Young, Sober and Angry
“F*ck You! Go to hell! I wish I was never born!” I screamed, and slammed the front door as hard as I could – I felt like the Hulk. At sixteen I was a few months clean and sober, a fragile clean and sober. And my anger turned me funky shades of green, purple and mauve and I SWEAR I grew six more feet and became psychokinetic – not like Firestarter, she was pyrokinetic. She could start fires with her mind. I loved that book. As a young person I read and reread everything I could by Stephen King. My mother thought he gave me nightmares. She did not understand. Stephen King helped me escape my nightmares, or awakemares, my living terrors. Thank you, Mr. King, for providing me with a resource so I didn’t fade into the abyss.
Psychokinesis is when you can move things with your mind. My brain held no organized belief system about this, but it seemed like my anger had special strength; it was overwhelming.
That day I was arguing with my parents about something that wasn’t fair. Our home often hosted apocalyptic crusades where I fought to make justice a reality for my mind. It was far worse before I got sober.
A year earlier, when I was 15, (and had a 30 something very scary “boyfriend.” I may write about that someday, or not. The “relationship” lasted 6 months, then 4 months, then it never REALLY ended for a couple more years – it was hell. Makes me want to scratch my eyes out when I think of it, but I need my eyes to see, so I won’t think of it for now.) I had a chance to go away with my father for a special weekend. Our church was part of a state convention that included a reunion and performance with my summer music camp. I somehow managed to sing, act, and play the piano while under the constant influence of various chemicals. It’s amazing how we addicts can mimic a functioning human being.
The night before we were to leave, a drama unfolded with my father; I swore, screamed, broke dishes, and threw a vacuum cleaner at him – it landed on his foot. I still believe that his issues with walking in his later years were not helped by that incident. Guilt and shame – the gifts that keep on giving.
Pause. I have pretty intense attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. Surprised, I know. I hide it so well. ADHD is common with people in recovery and PTSD. And it’s common for 2 am writing episodes. I invite you to wear protective gear and go along for the ride. Seriously, wear protective gear, it could get…tangential.
Where was I?
Oh yeah, my father said I could not go to the weekend. He had NO clue how much I was suffering, that I had this creepy man after me, and I desperately wanted to get out of town. The following morning as he collected his luggage for the trip, I chased my father out of the house, while everyone who worked at the post office behind our house put their bags down to watch the show. I screamed, called him names, tried to hit him; he defended himself by swinging his suitcase around, then I fell over, tossed about and yelled from the ground “ I hate you! I HATE YOU! F*ck you!!!!!” and he rushed to his car, as the onlookers…looked…on.
We lived downtown, next to the church where my father was the pastor. Yes. Right. Next. To. The. Church. A narrow sidewalk separated the church building from the house. You could almost stand in between the two and touch both buildings. (Well, not unless your arms were 8 feet long. Of course if you ate a few psychedelic fungi thingys, your arms could grow that long; I know, I read Alice in Wonderland. True story, believe me.) I wish reality shows were popular back then – I would be driving a nicer car today. Maybe a Prius.
As an aside to the aside…My father was my hero. Life is complicated. Kids are complicated. Parents are complicated. Addiction sucks. He was my best friend after I got sober, and now he is gone.
I miss him.
On this afternoon (we are going back to the main subject of this post. If you have forgotten where we are, here is a quick recap: I was a few months sober and slammed the front door while fighting with my parents – It’s not fair – and swore a lot.) By the time I hit the porch steps, the door hit the door frame so hard the glass shattered. Everywhere. Over the railing into the bushes, and over my head onto my sneakers, and I said “Shit!” and ran. Actually, I put my hands up to my face with a shocked look like Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone. Here is link, in case you have forgotten: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0099785/
My own rage terrified me.
Psychokinesis was clearly to blame. So I ran.
I ran.
And ran.
And ran.
I ran, I ran so far away, yey yey yey…I couldn’t get away. Remember Flock of Seagulls? Wasn’t their hair AMAZING? In case you have forgotten, here they are.
I was more of a metal head and classical piano geek in high school, but this is one of those songs I could never get out of my head. Now you can’t either. You are welcome.
I ran to my sponsor’s house. My sponsor was a force – tough, and she always knew what to do. I cried about my parents, how awful and horrid they were (they weren’t) and then I cried about how gross and dirty and awful and evil I was. I wailed that I wanted to drink and trip and die. I hyperventilated as I explained that I was trying to stay away from that “boyfriend” (Same guy I talked about earlier – my sponsor called him “numb-nuts”- the meaning of which was oblivious to my naive sixteen year old brain – I thought it was meant to be cute. Sigh.)
A college student staying at her house was also sober. He offered to take me for a drive. And I went because I never knew how to say no to anyone, except to my parents, obviously.
Sitting in the front seat of his car, I was waiting for it – the time when he would pull over, give me that look, point to his equipment, and youknowtherest. But it never happened. He talked about getting sober young and how difficult it can be. He shared about how nature helps him center himself, that it’s part of his eleventh step spiritual practice.
We were on country roads by then and came up to a field with cows.
“Do you want to get out and talk with the cows?” This seemed like some weird code for sex. Talk with the cows? Was he stoned?
I braced myself for what was certain to turn into another encounter where the-man-took-what- he- needed, and I got out of the car anyway. We went up to the fence and leaned on it, and looked at the cows.
“If we stay still, they might come closer.” He pointed to the field and smiled.
We watched. Curiously. The wind blew and tasted like daisies and honey. I felt myself exhale, and my shoulders fell a little bit.
One cow came closer. And then another. And another. We talked to them, said “Hello, how are you?” and they seemed to understand. We laughed a little, and noticed. Life was all around us.
He never touched me – not one time. I felt a little less gross and dirty and awful and evil. I felt lighter, as I looked into the eyes of those cows, and they seemed to look back into mine.
I felt safe and secure and
He
never
touched
me.
Never. Not once. I didn’t get the creeps. I was secure. And safe. And he never touched me.
Can you understand how true this is? I don’t mean true as in not a lie. It is true that way. But it’s also true as in holy true, almost mystical. For that 16 year old, barely sober, with superpower rage and self-hate to experience the beauty of cows’ eyes with the safety of a young man who DID NOT WANT ANYTHING FROM HER ! I need a minute…
*** Exhale***
In my present day, I am working on establishing safety: When in my life did I realize I was safe? What memories can I use to resource my healing? How do I know that I am no longer in danger? When have I felt the most like myself? Where in my body do I notice my strength?
You are safe, Erliss. Be curious…and notice what happens next.
This memory came up last week in therapy with my SE guy (Somatic Experiencing; it’s a kind of trauma healing focused on healing from the body – the nervous system. Here is a link; check it out if you wish: https://traumahealing.org ) I don’t remember the context, but I remember feeling excited: I have a resource memory – a really good resource memory.
I didn’t drink or use or kill myself. No one tried to hurt me. I broke the door but I was willing to face whatever consequences awaited me. And for that moment, talking with the cows, with a guy who understood being young and sober – and he didn’t touch me.
It’s late, 3 am. At this moment, all is well with the world. My husband and dog are asleep, the wind is howling, my ADHD is very much alive and well; Gratitude fills my heart as I am clean, sober, and quite safe.
Thank you for listening.
Much love to each of you.
Erliss, The Monkey Whisperer
PS: My Psychokinetic Girl Power is very much in tact – just a little less obvious. 