self- esteem self-esteem self-esteem self-esteem

I AM TIRED OF WORKING ON MY FUCKING SELF ESTEEM!!!

Please! Let me have my shame. Let my scars bear witness to my suffering.

He took everything else, please don’t take my shame.

There is a sacred ritual in my thoughts. My desire for death has saved my life.

We have these instincts when faced with danger; fight and flight are heralded as the most popular means of survival. There are Olympic sports dedicated to fight and flight. But freeze and collapse usually elicit more disgust than celebration. Sometimes contributing to dissociative “disorders” (I prefer to call them dissociative “adaptations”), freeze and collapse are the most amazing survival tools. They say to our bodies: “You could die right now, so shut down and you won’t feel the pain.” Blood is pumped from our extremities to our most vital organs, like the heart and lungs, so that we have the best possible opportunity to survive. Freeze enables us to feign death, making us less desirable as food. And collapse makes it more difficult for us to be found if we are hiding – behind a tree, in the grass or under the bed.

My little heart, my tiny self, I can’t breathe, how…why…please make it stop…

[The numbness began to abduct me, so I just now took a break. I stood on one leg and counted backwards by 7s from 100, found 4 red things in the room, pet the dog’s ears – all tools to help me stay more present. Trust me, you don’t want me to go into another world right now, it’s too scary and late. Maybe for Halloween…]

Let’s go back to the main story – Ash Wednesday.

Tonight at church, I wondered if my despondent mind, that incessant desire to fade into death – I wondered if it’s not born from a desperate urge to live?

Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return…. The Priest’s thumb pressed into my forehead the sign of the cross. There is a name for this, it’s not just me, I am with others…You are not the bad little girl, Erliss, or at least you aren’t the only one.

This was a congregational affair. Together we knelt at the altar, heads bowed in humble contrition. We remembered where we came from, and where we are going. We recognized that this life is ever brief, that we will never be “good enough,” and the point is not to live into perfection or holiness; the point is to summon the holy in our depravity.

Tonight, no one tried to fix me. No one said “Be grateful,” or “learn to love yourself.” I was not outed as especially evil or bad or sinful.

We were all told “You are each sinners. We are all sinners. “

Beautiful

Precious

Wondrous

Beloved

Holy

Sinners.

One day every year my existential isolation becomes communal worship. One day a year there is nothing wrong with my self-abasement. For one day in the year, I am usual, normal, with everyone else. I don’t cower alone, so I don’t cower at all. I can walk around with the symbol of my depravity just above my eyebrows – and I can wear it with pride. For today, I am not alone in my shame. My scars belong to everyone. It is about our sin, our mortality, our humanity.

The unique nature of my ”badness” disintegrates into dust and ash.

This is my Atonement. My Suicidal Eucharist.

And from there, the desperation to live is reborn.

Thank you for listening,

Love, 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

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

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

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.

Curiosity Killed The Cat

It’s happening now.

Wave after wave of fear, grief, and hopelessness. I tried to make them stop, slow them down, change them. I even turned on Comedy Central’s roast of Justin Bieber. Nothing. I can’t catch my breath.

I am told not to try to change it. Instead, observe it, non-judgmentally, with curiosity, blah, blah, blah.

Curiosity killed the cat. I like cats.

What choice do I have? If I continue this life, seeking escape from my despair, I will constantly seek escape. I may be sober from alcohol, drugs, binging/purging/starving/acting-out – I could still run away, play hours of online solitaire, watch marathons of Law and Order, or binge shop on imperishable consumables like toilet paper. But I am paying someone 100 dollars a week to help me be more curious about my suffering. I tell him that I have intense desires to disappear, and he will say “Isn’t that fascinating!” and I reply “F-you.” It’s a reluctant “F-you” because I want his help.

I desire life, even just a little sometimes, but it’s an enduring desire.

On Facebook I saw an ad for Udemy; they are offering a “Learn The Freedom To Choose Something Different” workshop by Pema Chodron. If I could choose something different, I would. It seems I am supposed to feel this in order to heal. Choosing healing is something different than running away. This advertisement features a quote by Pema: “Fear is a natural reaction to moving closer to the truth.” I must be moving closer to the truth.

There is a saying in AA – This Too Shall Pass. Everything passes. Then it comes around again, and leaves. Like in-laws, or clouds, or ice cream. It all happens in a moment that I can not hold. Time will not be held, and ice cream will melt.

My brain hurts. My body wants to go to the floor and curl under the floorboards, be part of the earth, my tears her fertilizer. That last part is a bit…histrionic.

I know this evening will move on, and I will be grateful that I lived it. This is key to survival – understanding and accepting the impermanence of life. Yes, it means death – my greatest fear – eventually. But it also means the sensations of anxiety, grief, and hopelessness will not stay in the foreground forever. Impermanence means hope. I don’t mean hope in an afterlife, but hope in this life.

I am aware of my privilege. I get to experience the sorrow of living. I get to know my fears. I get to grieve the loss of the innocence I never felt.

I am here.

And cats have nine lives.

Maybe I should look into that workshop…

Much Love,

Erliss