Elis de Guerre

Elis de Guerre

Bio

Mx. Elis de Guerre is an androgyne writer, editor, and activist specializing in mental health, addiction, and trauma. They have written online copy for rehab centers, and essays, narrative nonfiction, and journalism for multiple online and print publications. They are currently working on a manuscript about complex post-traumatic stress disorder and addiction, and they are affiliated with Active Minds, the Mental Health America Advocacy Network, the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI), the National Association of Memoir Writers, the Nonfiction Authors Association, No Stigmas, and the One Love Foundation. You can also find them on Medium.

Elis de Guerre Articles

Back injuries can lead to surprising self-discoveries.

What My Back Injury Taught Me About Independence

While my estranged husband called me a “strong female lead,” and I occasionally joke about being “an independent woman who doesn't need a man,” I wish I could honestly say either of those statements felt true.

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Moms aren't always our best friends.

My Relationship With My Mother, The Frenemy

Last week, my mother came home from work, found the shower faucet leaking hot water, and told me to "get my head out of my cunt, and start thinking about other things."

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Parents say this is normal, that those fears can be overcome, and that having a family is the most rewarding thing they’ve ever chosen for themselves. However, I still say "no."

6 Reasons I'm Too Afraid To Have Children

I never wanted children. When other little girls were playing with dolls, I played with stuffed animals. Even when I played house, my home was filled with plush puppies.

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"It hurts me to know that what I experienced was rape, that I spent eight years denying it and blaming myself." Image: Thinkstock

Being Raped Forced Me To Admit That I Myself Had Been Sexually Coercive

It took me a long time to understand consent. I knew that forcing sex on someone was rape. I knew that one in five women would be raped in their lifetime. I knew that the majority of rape victims knew their attacker. But beyond that, my understanding got cloudy.

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If I stop taking my medications, what will my life become? (Image: Thinkstock)

I Have A Mental Illness; Should I Have Children?

I live with bipolar II disorder, generalized anxiety disorder, ADHD, and complex PTSD. I take Effexor, Klonopin, Depakote, and Adderall. I knew I needed to talk to my psychiatrist about what changes I’d need to make before we could try to have a baby. The chances that none of these medications would affect a growing fetus was impossible in my mind. But I never expected what Dr. G told me.

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Keeping him to yourself might be worth it.

Lesson Learned: Why I'm No Longer Sharing My Boyfriend On Social Media 

In the past four months, I’ve undergone a veritable dating hurricane. I ran out on my 10-month-old marriage in August. I texted my decision and departure to my closest friends, live-tweeted my flight from upstate New York to the New Hampshire seacoast, and have written extensively and publicly about separation, my estranged husband, and the terrors of emotional pain ever since.

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I have a name, you know.

The Not-So-Subtle Sexism Of The Service Industry

My jeans are tight, and show off the curve of my ass. My black shirts are fitted, sometimes low cut, but always flattering to my figure. The only thing that isn't crafted to maximize my appearance are my non-slip shoes. Otherwise, I have to look pretty. Pretty girls get better tips.

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6 Books You Should Be Reading In Today's America

Learning is the best thing for us, and the best place to look? The sequestered nooks, and all the sweet serenity of books.

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The simple fact of realizing I had choices gave me freedom.

4 Things I Realized When I Discovered My Own Self-Worth

I wanted to keep people at a distance. I wanted sympathy and validation. I believed that I was inherently unworthy. However, lately, I’ve begun to change my mind — or rather, it’s started to change on its own.

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Managing Life With Bipolar Disorder And Without A 9-To-5

Two months ago, I filed for disability for unmedicated bipolar disorder. I had spent weeks dangling from tiring hands over a spiky precipice – or so it seemed. There were days of crying at my desk, days of inexplicable panic attacks in the face of a normal workload.

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