Erliss is about honesty, addictions, 12 steps, recovery, depression, trauma, and anxiety. Dark night of the soul crap. She exudes existential exuberance, and sarcasm. She tries to observe it all with compassion, even though that makes her eyes roll.
I did not know he wasn’t supposed to do that.
I did not know I could tell someone.
I did not know it was not my fault.
I did not know I was real.
I did not know I was not dirty, or ugly, or evil, or bad.
I
Did
Not
Know
I
Belonged
To
Me.
Thank you for listening.
Love, Erliss, The Monkey Whisperer
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.
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…
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.
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
Please! Let me have my shame. Let my scars bear witness to my suffering.
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. “
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.
And from there, the desperation to live is reborn.
Thank you for listening,
Love, Erliss.
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.
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/
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
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…
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
This is me.
Do not grab. Do not squeeze. Do not poke-hit-caress-pinch-touch or otherwise inhabit.
Do not coerce. Do not drug. Do not demean – belittle – dehumanize.
You saw. You took. You threw away. And then you haunted – terrified – terrorized and did it again
and again
and over
and over
until I could no longer tell or desire or individuate or even breathe in –
my own skin could. Not. Burden. My. Shame.
Things have shifted.
I will not look over my shoulder. I will not wake up screaming at 2 am.
I will not exfoliate my thighs clean from your filthy hands.
I will not starve-eat-cut-drug-work-sex-run-hide-freeeeeeeeeeeeeeze
And I will not take your blame
any
more.
This is me.
Do not touch.
These knuckles aren’t bloody from punching my pillow.
I am in my bed. Tired from a long day. I spent half of it crying about my intrinsic evil-no good-disgusting-smelly-dirty-
But now I lay me down to sleep as a tiger growls and screeches and claws through my insides and I am
back
in
the
world
of
disgust
ing
me.
🙁
Thank you for listening.
Erliss
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.”
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
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.
I
am
alone
in
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.
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
