Elisabeth Writing

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Dedicated to my father, John. Happy birthday daddy-o. You always reminded me of who I really was.

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This is a story about a girl who lost herself, and the woman who found her.

When I was a little girl, I had dreams about another land, and another time. There is one that sticks with me, after all this time. I was young, maybe 5 or 6, when I dreamt that I was in my bed of cabbage roses and a cool light slanted across my eyes, awakening me. I yawned and rubbed my tired eyes, sandman blessings, and walked to the window. And there she stood. A woman with milk white skin, startling blue eyes, and silver hair that fell past her waist. She rode on a crescent moon, and her smile was full of tenderness as she held out her hand to me. In my mind I heard the words: Come with me, now. See who you are. I gripped her hand with all the trust of the young and naive, and I let her fly me into shifting constellations and midnight pools. I morphed, as we rode: gold skin, curving limbs, gossamer wings. I grew older with every dip of my finger into the blueberry wine at my feet. We came to an island of creatures and celebration. I danced myself breathless, met a mortal warrior who captured my heart with a mere glance, and then watched in despair as the island was torn apart by some freak explosion. I tumbled once more through space and time, bereft at what I’d lost. I woke to a pillow, wet with my salty tears, and wondered if I might drown in that grief. It faded, but the dream never did.

That story, that dream, shaped me. 

I guess it makes sense that I was a bit of a misfit. A child with polyester wings on her back, assuring the world that the impossible was indeed possible, that she herself was Fey, that magic existed and that I had power over the wind, water and stars. I was a daughter of the moon, a handmaiden of Aphrodite, a faerie ripped apart from my true home. Yes, it’s no wonder I was bullied and picked on and prodded until I cried in my mother and father’s arms. Despite that, I had a good childhood. I had friends and parents that loved me, and loved one another. I had a sister who, although sometimes my enemy, still made life more fun and less lonely. It wasn’t all tears and sadness, pain and vulnerability. I had the ocean at my feet, crabs in castles, riding on my father’s shoulders, listening to my mother tell stories of two faerie Queens, racing the kids on my street, climbing trees and throwing loquats at my younger neighbors (it was our own childhood war, and always fun). I know I was privileged – am privileged. I just felt…a bit apart, sometimes. I wondered if I’d left a piece of me behind on that island, in my dream, and if I’d ever see it again when I succumbed to slumber.

I eventually rallied the black sheeps around me, told them interesting or majestic tales, and in this way I found worth. They liked the way my tongue spun silver and gold, how my hands wrote out myths and legends with their names. But eventually they wanted real love, and real experiences, and I was this awkward beanpole with braces and chopped off blonde hair. I didn’t think anyone would ever love me, would ever travel to the ends of the earth for me, and I felt myself fading. When the bullies poked fun at my flat chest or my body that lacked curves, my strange eyes or the way that at 13 I was still talking about faeries, I retreated further into books and stories. These friends couldn’t hurt me. These friends would always be my comfort, even when I had nothing and no one else. I was lucky to have two friends that stuck by me: Laura and Julie. I would have lost it, and lost myself, without the two of them. And still, I read “The Encyclopedia of Faeries” in class and wrote about unicorns, curses and black knights (white knights, even then, seemed dull).

Until.

In my other book I laid this out as a fairytale: “once upon a time the ugly duckling woke and she was a swan.” In some ways it was both more simple and more complex. I cut my hair (early 2000s layers and swoop bangs; let’s be honest. we all had the same cut). I started smoking pot. Perhaps because of the pot I started dressing in a way that reflected my soul: leggings in tie dye purple, silky skirts, leg warmers, lace gloves. I used makeup (too much eyeliner; again, early 2000s girlies know) which made my green eyes look large and lustrous, my lips pink and luscious. I made new friends that guided me: Ryles and Alex. We rode around in the car, jumped into freezing pools with all our clothes on, drank wine with older boys, spent hours on photoshoots, crashed parties. And when the boys started looking at me, I preened. I loved the attention. I felt seen, desired, loved and accepted. That was always the thing: that longing for acceptance. I guess, once I had it, I was terrified to lose it. I was already losing myself when I fell in love for the first time.

(That’s another story. If you want that story, you’ll have to keep your eyes peeled for my memoir / poetry book. That one is all about love. This is not about love. Or, not about that kind of love.)

I liked being told I was pretty and funny and cute and interesting and smart – even if they didn’t mean most of those things, because they didn’t see those things. My social anxiety disappeared when I was drinking, so it became a crutch. And soon that crutch became an addiction. Addicted to affirmations, addicted to alcohol, addicted to attention. I morphed into different people, tugging at my skin until I was someone else, shoving away my unpalatable emotions or ideas. I was “quirky” in a cute way, but I was so careful never to go beyond the bounds of that. When I did stray too far from normalcy, I got weird looks and side eyes. So I stopped.

I wrote a poem called “Dearest You” about my first love. It was about how, with him, the masks came down and I was myself again. But there came a time when the mask was affixed too firmly, when I was swimming in an amber river of Jack Daniels and I couldn’t find my way home, even with him. I threw myself into relationships. Or, when I couldn’t do that, I succumbed to sharp teeth and bruises in the slow, heavy darkness. I always smelled like whiskey, cigarettes and jasmine. 

When I got sober I started to unpeel the layers of graffiti and decay within me, to find the girl I was sure might still be there, angelite heart and rose quartz light. My nails were bloody, and I ached, but there seemed no end to it. No road that ended in a child with wings: me. 

I fell in love and got married. And then I left, even more broken and lost than before. It ripped my fucking heart out. A year later, my father died. I’ve never known a pain so great, a grief so sharp, and I followed his ashes to the ocean, nearly letting go, swallowed by riptides and the promise of a soft and quiet death. I sank into it. I didn’t think I’d ever crawl out. To be honest, I didn’t want to. 

I was bit by lupine fangs, became the monster within myself, howled at the moon in fury and agony. We battled one another. It was hate and love in equal measure. And I sank, further. Life seemed muffled and far away. Why even bother to find myself? Why did it matter? Sometimes I imagined my heart slowing to a stop, and it felt like – relief. I was haunted and I just wanted the demons to stop screaming: You idiot, you lost one, you fucking bitch, you traitor, you fool. You’re worth nothing. You are nothing. Death would be a release. You are a burden. You are hateful and cold. You are nothing. You are nothing. You are nothing…

I left the Underworld. 

Eventually. 

I got burnt, and scarred. I was patched up hastily and those wounds still ache with the autumn rains. But I got out. It took countless hours of therapy, screaming into my pillow, sobbing as I rocked back and forth and wept for my father, pages of journals I then ripped out and fed to the hungry flames. It took a ray of light in my room that wavered across the bed, inspiring me to take photos. It took dressing up as Aphrodite, Persephone, Titania, Mab, and taking photos that filled me with life. It took setting up my altar and chanting my blessings. It took dozens of books about my craft and my spirituality, sachets of lavender, amethyst and obsidian in my pockets, tarot card decks that roared truth (especially when I didn’t want to hear it). It took saying goodbye. It took screaming out show tunes in the dead of winter and howling with freedom, this time. It took scrambling over jungle gyms in the soft night of spring. It took meditation and shadow work.

And I still fuck up, and hurt people, plenty.

But… this is who I am. This girl I lost, what, 18 or 19 years ago? Except I’m not a girl anymore. I’m a woman with numinous eyes, jade, that have peered into that Void and come out whole (albeit a little changed, perhaps ever so slightly askew). I’m not a porcelain doll. I’m not a flawless Fey. I’m not the heroine of a romance novel (though I continue to write mine, happily). I am a Chaos Witch, a daughter, a friend, a lover. My hair is tangled, I trip over my own two feet dozens of times a day, I have curves that it’s taken me years to appreciate, and bare skin that yearns for more tattoos. I’ve got a long way to go before I’m my Highest Self, but that’s what life is about. Part of it anyway. I love love, as I always have, and I chant to Venus, dancing in soft fabrics of pink and gold. The Fey chime bells in my ears as I drift off, with a smile. I write this blog because my dream is to touch people with my words, to shake them up and change them, a beautiful metamorphosis.

This story, my story of losing myself, is comprised of so many individual stories, I didn’t know where to start: alcoholism, a fateful night that made me stop drinking for good, the boys I loved, the men I left, over a year in the Underworld, dragon skies, faerie goodbyes. But I’ll start here.

This is me.

I’ve found myself again.

So, hello. It’s very nice to meet you.

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