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

The upside of some serious lows... (Image Credit: Unsplash)

Can I Be Thankful For My Mental Illness?

t interests me that I can immediately think of the gifts of anxiety, panic, and even my spurts of agoraphobia. Being tense in body and mind, living with fear that feels real even though I know intellectually it isn’t, experiencing the migraines, chest pains and choking sensations — these aren’t things that lend themselves to my happiness.
Yet the compulsion to stay at home, brought on by edginess and unease outside, keeps me productive. Anxiety makes me communicative, even if just through electronic means. The worry about judgment pushes me to write better, to edit more thoroughly, to answer the voice in my head saying “You’re not good enough” with a defiant “Then watch me improve.”

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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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Things I Wished I Would Have Done Before I Got Married

I am nine months into marriage and already have regrets. I do not regret my choice of partner, or our choice to get married, but do regret who I was prior to marriage and what I did (or didn’t do) when I was single.

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My hair is gone. My make-up is strong.

What Happened When I Rejected Traditional Femininity

I can feel proud of my cleavage and my combat boots. I feel fierce in drop-crotch sweatpants and preppy sweaters. I carry my edge with me and, with it, my own brand of femininity. Best of all, I consult no one but my own eyes. I don’t ask permission. I don’t seek what’s in fashion.

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Photo credit: Thinkstock

I Have C-PTSD But You’d Never Guess Why

When my therapist told me in 2012 that I presented with symptoms of PTSD, I was relieved, but also in disbelief.

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NSA might be exactly what you need...

What It Means To Date With Intention

Over the course of 12 years, I’ve had relationships with eight men: lived with three, planned for marriage three times, and followed through with marriage once. But it has only been within the past six months that I have started dating with intention.

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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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"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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Image Credit: Mcrfan343 - DeviantArt

How I Used Stephen King To Silence My Inner Critic

Everyone has their inner critic, the voice in your head that whispers all manner of terrible things:

You look fat in that outfit.

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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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