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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

A Little Free Association Story

Weird title, I agree. But once you read this, you will understand. And in your understanding, you too, may wonder.

When I wrote this, I was a student chaplain in the same psychiatric hospital where I spent 6 months as a patient years earlier. (Got that? It was a wild time, and quite healing.) At the end of my chaplaincy unit, stressed out, I had to come up with a metaphor for my experience. I was confused, sad, scared, and a few other things. So I sat down

down

(with 20 minutes until it was due), and typed whatever letters fell under my fingers.

This is indeed, free association. I had no outline in my head, no active thoughts, and did not even edit it. I probably should do that.

Anyway, it is resonating with me today.

A Little Free Association Story

And so she said, crying, on her way to pick blueberries at Mrs. Humphry’s farm,

(blueberries always made her smile, you know):

“I wonder why all of this?”

She then saw it. It was blue and purple and green and red and had a daisy for a head and jelly beans for legs. It seemed to swirl, no fly—like a butterfly, but it didn’t have wings, only two tiny twigs that seemed to flap effortlessly in the wind.

And it was singing—she could hardly believe her eyes-

no, her ears-

no, her heart beat (which was, at this point, very fast, racing like an elephant during typhoon season. Have you ever seen such a sight? Well, believe me, they can move fast, as she knows too well, having ridden on many herself at such times, trying to escape the rush of air and rain and thunder and lightning and updrafts and downdrafts and terrifying thunderous roars of the lion—but that is another story altogether.)

It was singing:

“If you want to dear, you can sit with me

or fly with me

like the bumblebee

on a rocky beach

in a flourless sea

without cookies or tea

but with everything else

you could possibly need

to be free with me

da da dum dum dum

da da dum, dee, dum…

“Excuse me!” She called out, somewhat out of breath, for she could not find it since her heart was pounding so loudly that she could not hear, which both are closely related…anyway… “please tell me why you are singing like that, and how did you ever get to be the way you are—where did you come from and why are there no cookies or tea—it makes no sense to be free without cookies or tea. Please explain!” She started to cry, and cry, and cry. For no real reason, except that she always put blueberries in her cookies, and this messed up her whole life.

Everything seemed

Upsidedown-rightsidebackwards-beforeafteraround-insideout!

Then it stopped. It stopped singing. It flew over to her face and sat on her upper lip, which at this point, was quivering as fast as her heart beat was beating faster than she could even count to a hundred blindfolded with one eye squeaking out.

“Well, why didn’t you say so? Of course, it makes absolutely no sense in the world not to have cookies or tea! Especially with blueberries. Yum yum yum! It’s ok, my dear one. For you are wiser than I, and you have taught me much today. Let’s go have some blueberry cookies and tea—shall we?”

It stuck out its twig, and leaned forward on its jelly bean leg, and she thought for a moment, noticing the oddity of it all, but decided that life was indeed too short to miss out on such an invitation from such a strange creature. So they went off together, both of them singing…

If you want to dear, you can sit with me, or fly with me like a bumblebee,dada dum dum dum, dada dee dum dee, dada dum dee dum…

THE END

So, seriously, this is what I am doing in therapy. It’s so weird to see the story in the light of my brain and nervous system rehabilitation, but there you go.

Have a beautiful day, my dear fellow Monkey Whisperers. Stay Connected.

Much Love,

Erliss, The Monkey Whisperer

The Solstice: Luminous Longing

Tonight is the longest night of the year.

This season can be devastating for those of us affected by the lack of daylight- like me, like Erliss.

See – look at my hands. And my insides are seeping out. I am a hot…mess.

Hopelessness and despair establish a stronghold in my psyche; while phantoms resurrect in full regalia, haunting my breath, suctioning meaning and esteem from every corner, creating a vortex of incessant silence. It crows in my ear – this silence – but not enough for me to decipher its voice; instead it awakens the despondent one, for whom all life is corpsing, a mysterious groove, a path to nothingness…

thing

ness.

Why do I awaken at all? Where is this going? It’s dying…

I want to be dead already…

Erliss, my dear, it will be OK. Remember, you go through this every year.

Every year.

It begins in September. I look out the window at 7:30 and it’s dark. Maybe the moon is there. And in a way it’s cool because I can look at the stars and wonder. (Wondering is a fabulous spiritual practice, by the way. Maybe we will write about it someday.) But it gets cold, and the sky isn’t always clear, and the moonlight gets in the way, and the beasts come out of their hiding early, the monsters of the unconscious deep, they live a life from years ago when a child crumbled into nothingness so she could survive…

This has been hard. And sad. I am sad most of the time.

Memories come up that were carefully locked away. I would like for them to stay away. I am working on practicing compassion with myself, with my memories, even with the part of me that wants to enter an eternal state of oblivion. It’s all struggle.

I am supposed to watch it – “observe it with curiosity.” I have to keep reminding myself of this – Observe, Erliss, what do you see? What do you feel? Isn’t that interesting?

I wonder how I have stayed in this world for so many years.

Ah…the light, perhaps?

This Winter Solstice I am more aware of its gift. There is a cycle – every year, we sink into darkness, deeper, deeper, drowning in the night, our lungs filled with its bleak winter…

Then the light magically reappears. It ALWAYS comes back.

Always.

Every

Year.

The darkness lessons – it becomes negotiable, reasonable.

This is how I got sober – at 16, I had experienced enough failed attempts at staying clean to know that time moves ahead anyway; that the compulsion to use or drink would move too. “This too shall pass” kept me from picking up. The urge would pass as long as I didn’t act on it, and connected with supportive people—my sponsor, friends, meetings. And then one day, months and months later, the compulsion was gone. This worked with my urges to self- harm, my eating disorders, acting out sexually, urges to jump off a bridge – everything would pass, and the light shone enough so I could follow a different path.

Yeah, the moonlight, it still feels dark… a voice in my head reminds me, the despair and depression are never gone for long. And yet there are times when I notice something different happening, a kind of haven fills my heart, singing a love song. This is why, in part, I am alive. Why I no longer try to end my life—because I don’t always long for death. It passes like the seasons. It cycles like the moon. And the longing its self is my teacher.

The longing…longing teaches…

I need a break. You probably do too. Here is a link to Ola Gjeilo’s “The Luminous Night of the Soul.” The piano especially resonates with me. I heard this last night at a church service dedicated to the longest night of the year. I wept then, and I weep now.

Take some time to listen, if you can, and notice how you react. I would love to hear your experience.

Longing is my teacher.

We have a celestial promise of new awakening. Every year. It offers a metaphor for those of us who experience deadness at other times. It is natural – nothing is stagnant. It all moves.

It creeps, sneaking up behind you before it pounces and devours your shadow – with no shadow you have no light.

Sigh. See what I have to put up with – this brain? It is interesting how one part of me tries to find hope, and another part tries to pull me down.

Listen to me – hope is not always safe.

And there is the dilemma. Hope is sometimes dangerous. Hope has blinded me from the truth, kept me in abusive relationships, made me all…Pollyanna. “Maybe he will change” or “This isn’t really happening” or “If I hide myself it will stop.”

The darkness serves a purpose – reminding me of my need for safety and connection. It helps me to focus on the little things, like feeling my feet on the ground. It slows me down, forcing me to wonder. The dark is a womb.

In my faith tradition we are about to celebrate Christmas – the birth of Love into the world. It is no coincidence that this holy season happens around the solstice. The light of the world comes in the darkest of nights, when we are ready to give up, when I am melting into the beast, the over-shadowing, when we become one with desolation…

There is no hope without despair.

I need to let this one…settle.

Hear are some words from Madeleine L’Engle’s A Ring of Endless Light:

“Maybe you have to know the darkness before you can appreciate the light.”

Thank you for your presence in this world, fellow Monkey Whisperers.

Much love,

Erliss.

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

Hysterectomy Hysteria

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

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

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

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

Fallopian tubes.

Ovaries

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

Cervix. (ouch)

Labia. (ewe)

V…V…Vug… Vagina.

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

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

Coochie

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

Pussy

Hoohah

Golden Palace

Venus Butterfly

Pooter

Beaver

Kitty cat

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

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

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

I forgot the point here.

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

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

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

https://youtu.be/4I9BUnL6TFs

I’m back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RETURN

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

Oh…

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

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

What do I need to say?

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

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

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

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

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

What a thing to wish.

Breathe.

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

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

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

I hold her.

I fade.

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

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

This…hurts…so…deep…

It’s hard

to say

goodbye.

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

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

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

MY vagina.

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

Erliss

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

Cue Bob Marley.

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

Babysitting My Amygdala

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

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

My self…my body… Nothing. Then…

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

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

Inhale. Inhale. Inhale. Please inhale…

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

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

Powerless.

Shut down.

BREATHE!

I jump up. My skin all knarly. Hyperventilating.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good try, Erliss. You are doing your best.

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

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

https://youtu.be/a3HemKGDavw

Now I can go.

Much love,

Erliss

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

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