Archive for February, 2012
Leaping into and over Puddles
Posted by Running from Hell with El in Spirituality on February 29, 2012
It is 2 p.m. and it is time to go for a run. I don’t care that it is pouring outside. It seems appropriate to leap into puddles today; then again, I never really outgrew puddle jumping.
April 2011 3rd marathon in favorite red running jacket
I don’t stop thinking the entire time I get dressed. Even as I pull on running tights and a blue tech t-shirt and yank my long, dirty blond hair back into a pony tail, I ruminate over the state of my soul and the economy and chapter 24 and my friend that is irked with me and the overdue car inspection. And then I smile and stretch and pull on my favorite article of clothing, ever: my red running jacket.
If I have a talisman, this jacket is it. I bought it at the L.L. Bean Outlet in Tyson’s Corner, Virginia, more than ten years ago and I have worn it hiking and walking and snowshoeing and cross-country skiing and of course while running. It’s a thin windbreaker with a zipper that just barely works, a hood, and it has a removable zip-in liner that I almost never use. If you ask one of my friends who lives around the block from me about me, she might say something about this jacket. If you see a woman running in a red jacket anywhere near Burke, Virginia, chances are it is me. I run that many miles with this jacket and it feels as comforting to me as a stuffed animal feels to a small child.
I warm my legs up with a 5-minute walk, and by then I struggle to see the ground through the raindrops. For a few minutes, I contemplate the ratio of raindrops to air, and I shake my head at my weirdness. In the summer time, the ratio here in the Northern Virginia swamps approaches 100%, but on this day, it is 45 degrees and even though it is raining, I deem it perfect running weather. I’m not picky about running weather: rain; ice; snow; wind; freezing cold; burning heat . . . well, the heat is not to my liking but I love running nonetheless.
I settle into a comfortable pace. A neighbor drives past in her white crossover and beeps at me twice in greeting, and I wave and grin. I concentrate on running tall and landing midfoot and I ignore the driving spike-like pain in my lower back. At my age, pain is the price I pay for running and I will pay it happily until I have no cartilage left in my body, and even then, I will borrow whatever capital I need to keep running.
Running through Puddles
I will keep running for the same reason our souls seek their maker. When I run I feel like I am home. My feet tap on the sidewalk and the sound of my hood goes “Glunk-wunk” every time I land and I breathe in the air and the rain and the food for my soul. Some women retreat to cathedrals or to churches to refill the vestibules of their spirits. I glance to my left at the muddy, brownish-green water rushing over the creek bed. The rain creates a living mosaic as it hit the running water in a pattern that intrigues and comforts and confounds me. And then I give up trying to comprehend it and I just run. And in running, I am home again.
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To: Smirk
Posted by Running from Hell with El in Abuse, Childhood, Identity, Spirituality on February 28, 2012
I’m at a crossroads in my life. I’m not breaking down at all; instead, I am breaking through to the next stage of healing. I’ve talked with you about a lot of serious things lately: depression; self-hurting; grieving the loss of my birth family; addiction; a new bipolar diagnosis; setting boundaries with toxic friends; helping my child who struggles with ADHD; sexual, physical and emotional abuse and through it all, you have listened and been right here with me, and I am grateful, dear reader. Now I am trying to figure out something because all of my online smirking has offended a reader and a friend. My question, friends, is to smirk or not to smirk.
What does it mean to smirk? A friend of mine explained to me, with a good bit of frustration and annoyance at me last night, that the word smirk mostly suggests negative connotations. She went on: “The word word ‘smirk’ is imbued with smugness, self-righteousness and/or a sense of superiority. Indeed, when conferring with the dictionary, this is the result returned:
Verb:
Smile in an irritatingly smug, conceited, or silly way.
Noun:
A smug, conceited, or silly smile: ‘a self-satisfied smirk.’”
Why do I smirk so much on my page and on my wall? Am I really a conceited, smug, woman? Is the smirk a harmless mannerism, like a silly smile? Or is it something more significant, fraught with deep meaning and psychological significance? Those of you who have known me, in real life or merely through the words I write, probably guessed that the answer is that I smirk for a reason, and the reason is probably related to something that happened to me when I was a child.
So here it is, for better or for worse. As a little girl and then a teenager, I smiled all the time. I smiled when I was scared or nervous or angry; I smiled and struggled hard to keep smiling so that no one could see that I was hurting inside. And I smiled involuntarily, sheepishly, because I felt ashamed almost every minute of every day. You see, my parents on a good day yelled at me constantly, and when I say they yelled at me, I’m talking about Judd Nelson’s character John Bender in The Breakfast Club and his dad. Remember that?
John Bender: [Imitating his Father] Stupid, worthless, no good, goddamn, freeloading son of a bitch. Retarded, big mouth, know-it-all, asshole, jerk.
[Imitating his Mother]
John Bender: You forgot ugly, lazy and disrespectful.
[Father's voice]
John Bender: Shut up bitch! Go fix me a turkey pot pie.
[His own voice]
John Bender: No dad, what about you?
That’s how my parents talked to me. Every day. Whenever I hear that scene again, a chill runs down my spine because it takes me right back there. In the movie, John yells back at his father. I never yelled back, but I didn’t smile either. They killed my smile. Instead, I smirked. Sometimes I smirked desperately, like a dog wagging its tail at an angry owner. I smirked because I was ashamed and scared and sad; and then as I become a teenager, I smirked with insolence laced with cold terror.
And I kept smirking when they screamed at me, “WIPE THAT GODDAMN SMIRK OFF YOUR FACE OR ELSE I WILL KNOCK IT OFF!” At some point I lost control of that smirk. Something rebellious clicked inside me and while I didn’t stop hoping the abuse would end, from then on, I refused to let it defeat my spirit. Nothing, and no one will crush what makes me special, and if my smirk seems incongruent and unpleasant, I’m sorry if it bothers you. The smirk is not about smugness and conceit; it isn’t silly and it isn’t meant to hurt anyone else. It reminds me of who I am and where I came from. It reminds me that flowers can grow out of cement and laughter is so often forged out of tears. It reminds me that if I keep trying, that sad, awkward, nervous smirk will turn back into a smile if I let it. And usually, I let it.
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One Day at a Time
Posted by Running from Hell with El in Abuse, Addiction, Childhood, Substance Abuse on February 27, 2012
One day at a time. What does that mean to me? One day recently, I got tired of asking, “Am I an addict?” The truth is, I have been asking myself that question for more than 25 years, and I never figured out the answer. It remains a loose end, untidily wrapped, which is no surprise given how messy my life sometimes gets. I’m not so much in denial as just done arguing that I am not denying it. 
I like bright-line distinctions. I search for answers for why I did the things I did. When it comes to substance abuse, however, truth eludes and yet stalks me. I have seen the haze of eyes that see and feel nothing; I have seen through those eyes and looked into those eyes too many times. As a child, I drank their alcohol as if I were an adult; as a child, his whiskey-festering breath hissed on me while his hands hurt me. Our home was built on a foundation of liquor bottles and raging voices; the walls, constructed out of wine boxes, and it was all I knew.
I cannot keep that house of bottles from tumbling down. I am not an adult growing young and trying to recapture an innocence lost. In truth, one cannot recapture something one never really had. What I can do, however, is to build a foundation that neither shimmers nor shakes for the adult I have become, and for the children I have borne. My children must never look into my eyes and see a stranger, or worse, eyes that do not see them.
Years ago, when my neurologist told me I must not drink, I grieved and fought against it. I asked my husband if I was an alcoholic and at first he said I was not, but then I cried, “How will we ever have fun?” He glanced at me soberly and replied, “We have fun all the time without drinking, don’t we?” And my honest response scared him enough for him to say, very quietly, “Maybe you do have a problem.” I didn’t quit drinking then, but I stopped drinking every night, and I knew, deep inside that my honest answer was more an indictment than he or I could admit.
The thing is, we haven’t wanted to face it, and so we have danced around it. For years, I set the bottles down. Pregnancy was good for me. It taught me that I could have fun without drinking and smoking. Yes, smoking. That was another thing I am awfully good at quitting, and I quit it for good 18 months ago. It took a scary CT Scan for me to get the damn message, but I heard it, loud and clear. As far as the bottles, it has taken me a little longer to hear what my heart was telling me.
Sometimes we learn through others. In part, I learned from my parents and my grandparents that alcohol shatters homes. And in part, one of the protagonists in my novel is an alcoholic, 15 years sober. She hit rock bottom and I am fortunate: I never fell that far. I kept waiting to hit bottom, as if I needed confirmation. Don’t addicts all hit bottom? Maybe not. Or maybe I hit bottom decades ago when my best friend stopped talking to me because I drank too much. I don’t know the answer, or even the specific question anymore. All I know is that I inhaled my last smoke and downed my last drink.
It used to scare the hell out of me, the thought that I drank my last drink. So I don’t frame it that way in my mind anymore. I think: it’s been this much time since I drank my last sip of alcohol. I don’t worry about the future anymore. That’s too fucking hard to worry about. All I know is this day, today, I’m substance-free, and from now on, all I can do is take it one day at a time. And that’s good enough for me.
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Philosophical Sayings or Actions that Help Someone in Need
Posted by Running from Hell with El in Self-Help, Spirituality on February 25, 2012
The other day, I wrote about Modern Philosophical Sayings that Annoy Me. Now, with the help of several bloggers and friends, I offer the companion piece to it. I hope that when you’re troubled, or sad, or trying to comfort someone who is struggling, you will find something in the words below that helps you.
The first quote comes from I Want a Dumpster Baby: “‘More will be revealed and this too shall pass.’ My sponsor has said these words to me for 10 years. I’ve heard these words a million times and they have pissed me off and have given me great comfort.”
My friend and Blogger, Ill not Crazy, said quite simply, “You are worth it.” And thank you: yes we are.
Hands Free Mama added her favorite quote. “My sister sent me a card when I was going through a tough time. The card said: ‘Everything will be okay in the end. If it’s not okay it’s not the end.’ I love this and I keep it in mind every time I am going though something painful or difficult.”
Astrea Baldwin then added a beautiful quote that makes me smile. “Life is not about waiting on the storm to pass, it’s about learning to dance in the rain.” I realized the other day, as I was grieving the loss of my birth family, that even in my grief I was feeling moments of great happiness. And you know what? That is fine and good.
My friend Sheri wrote in: “Tomorrow is another day. Everyone says it, but my Dad said it to me. No matter how crappy today, this minute is . . . tomorrow holds the key to NOT being crappy.” I agree Sheri, and I will add one of the quotes that has gotten me through many a desperate night: “I always feel better after a night’s sleep.” Not a “good night’s sleep.” Any sleep has helped. Many times I dreaded sleep, not knowing what I would face in the morning, but when I woke, I felt better (even if only a tiny bit).
My friend John contributed: “Don’t throw in the towel, because up around the next bend lies the best waterfall you have ever seen.” In the same vein, John went on to say, “Just like the ocean, the tide will change and when it does, you will behold the best driftwood and prettiest purple agate.” And it is true, at least for me, that I never give up, in part because I hope to find that waterfall or that piece of driftwood or that pretty purple agate.
Jen Blackburn, the founder of Grass Roots Initiative to Prevent Suicide and a dear friend, said, “BREATHE IN HOPE. As long as we have breath we have hope, so breathe in hope.” Ask Jen how much she loves this quotation! I love it too. I have not always had hope, but I do know how important hope is for human happiness.
Jen Blackburn added a second quote: “Stay in the present. The past is gone, the future isn’t real. All we can manage is the here and now.” What I love about this, for those of us who beat ourselves up about the past, is that it encourages us to let go of that sharp inner critic and to keep moving forward. This is meshes with another important concept: we must forgive ourselves for mistakes we made in the past.
My friend, Far Away and Long Ago, expressed the simple need for human comfort in her own quotation: “Hold me. Just hold me. Let me cry, and hold me. Do not try to speak words of comfort, just wrap your arms around me. And hold me.” Many, many times, I have curled up against my husband and asked him to hold me and it always makes me feel better.
My friend Christeen has tattooed two different quotes on her wrists. The first tattoo reminds her of people/entities who love her or whom she loves (“Faith, Family, Friends”); the second, of things she loves to do (“Live, Laugh, Love”). “Between those [tattoos], I can usually find something to focus on when I am in crisis. And since I am more of a tactile than a visual person, having the tattoos helps me because I can touch, rather than merely see, them.”
My friend Tara likes to “Talk it through myself,” and yes, my friend that may “sound simple,” but it is also very helpful. In order to heal, we need to sort out our problems internally and that requires listening to our inner voice.
My friend, equestrian and 50 Sense Page Administrator wrote: “It’s just a lightning flash in eternity.” And this is so true. All pain, no matter how intensely we feel it, is something that in time we can process and manage and move past . . . which is not to say it is not real pain. It just means that it will not last forever. Things can and will get better. In time.
The wonderful blogger The Loneliness of the Stay-at-Home-Mother wrote: “What I try to remember for myself (usually unsuccessfully) and what I tell my friends is that getting it out of your head and off of your chest may not ‘solve’ anything but it will at least give you room to breathe.” I agree that it helps to talk with people we love. Then she added something else. “Also, a lot of people dislike this, but there is a certain simplicity and lightness in ‘It is what it is.’ I take it as: there are things that are out of your control so just take them for what they are and don’t try to shape them to fit your needs or wants.” Just so.
My sage friend Molly underscored the concept that “this too shall pass” with “I feel like the theme on all of these [quotations and suggestions] is that time works. Everything needs time.” And after reflecting on it a bit more, Molly added a quote from the great Ralph Waldo Emerson:
Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities have crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day. You shall begin it serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense.
Who here has memorized Rudyard Kipling’s “If?” If not . . . go grab that! No, I jest (sort of). I am not giving out homework assignments. But poetry helps me cope. And so . . . does music. And . . . running, and walking . . .
And finally, what helps me when nothing else works? When I feel like the world is crushing down on me, I remind myself to breathe. And when it gets too hard to breathe, I get down on my knees and I pray. Yep. He listens, or at least I trust that He is listening, and that’s enough for me. I may be a woman of reason, but I know when to admit I need more help than another human can give me. And deep inside, I believe in Him. And I believe He loves me.
We love to hear from you! What helps you when you’re struggling? Peace and love to you.
© February 22, 2012 E. L. Farris
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Modern Philosophical Sayings that Annoy Me
Posted by Running from Hell with El in Self-Help, Spirituality on February 23, 2012
Yesterday, the administrator from one of my favorite Facebook Pages, Stephanie StClaire: Blissbombed (she also is a personal coach and writes a blog at BLISSBOMBED.com) asked her readers to discuss the modern philosophical sayings that most annoyed them. My eyelids hurt too much yesterday to add much to the discussion, but to see Stephanie’s take on this and many other issues, please check her out on Facebook or on her webpage. Meanwhile, I came up with a list of my own annoying sayings. So here we go down the rabbit hole.
“Everything happens for a reason.”
No! Mistakes occur all of the time. Anything involving human actors means that imperfection abounds. Sometimes people do stupid things for NO reason. Remember Camus’s The Stranger? The main character shoots someone for no real reason, except that “the sun was in his eyes,” or something crazy like that. Or how about Bruce Springsteen’s serial killer in “Nebraska?” When asked why he killed all of his victims, he replies, “Well sir I guess there’s just a meanness in this world.”
“Everything happens at the right time.”
This is for all of my friends who conceived a baby at perhaps not the most opportune time. All of them have stated that the right thing happened at the wrong time.
“It is God’s will.”
This saying once infuriated me and made me hate God for a couple of years, because I mistakenly believed it. My friend Ceres was 18 when she died in a freak accident. I was 14. Ceres graduated from our private school in Maryland (which sent many of its graduates to Ivy League schools) a year early, and went on to study astronomy at Princeton. After visiting her family on winter break, she boarded an Amtrak train to return to school. The engineer took cocaine that day and because of his decision, taken without God’s input, the train crashed, killing several. One of the deceased was Ceres. God had NOTHING to do with this tragedy.
“God will not throw anything at you that you are not strong enough to handle.”
How do we know God’s will? God is not a magician, pulling and twisting the strings of our fate and adding just the right challenges to test us when we’re strong enough to handle whatever He decides must come our way. God does not control our lives like that. He gave us free will; as a result, people throw all sorts of shit at us we can or cannot handle. We handle it in the best way we can. Or we shrug and do nothing. Sometimes we grow stronger; sometimes we hold on and barely weather the storm; sometimes we crumple. We alone control how we handle life’s challenges. It helps many of us to pray for strength, but God cannot lift us off the ground. Only we can do that.
“The reason people find it so hard to be happy is that they always see the past better than it was and the present worse than it is.”
This lacks any rational basis whatsoever. I for one view the past with a great deal of trepidation and sadness. If anything, I spend too much time living in the future and not enough time enjoying the present moment. In one sense, therefore, the philosopher above at least recognizes a human’s occasional inability to live in the present, or “carpe diem.” But I mostly enjoy the present. Greatly.
“Love me without restriction. Trust me without fear. Want me without demand.”
To love someone unconditionally is not the same thing as to love someone without restriction or expectation. I want and expect certain things from the people I love. I want (even require and demand) respect and a benevolent attitude from friends and family. I love unconditionally but not to the extent that I will continue in a relationship that damages me or has grown toxic. As one friend of mine always says, “If you’re on a plane and it’s going down, grab your oxygen mask first before you help someone else.” Nor will I remain in an abusive relationship; instead, I create boundaries that keep me safe. And boundaries, my friends, can be seen as restrictions.
“You can’t love others before you learn to love yourself.”
This one was a hard one, and as a teenager, I would advise my friends, with great sagacity, that they couldn’t love anyone before they loved themselves. Sorry teenage friends but this one is untrue. I loved others, and often with great intensity, while I secretly loathed myself. It wasn’t until I held this baby creature named Jim in my arms, and such inexpressible, soulful love for me was written in those big blue eyes of his that something clicked deep inside me. I already loved him as much as I would ever love another creature, but my child’s love for me taught me how to love myself. I first loved myself through his eyes. Or perhaps his love for me sparked something that already existed inside of me. All I know is that I loved my dear Jim before I loved the woman I had become.
“There is no truth. Everything is relative. Truth is in the eyes of the beholder.”
There is an entire philosophy called moral relativism and as far as I am concerned, it is bunk. I cite the 6 million Jews murdered during the holocaust. In addition, I cite the statistic that 1 in 4 women have been raped or sexually assaulted as grounds for believing that there is evil in this world. And I cite, as proof of good, the laughter of a child, big blue eyes staring into my own with adoration or a sunbeam on a frigid winter morning after a long, cold rain.
How about you dear reader? What modern philosophical sayings, mentioned or not mentioned above, get you riled up? I love to hear from you!
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Life is Beautiful
Posted by Running from Hell with El in Abuse, Childhood, Identity, Self-Help on February 21, 2012
Life is beautiful now, and it was beautiful then. I just didn’t see it. I didn’t see it because I was bent over in pain, and one thing about pain. It is paralyzing. And when it isn’t knocking you on your ass and making it impossible to breathe, it hurts. But this isn’t really about pain. Like an Eskimos describing snow in all its variations, a trauma survivor can write at length and with great depth about pain. I have written those words and at some point, they will help form the pages of my memoirs. This is not about pain. This is about how I overcame all of that pain.
Anyone who knows me well has heard part of my story, and I am not going to recount it here. (See A Family’s Reckoning Day). It’s enough to state that I was abused emotionally, physically and sexually. For years, I struggled psychologically. I tried to be fucking perfect so that I could somehow convince myself that I was worth something. Achievement followed achievement but I was only as happy as the last A grade or shutout or sub-7 minute mile I ran. Outwardly, I seemed like I had it all put together, but as I aged it got harder and harder to keep it together and hide the cracked and fissured parts of myself from the world. The worst truth of all was that I was attacking my soul from the inside.
I learned as a teenager to hurt myself. When other people talk about hurting themselves, I have always stared at them with frustration, especially the cutters. It made no sense, the concept that by cutting their skin, some of the pressure building up inside got released with the flowing blood. It made no sense to my rational mind, but secretly, even though I didn’t cut myself, I had my own secret. I used to beat the shit out of myself.
I don’t remember the first time. Maybe it was when I got a B+ on a History Exam. Not an A. I wasn’t fucking perfect. I was a failure. I hated myself. Rage and grief and fists balled up and then . . . it happened. I hurt so badly inside and I would ball up my fists. I wouldn’t stop until I felt like stopping. I didn’t enjoy it. I always felt like shit afterwards.
In my late 20’s, I became an epileptic. God sent me a message and I heard him. What was the message? He loved me no matter what. And life is beautiful. Every day I wake up in the morning, I remember his message. The doctors never figured out why I suddenly started having seizures; then again, I told no one about my own personal Fight Club. But I knew why. I fucked myself up that badly. No, this isn’t about me feeling shitty about all of that. I did what I did—I did what I don’t do anymore.
I talked with my therapist about this self-hurting thing and she didn’t wince. Hell, I didn’t either. She did say that at least when I hurt myself I could control when the hurting would stop, and that made sense to me. And in the grand scheme of things, we have talked about far more painful things over the last two years. Suicidal ideation. Promising to call when . . . . Rape. Incest. Crippling fear of abandonment and its sibling, paranoia. We have pieced together the memories and smells and visions and fragments of memories that constitute my childhood and we’ve made some sense of it all. And what makes no sense, I am learning it is still okay to grieve and accept and in accepting incomplete and imperfect healing, I’ve begun real healing.
The first year of therapy was the hardest, because the wounds felt so fresh, but I learned coping skills. When the noise in my head got too loud, I ran, and the running brought peace. It also made me feel stronger. After I ran my first marathon, I bawled my eyes out and kept repeating the last mile, “No one can ever take this away from me.” Eight marathons later, I truly believe that I can overcome anything. But I learned other coping skills, like sitting still or lying down on the carpet when the pain got too strong. I know my enemy. My enemy is my own hands. My hands are what I use to open pill bottles or to hit myself, so when I feel it coming, that habit-bound rage at my inadequacies, I sit or lie on my hands. And it passes. Life is beautiful.
This post is about overcoming so I might as well give tribute to the other things I have overcome that caused me pain. I grew up with alcoholics and they did evil things to me when they drank. I don’t like the woman I am when I drink, and over the years, I went from someone who had a drinking problem to someone who, with God’s grace, does not drink. I have not smoked cigarettes in 18 months because the smoking is self-destructive. And I have worked oh so hard to become a better mother and to help my husband control his own dark side.
I take my meds every day, and when I get pissed off at the effect of my medication and go off the wagon, I rat myself out to my best friend, who laughs and tells me to do better. I am currently pursuing a diagnosis for bipolar spectrum disorder and if that is what I have, I will deal with it bravely. And finally, after two years of horrid vacillation, I faced my family and told them not to contact me anymore. I know I have a long way to go but I have come so far already. And not a day passes without the realization that makes all of this possible: Life is beautiful. And so am I.
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My Novel in One Sentence
Posted by Running from Hell with El in Abuse, Novel, Spirituality on February 18, 2012
Novel Overview
The other day, my writing partner Renee-Schuls-Jacobsen Lessons from Teachers and Twits and I tried to summarize my novel in a paragraph, and I’m here to tell you it isn’t easy to step back and pinpoint a book in one sentence. And to be frank, I have been a little nervous about revealing the plot because it is, like so much of what I write, a bit raw. I’m afraid that prospective readers will hear that and howl, “Gah! Too dark!” And the thing is, this is not a dark story. Ultimately, I am weaving a tale of hope, redemption, friendship and love. How is that you ask? From chapter 9 to the end of what I am tentatively naming Ripple, I show how competent and loving care can resurrect a shattered young woman and her broken mother.
Because so many people have been helping me solve plot questions on my Facebook page Running from Hell with El, I wanted everyone to know more about what I am doing. In one sentence, here it is. After the rape of a 15-year old girl named Phoebe, her mother Helen protects her in a way she never thought she could, and after she seeks help, we see the ripple effect of women helping women. That sounds simple doesn’t it? But it took me thousands of words to cull it down to a sentence that could fit in a Twitter Running from Hell update. And I owe my writing partner for helping me write this sentence.
Where does this concept come from? Go ahead and laugh. It comes from a Grateful Dead song. The song is (yeah you guessed it) called Ripple. Pretend you’re listening to background music as you hear these lyrics:
Reach out your hand if your cup be empty,
If your cup is full may it be again,
Let it be known there is a fountain,
That was not made by the hands of men.
In my novel, several characters, in their professional capacity as lawyers, therapists, the operators of a safe home for abused women, and even a horse trainer, reach out and help Phoebe and her mother. In flashbacks, the reader will see how the mother’s attorney, Cassandra, went through her own periods of darkness. In a very real sense, I am writing about the ripple effect of women helping women.
When I conceived this novel a year ago, I knew that my main characters, like me, would emerge from darkness and tragedy into a bright future. This is why I named the girl Phoebe. Her name means “Child of Light.” From the very darkest places, if we reach out with our hand with an empty cup and someone reaches back and refills it with love, we will find our way to the light. Always searching, always reaching . . . for the light.
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Stupid Things I’ve Done While Sober
Posted by Running from Hell with El in Childhood, Humor on February 16, 2012
I’ve been writing about such numbing, serious stuff here on my blog while I spend most of my time on my Facebook page telling funny stories or outlining my quirky, eccentric views on a wide range of issues. And it struck me that y’all might enjoy hearing about my lighter, stranger side. Well, I think my deep, dark muse is pretty freakin’ strange too, but you’re following my drift right? Here is where it all started last night . . .
Tonight’s theme is stupid things I have done while sober.
1. I left the plastic wrap on the chicken when I put it in the oven. Yum. Sizzle.
2. I told my aunt that my mom said my aunt’s face “looked old and wrinkly” (um, I was only 9 when I engaged in this brilliant conversation).
3. I smoked weed while on school property in high school. I was sober when I thought this was a good idea; not so sober when I learned otherwise.
4. I left college after one month to pursue my starving writer’s dream (and because Walden 2 sucked and I didn’t want to write a damn paper about it).
5. Five years later, I went to law school at William and Mary and pursued a career for which I was temperamentally ill-suited (or so the partners at the Firm would later say).
6. This summer, I ignored the water bill for three months and our water got shut off (oops).
7. I ran 8 marathons last year (trust me, stupid).
8. I forget to put my parking brake on and my little Subaru rolled down a hill and slammed (splat) into my parents’ cherry tree (smirk).
9. When I was 16, I threw a party at my parent’s house while they were out-of-town and Xeroxed directions to the party; then, I handed out directions to all the upper classmates. Do you remember Jeff Spicoli from Fast Times at Ridgemont High? I channeled him that weekend.
10. I gave birth to three children in 2 and a half years.
11. One time, the guys and I snuck out after midnight, took my father’s car for a joyride, and then we couldn’t get the damn key out of the ignition. Now *that* was the most sleepless night I ever had. I did manage to wake up before my dad the next morning. I pretended I was going out for an early morning run, found the ignition release button on his gray Toyota Scarlet and got those keys out of the ignition JUST in time!
12. And finally, one time, when I was in 8th grade, I came home to our new house and I was locked out. It was pouring and none of the neighbors were home, and my parents wouldn’t be home for hours . . . so I took a rock and threw it through the window. This set off the damn alarm. It felt strangely liberating, until the cops showed up, and then I had to weave this long tale about how the window was already broken when I got home from school. This is one of the many stupid, naughty things Little El did. Anyone have any stories? I am already smirking.
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A Farewell
Posted by Running from Hell with El in Abuse, Childhood, Identity, Self-Help on February 15, 2012
A Farewell <——- Click here to listen to audio recording of post.
My children ask me about my childhood and I push the grief out of my mind and change the subject. I could talk about holding my Mom’s hand or smelling beef stew cooking on the stove, but the words won’t come. The words are trapped inside, like miners buried deep underground. It hurts to relay the good memories because moments, however brief, of feeling loved are incongruous with more painful visions of my parents hurting me. I glimpse a fleeting vision of mom’s ivory white hand stroking my forehead, but the warmth it suggests makes me colder inside. The hands struck and shoved and tore at me in conjunction with words that assaulted me.
I just listened to Queensryche’s “Silent Lucidity again,” and there is this part of the song that goes:
The walls you built within
Come tumbling down
And a new world will begin.
And the thing is, the hardest walls to strike down truly are the ones we build within. Like so many sexual abuse survivors, I built wall upon wall to protect my fragile heart from the pain of every memory, and ever since I became an adult, I have been smashing down these walls. The inherent difficulty in my task is that my soul will not be “set free to fly” until I finish tearing down these walls separating present from past, buried memory from vivid image and the few good times from surrealistically evil ones.
Ironically, the latest stage in my recovery is erecting rather than tearing down a wall. In one sense, building the wall took no more time than it took to dash off a quick e-mail, but in a very real sense, it has taken me years to accept the inevitability of this relationship having to end. It ended when they molested, beat and verbally abused me, but it took that long for my heart to stop crying out with anguish and hope for my mother to love me. Is she my mother? Are these my parents? Yes, by birth. I no more chose them than I chose to be abused. But I am choosing to have no parents.
And in making this choice, in bidding them farewell, my soul will be set free to fly. My heart can begin healing. And somewhere along the way, I will become the woman I always wanted to be.
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The Night Before Valentines with a Man who Reads Poems to Me
Posted by Running from Hell with El in Humor on February 13, 2012
My man may not buy me chocolate tomorrow, but he sure gets the big things right. He came home tonight and astutely realized that I was wearing the same sweats I slept in. He: hugged me tightly; kissed my greasy hair; told me I was beautiful; asked me what was wrong; listened when I told him my day had started with Wang Chung and slid downhill from there; told me I had a sweet smile when I managed to smirk; and then, very kindly, said, “Have you had a shower yet? It will make you feel better.” Tender loving care feels good . . . oh, and yep, I got that shower.
Later on this evening, after we tucked the kids in for dinner, my husband read 17th century Metaphysical poetry to me. John Donne is my husband’s favorite poet, and when we dated, he used to read me these poems that made me swoon. We liked John Donne so much that we read poems he wrote to one another at our wedding 15 years ago. And we both love his poetry even now. By the end of these readings tonight, I felt a million times better after my rotten, rocky Monday.
Finally, he agreed to help translate the raciest, sexiest of Donne’s poems for the readers of my blog. All of the modern translations are in his voice. So, dear reader, without further ado, here is my husband Travis Farris providing a 21st Century interpretation of the first two stanzas from ELEGY XIX. TO HIS MISTRESS GOING TO BED.
“Come, madam, come, all rest my powers defy,”
He cannot sleep.
“Until I labor, I in labor lie.”
Until he gets laid, he will be distraught.
“The foe oft-times having the foe in sight,”
He is hot and bothered by seeing her
“Is tired with standing though he never fight.”
I wonder if this has gone on more than four hours (he has been erect and gotten no relief)
“Off with that girdle, like heaven’s zone glistering,”
Take off your bra!
“But a far fairer world encompassing.”
Her breasts are more heavenly than heavenly bodies
“Unpin that spangled breastplate which you wear,”
Please take your clothes off!
“That th’ eyes of busy fools may be stopped there.”
He’s not satisfied with just her taking off her shirt.
“Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime”
She is starting to moan in anticipation
“Tells me from you that now it is bed time.”
She is ready for sex.
“Off with that happy busk, which I envy,”
Off with the clothes already!
“That still can be, and still can stand so nigh.”
Both of them are turned on.
“Your gown, going off, such beauteous state reveals,”
He appreciates her feminine form.
“as when from flowry meads th’ hill’s shadow steals.”
Her naked body lightens up the whole room.
“Off with that wiry coronet and show”
Take off the underwear
“The hairy diadem which on you doth grow:”
And reveal pubic hair
“Now off with those shoes, and then safely tread”
Finish unclothing.
“In this love’s hallowed temple, this soft bed.”
And come on into bed (he pats bed).
*** Happy Valentines dear reader, from my husband and I to you.***
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