Chaos and Panic

My name is Cristina D. Johnson.

I have PTSD and DID but I am not defined by them. Rather, I am temporarily impeded by them as I walk through this painful journey of self-discovery and introspection; memory-recall; re-learning; therapy and guidance.

The biggest inhibitor of these disorders, for me, is  the unpredictable nature of them. For example, the other night during a Christmas gathering, someone mentioned a single word and once the word was spoken, flashes of my father - my first and most brutal abuser - began flickering in my mind, like those old-time reels of film. Click-click-click-click, as I felt warmth spread through my body. But because of where we were and because we were so surrounded by people, some "part" of me, held me together and I breathed through the moment.

Strange things cause these outbursts, whether expressed or internalized. When internalized, it feels like a pressure cooker; When externalized, it's like the lid has blown off the pressure cooker.

Occasionally, the lid is gently removed, to let off some of the steam and during those times, there is a moment of relief, immediately followed by (sometimes days of) regret, fear and intimidation. "Oh God I've said too much...I've revealed too much."

White vans; the scent of Vanilla; burgundy vans; holidays; the way someone holds their cigarette; certain words/phrases; smells; telephones; vehicles; certain styles of a moustache; guitars; playgrounds; strangers; some Latinos; grocery shopping....

These and other things set me off and I don't even know it.

Bill unwittingly sent me spiraling into panic one night when he said, "If you're too hot, you can turn the heater down," as we were in the car. I was immediately thrown back into the cab of a truck where - countless times - I was raped and/or beaten as a child.

This was following a phone call from my therapist, which followed a troubling trip to the grocery store. It piled up until finally I was shaking and scrambling for a Risperdal in my purse, dropping my cigarette, discombobulated and all I could do was keep telling myself, "It's okay - it's Bill. It's okay - It's Bill..."

I don't like phones or phone calls and I never (or rarely) answer any phone call that shows an unknown number.

I know where this comes from, but that's another story.

Friday night, Bill and I were up until past 5 a.m. just sitting at the dining room table, talking and having drinks. It was nice. We played spades (he won) and we talked about all manner of things - which we often do. We are good together in that way. We've always had great conversations.

I lit several incense. I love the incense, plus I got a bunch of new incense and burners for Christmas. I was so tickled.

I received a text as we were heading to bed from our neighbor. "Could you guys please chill out with the smoke/incense? It's going through the walls. Thanks."

I panicked.

I felt horrible. I apologized profusely. I heard nothing back.

That was Friday.

Saturday I awoke still semi-panicked. Afraid to do anything. Very jumpy - constantly on Trevor to be quiet, stop talking so loud, stop slamming doors, stop this, stop that. I, once again, hid inside - away from the windows. Time came to cook dinner...

I was slicing the zucchini and squash and it seemed like every time the knife slid through the vegetable and hit the cutting board, a bomb was going off. "Be quiet!" I kept hearing in my mind. "STOP BEING SO LOUD!" I chastised myself. Oh I was so afraid. I didn't want to upset the neighbor.

As I was cooking, my cell phone rang. I looked - it was the landlady.

I felt a punch to my stomach. The fear  that ran through me transformed into trembling and terror.

"Do you want me to answer it?" Bill asked.

I nodded, wordlessly.

Oh God. Oh God.

Bill talked with her as I added the vegetables with mushrooms and onions to the pan. I was trembling so badly that it  felt as if I was shaking both inside and out. Like my blood was rumbling beneath my skin, my bones were shaking, at the same time that my hands and neck and head and my body was shaking. My legs were weak. I wanted to cry.

This is it. This is when she tells me it's not going to work out and we have to leave. Leave this apartment. Move away.

Please...please...please....

As I stirred the vegetables, I heard Bill say, "She's right here, she's cooking actually," and I thought, "Oh no! She wants to talk to me!"

Bill held the phone down. "She wants to talk to you about plowing."

(We have a long driveway that is shared by the neighboring house and usually the cost of plowing of the driveway is split three ways between that neighbor, and me and the neighbor I share the duplex with).

I spoke with the landlady. My voice was shaky. I tried to control it. It was a lot like holding your breath as long as you possibly can. I was holding my breath. Waiting to hear of a complaint the neighbor had given.

No such thing was said.

When I hung up the phone, I exhaled - figuratively speaking - and my body seemed to deflate. Bill, thinking ahead, had lit a cigarette and brought it to me. I ran into the dining room with it. "Can't let anyone see!"

I fixed dinner; couldn't eat. Tried.

Drank my milk.

Tried distracting myself with a movie about a Mayan elder (www.shiftoftheages.com) but this did nothing to stop the turbulence inside.

After, I logged Bill into his FB account so he could play a game that I play. There was a message for him. It was from his sister. I had to show Bill how to get to it but everything got confused and maybe I didn't handle it right or explain it clearly enough but he clicked the little red "1" on the messages balloon and I saw the first line of her message - it was clearly some kind of criticism. Without asking, Bill said he didn't want to read it and he went to the end of the pop up and clicked "See all messages" and when he did that, I saw a (presumably) old message from Gary - unread. Saw his face.

Bill threw his hands up. "Get me out of here," he said as he leaned back against the couch.

I felt I'd done something(s) wrong...again.

We went to bed. I laid down and was overwhelmed - "flooded" as Michelle calls it - and my mind would not stop chattering. I became afraid and I didn't know what I was afraid of. I started to cry. I didn't know why I was crying. I tried talking to myself within my mind and there was nothing but chaos, confusion. Pictures, images, flashes, memories. Gary, Daddy, the neighbor, homelessness, bills, "Dee", Trevor....so much...too much. I couldn't quiet my mind and I just surrendered. I felt I was being battered from inside my skull.

I sat up and took two klonopin, smoked half a cigarette, laid back down. Bill cautiously asked if he could lie close to me. "Yes," I said.

He moved closer and put his arms around me, and I cried. He kept telling me, "It's okay. I'm here. I've gotcha. You're safe." And I just cried some more, feeling foolish. Kept trying to breathe, kept counting my breaths, trying to focus on anything but the noise in my head.

It sucks to live every day in fear.

Pink Dresses, Baby Dolls and Christmas

Tough session today - tough in the sense that I had to open up a little...more. It hurt.

Last night, I cut again, though not as bad as last time. I was just so angry.

I went to my session with a sense of trepidation. I had emailed her last night. It was sent at 12:45 a.m. and it said:

Hate sending this to you.
So angry.
Want to cut.
Lost most of Christmas Eve.
Melt down Christmas Eve night - remember only part.
Want to cut so bad. Punching myself, furniture, so I don't cut or destroy things.
Heavy night.

Sent from my iPhone

And at 10:52 this morning:

I'm sorry. I was really upset last night. Stupid to email you. I don't know why I did.

-C

Sent from my iPhone

Not sure when it started. Christmas was on a Tuesday - this I know. That's the "anchor" day. I can count forward from then, but not backward - at least not without help and prompting.

Christmas Eve is a blur; as I explained it to my adoptive father, it's kind of like my memory is a set of piano keys. There are white keys and black keys and the black keys are the parts that are missing. I awoke Christmas morning feeling as if I'd just returned from someplace I didn't know I'd gone. Everything was off.

Talking with Michelle tonight, I was half in, half out the door. Part of me felt like the teenager who was so long ago abandoned and who abandoned. The young girl who ran away.... and kept running.

Hasn't really stopped running.

So many questions. So many uncertainties. So much confusion and anger. I look at a pair of pants (or even just envision them) and I think, "I can't wear those. They're stained with this night or that night," or "I can't wear that shirt ever again because it is saturated with the day this-or-that happened. Need to throw it away."

Running. Even from my own clothes.

Running from my thoughts and beliefs. Running from people. Running from myself.

Running, running, running. Always... and I'm so tired.

My shoulders ache.

The session was all over the place, really.

"Christmas is hard for me," I told her.

"Why?"

"I don't know. I think maybe because it was the first time I ever met Daddy. And I was god-awful sick that year," I recalled. It was a hard Christmas and it was a door that was opened that I was shoved through, into a world of terror, unpredictability, insanity, violence.

And then.....it bubbled up like lava, searing my throat.

"And...and..."

She sat in her chair and just waited while I tried talking through unfallen tears that were choking me.

Finally, the familiar sting of warmth down my cheek. I saw the drop form on my eyelash, felt it drip, and then they came.

I didn't use the tissue I'd grabbed from the box she gave me. I only grab the tissues out of etiquette anyway. I prefer my sleeve.

This time, I let them roll down my face, beneath my chin, and drop on my breasts. I didn't care. I was speaking to darkness. Even though Michelle was there listening, I was seeing a different time. Darkness.

"I was so cold," I said bitterly. "I would be huddled outside, alone and...and..."

It seemed she wasn't even there, and I was back in time.

"...I would look in the windows and I didn't see Christmas trees or lights or anything. I just saw warmth. I wanted to be warm."

Instead I would find a big box that I am sure a large gift was delivered in and I would use it for shelter against the harsh St. Louis winters.

I couldn't call home.

I couldn't call the police.

I couldn't be seen.

I simply hid.

Sometimes urinating on myself, making me even more freezing because of the biting cold.

There was nowhere to go.

As I emerged from my reverie, she sat watching me, listening intently... my tears still falling like angry little pebbles of fire.

"And I fucking hate Easter," I said through clenched teeth.

"Why do you hate Easter?" she asked simply.

I gathered myself. I said, "Well, some of it, now, has to do with my spiritual beliefs..." but then I trailed off.

"Daddy used to trick us into thinking he could see the Easter bunny," I told her, not with anger but with nostalgia.

"What is your memory of that like?" she asked, probably trying to gauge if it was an abusive time or not.

"It was exciting," I told her matter-of-factly. "He would take us to the sliding glass doors where--" and I paused, shrugged, my voice lifted slightly, "where the 'family meetings' took place, and he would say, 'There he is! Did you see him?!'" and my brother and I would bounce up and down and crane our necks to see where Daddy was looking. We were excited.

Then, I was at Grandma's house and things were different.

"I had to wear a stupid dress," I told her. "A stupid fucking dress. Pink."

I told her how Grandma would give me dolls or - one year a little stuffed lamb came in my Easter basket and I only know this because I have seen a picture of it.

"We would sit at the kiddie table," I told her. "But I didn't fit in, so I just tried to."

"What do you mean you didn't fit in?"

"Because of what Daddy did to me," I told her.

She nodded her understanding. I continued.

"One Easter, my wrist was broken and the kids were all playing and I went inside and I said something like, 'I can't play because of my cast,' and all the grown-ups went 'Awww' and it was the worst sound in the world to me."

"Why?"

"Because I didn't want their fucking pity."

"What did you want?"

"I don't know," I answered honestly, giving it no more thought.

There was a silence.

"I would play with the baby dolls because Grandma got them for me. I thought that was what I was supposed to do, but I hated them. I hated the tea sets. I hated all of it. Mostly, I hated the dresses. I didn't belong in a dress."

Silence.

"Grandma's house was like two worlds - inside and outside."

"Yes, you've mentioned that," she said, and I remembered telling about it. "Were you safe there?"

"Inside, yes. Outside, no. Well, they weren't nurturing, but they made sure we had all we needed. They did the best they could, I guess."

I told her of the two times Pop hurt me (or almost hurt me) "but that was it," I told her.

But when I went outside, it was different.

"It never occurred to me that I would have gotten the attacks and cat calls whether Daddy had molested me or not," I told her, speaking strictly from my intellect. "I guess I just thought I had this scarlet letter and all of them could see it."

"What was the scarlet letter?"

"I was dirty. I was soiled."

Then came the incident of last night, the reasoning behind which I hadn't known, until this session.

Bill and I sat together on the couch. We were discussing superficial things because I was still weighted down by the shame I felt over Christmas Eve. It was the elephant in the room and Bill wasn't saying anything about it.

"Were you angry that he knew and remembered and wasn't telling you," Michelle asked.

"No. No, I wasn't mad about that. I remembered enough."

I finally brought it up - at least, as good as I could. I said something like, "I know something happened the other night. I don't remember all of it, but I remember some."

It was my lame attempt to get him to talk.... to open it up, pop this blister that was suffocating me.

But he said little, just nodded.

I don't remember the order of events last night. But I do remember that we talked about business and, having been with Gary for five years, I learned a lot about business and how to start one and tips and tricks to making it successful.

I offered these up to Bill.

"I will never be Gary," he said.

As I retold this to Michelle it occurred to me why I became so painfully, bitterly angry last night.

I was angry at myself - and I knew it at the time, just as I knew it today.

"I was stupid," I told Michelle, half shocked by my own realization. "I shouldn't have said anything...."

I paused and I thought a moment.

"...I should have just kept my mouth shut. How stupid of me."

I was flooded, then, with the same feeling from last night. This rage within me, anger at myself for saying or doing something stupid.

"I have a meditating frog," I told Michelle. "My coffee table candle burned up so I had to put something in it's place so I put the frog there and I remember just staring at it and wanting to grab it and throw it. I wanted to take all my stupid books and just throw them all, break things, hit things..."

I was crying now. "I should have never said anything."

My voice...

My voice is stupid. My thoughts are stupid. I am stupid. I can't do this. I can't say anything. I shouldn't say anything. Who am I to say anything? You can't say anything! You don't know if it's the right thing to say! YOU'RE STUPID!

And I was angry at Bill for thinking I was saying something I wasn't intending to say, yet I couldn't find the words and, instead, just turned everything inward...burning.

Angry because I had one side of my brain needing to be comforted, while the other side was chastising me, telling me KEEP THEM AWAY! KEEP THEM AWAY! ALL OF THEM!

Spare him. Don't let him see this. Don't let anyone see this.

Don't let anyone near.

"When," I sobbed, "will this be over? When does PTSD go away? When will I stop having these goddamn dreams of Gary every....single...night. Every single fucking night?" I was aching and I could tell Michelle saw my agony.

She was honest. She told me she has no answer to any of those questions.

There was much more said in this session. I felt more in this session than any past.

Why did I cut last night?

So I wouldn't hurl the frog at the nativity set or the curio, for the satisfaction of hearing glass shatter, as I was inside. So I wouldn't rip apart every book I could see - books that I cherish - but which, at that moment, felt fake and fraudulent. So I wouldn't hurt anything else. I would never hut anyone else, but I wanted to break something - anything.

Instead, I was broken.

I feel hollow now.

I am afraid to speak. I am afraid to move. I am afraid to believe anything.

The floor could crumble any time.

I know  this.

I know this.

Angry

Got angry last night. Bitterly angry.

Angry because of Christmas Eve.

Angry because this is happening to me.

Angry because I feel the need to protect others from seeing me this way at a time when I most need them.

The conflicting feelings makes me afraid and confused and.....angry.

Christmas Eve

I woke up Christmas morning - yesterday - with a very strange sensation. It was like I was home  from vacation, only I didn't remember the vacation.

I didn't say anything to Bill but I only remembered bits and pieces of the night before. I didn't remember the day before at all, until we later talked a little about it and he reminded me of things I'd done.

I hadn't remembered going to see my therapist, nor what we talked about until Bill reminded me. I hadn't remembered the cooking or going to the store, wrapping the presents or putting them under the tree.

I remembered little, and it was so embarrassing and unnerving.

Too much stress.

It made Christmas a difficult day...I was unable to find my balance.

Christmas night, I fell asleep and dreamed of Gary again. I was underwater and he was doing something the equivalent of playing a video game, with me as one of the characters in the game.

I no longer want to dream about him. Why would I? I don't think of him during my waking hours. Or, rarely.

I thought of a few old "friends" Christmas Day - wondered how they were doing - and got a Merry Christmas text message from one of them. I did not recognize the number so I responded in kind, and asked who it was. She told me. I didn't answer.

Duct tape girl. Yeah, thanks for the holiday greetings. Like many, perhaps Christmas is the only time you're compassionate.

Whatever....guess I'm just being pessimistic. Christmas has been difficult.

Eased a lot by dinner last night and good company.

Too much stress right now. I am afraid.

Summer... ever the same?

I should be festive.

I should be happy.

I should be content.

There are so many better things in my life now, than there were just six months ago, a year ago. Five years ago, perhaps.

I've discovered some true friends. Sadly, this discovery led me to the awareness that true friends are rare so it's a double-edged sword. I suppose, for me, it's weird because I don't really know "real friends" - I've never allowed myself to have them, even if they were there.

I've had people - strangers and those I know and people in between - contact me because of my writing and tell me thank you....thank you for sharing your story and your journey. Thank you for giving me the courage to speak out. Thank you for saying what I've never been able to say. They tell me they relate on some levels they relate (which, in my opinion, at least, is them saying yes....I, too, have been sexually assaulted).

I've been encouraged by a number of people - too many to list - to keep writing, keep telling my story.

I have a fantastic therapist who I see (usually) twice a week - although this week was disrupted because of the Newtown shooting and she was recruited to counsel there. Our sessions are a good balance of one heavy, sobbing session, followed by two or three light-hearted, discussions, followed by another snotty, slobbering, bawling session.

I've been more honest with myself than I've ever been in my life. The things I see hurt. The things I feel - or am starting to feel or sometimes feel or whatever - are devastating. Feelings..... Oh man.

Even with someone like Bill - someone who's been there for over a decade. Someone who is more authentic, kind, gentle, patient and honest than anyone you'd ever know... even with Bill I remain guarded.

Which really says a lot about me, to myself. Because I logically know there is no reason to fear him....yet I do. Actually, I don't fear him, I fear feelings.

Feelings like I'm having right now as I listen to Tonight I Wanna Cry by Keith Urban.

During the last several weeks at Gary's house, this song was on repeat because the words fit so well. I was so alone. There were pictures of us everywhere. He was gone. Gone with "our friends" - out partying, talking about me, telling people about my "issues" - "issues" for which I carry such deep, deep shame and guilt. Issues that were private.

I felt so much at that time. So much, that just listening to this song again, brings it back to me, as if I were still sitting there in the basement, alone, afraid, panicking. So alone. So scared. So devastated.

I remember his touch - before everything fell apart. I remember his quirkiness and things he did that made him, him. I remember his kiss. I remember his hands.

Mostly, though, I remember how we just scrambled along together, completely clueless and aimless, unsure - in unfamiliar territory. Neither of us knowing how to feel.

Really feel.

It wasn't until the end that I felt the most profound feelings. The hurt....God. The fear... My God.

There was complete and utter loneliness. Darkness.

He left me. I was dumbfounded.

I understand, in hindsight. I know why, yet it also plays on my own self-loathing. Logically, I understand a man like Gary couldn't have endured this journey, even if my heart wanted him to. But emotionally, I was so vulnerable - too vulnerable, too needy.

He couldn't carry that, and I understand.

But at the time, when I could do nothing but pop another cap off a Corona, escape to the river, listen to music...anything...anything to numb, to escape.... I couldn't stand him being there....couldn't stand him not being there.

Desperate doesn't begin to describe it.

So I wonder, if - as I listen to this song now, and these feelings erupt in my chest like a bomb going off - will Summer ever be the same?

Will August ever be one of my favorite months again? A time to sit in the sun, soak in the rays and the warmth of the sky. Stick my feet in the water.

Will I ever be able to look at a dock or a boat or a jet ski or a 'raft-up' again and not want to break down and cry or crumble completely inside.

There's some part of me inside that looks at those in my life now and I think, yes...yes I can make new memories. I have always told my children that: Make memories. Nobody can take them away from you.

What do I do with the ones that hurt?

Will they ever go away? This kind of hurt, I mean?

We all go through break-ups. I've been through break-ups before.

This one hurt. Really bad. Really, really bad.

I'd chosen, for the first time ever in my life, to stay - to dare to hope and to dare to trust - and it was the wrong person. I know, I know...it's been said a million times by as many people but this is my life and my story and my journey and my pain.

I've wondered, does it mean I still love him? Does knowing, that if I were to see him right now, I would shatter again, mean that I still love him? How is it holding me back?

How do I let go of my fear and let down my guard, when I still choke on my own tears, as I remember those horrible, painful, lonely, terrifying nights alone in the basement?

I wonder if he learned as much from me, as I did from him.

Is it really possible to always love someone, even when they're not in your life? Really?

And, if so, is it possible to love someone else?

How does that work?

How do I do this?

One thing I know is this: Those who saw my suffrage and my agony, are still with me. Gentle, tender, loving, guiding, non-judgmental, giving and compassionate.

So what is wrong with me?

I am on the fence with the whole "feelings" thing. Sometimes - well, every time, really - I feel something, I don't like it. Part of the journey.

He was part of the journey. Still is, in a lot of ways.

I want to cover it up with new memories but I know  that's not the right thing to do. Rather, that's what I've always done.

It takes real conscious effort to sink into that despair and confusion and let it flow. I still don't know how to do it....but I'll figure it out.

And one day, maybe, I'll be able to thank him, instead of all the other feelings I have right now.

But for now, I will turn off this song, enjoy good company and let it sink back down under the surface.... save it for a time when I know what to do with it.

For now, I will try.

Worse, before it's Better

As Michelle (my therapist) has pointed out, the closer we get to the underlying issues and memories I have, the closer we get to the emotions. This is turning out to be painfully - excruciatingly - true.

I find I am far more sensitive now and more easily triggered. I want to cry more often. I ache more often. I am confused more often and I shut down more often. I am overwhelmed far more easily and I panic more often.

When she called me yesterday to cancel our appointment for today because she's been recruited to help counsel those involved with the Newtown shooting, I was immediately panicked. Not just because of that, but because I'd just gone to the grocery store and it started then. I was getting some groceries with Bill and I began to feel things closing in on me - the walls began to close in, the people got closer and louder and I was starting to get confused. I couldn't get out of there fast enough.

We go to the car and I lit a cigarette with slightly trembling hands.

"It's okay, honey," Bill assured me.

As we drove to the gas station, my angst grew and I was trying desperately to do the "belly breaths" and calm myself down. I wasn't sure entirely what was causing my anxiety but Bill got out of the car and it got worse. Part of me was glad he wasn't there to see it. It is embarrassing to be so visibly helpless, to feel so afraid.

I jolted when my phone rang. Ironically, I just downloaded a new ringtone - something melodic and calming. Still, the sudden shatter of the quietness in the car, startled me.

The name was my therapist. At first I was overcome by a fear that I'd done something wrong and she was calling me to tell me I was bad. I know this is irrational, but this was my instantaneous first thought. "Oh God I did something bad and now she's going to leave me!"

I answered the phone. "Hello?"

I heard her familiar voice, "Cristina? Hi hon. How are you?" she asked, probably detecting my unrest. She is exceptionally perceptive.

"I'm - I'm okay," I stammered. "I just had a minor panic attack that's all. Just let the grocery store."

"Oh no, take some deep breaths," she reminded me gently. "You're safe now."

I tried. God I tried but then she said, "I'm calling because I have to cancel our appointment for tomorrow," she said calmly and apologetically. "I have been recruited to go help in Newtown," she explained.

She's leaving me! She's leaving me!

I was immediately trembling ten times worse. Not only because she was cancelling, but also because it brought up the Newtown incident, which - for me - brought out a whole slew of irrational emotions that have been holding me down since I wrote about them.

"Okay," I answered, shakily, trying desperately to hide my fear and disappointment.

She assured me that we would be in touch and do our regular session on Thursday and I told her good luck, before hanging up.

Unable to control my pulse, the heat of my skin, my trembling and the nausea, I grabbed frantically for my purse, reached inside for a Risperdal disintegrating tablet. I was glad the windows were fogged up and that Bill had not yet returned to the car.

When he finally did, he took my hand. He asked me if there was anything he could do. I shook my head, no and pulled my coat closely around me, frustrated by the seatbelt that was serving as an inconvenience to the task.

We had to go to the laundromat. I didn't want to go in. "I don't want to be seen," I told Bill after he asked me if I would like for him to put the clothing in the dryer.

"But I have to do it," I said.

I blocked out everything. Turned everything off. Just shut down and did whatever I had to do, still a little jumpy; Everyone in the laundromat seemed suspect. They were all staring at me. I felt small - so small - but defiantly (as I was when I was young) continued with the laundry chore.

"Do you want to go back out to the car?" Bill asked. Yes... Yes, I need to get out of here.

Everything is a little bit of a blur. We came home. I made dinner. Bill stayed with me the whole time.

My thoughts race. My heart pounds. My decisions are difficult. Sometimes I just wish I could go to sleep and not wake up.

Haters welcome. I'm used to it.

The big story of the day is the massacre at Sandy Hook Elementary school in Newtown. About an hour away from me. In sweet, sheltered Connecticut where there are perhaps - perhaps - three ghettos and even they have picket fences.

So much I want to say about this - so much is wrong and politically incorrect but here I am, feeling things. Feeling, for a change, and feeling terrible about what I feel. Such is life. At least, my life. Always.

A friend of mine said to me, "You are feeling the truth of how you were hurt babe. The truth can hurt but in the long run you are more real, more [Cristina]."

She is so right and feeling things makes every moment hurt. Makes every decision or choice, a matter of life or death. It changes everything.

So today, I thought - as a mother - how devastated and crushed I would be if any of my children suffered the same fate as those at Sandy Hook. As a mother, my heart ached for the pain of those parents and families who lost those children. I can't honestly fathom it and I'd be lying if I even pretended to come close to understanding how they must be feeling.

But then something else came bursting through. Obviously the political side of it. I was both ired and touched by the President's statement today as he wiped tears from his eyes. I was touched because I knew he - like me - was speaking as a parent.

However, despite the fact that I've voted for and loved him from the beginning, I was struck that we - he, no officials, no officers, no grief - is ever expressed over the thousands of children WE KILL EVERY DAY in senseless, needless war. I commented on the White House's status. A lot of people were angered by the number of "Gun control! Gun control!" shout-outs and political barraging but you know, I was pissed. "Shame on you people for using such a tragedy to spout your political grievances." Over and over people were chastised for saying what they thought and felt. Outrage and anger. But it's true! How many children do we kill as a country, every day, in the name of GREED, cleverly veiled by some need to restore democracy in some other country?

Religion and politics enter and everything goes awry, because God forbid, we disrespect the dead to point out some painful realities. (not that I'm for gun control, even though I've never owned one and don't suppose I ever will).

Anyway. That was number one.

Then, tonight, another panic attack. How bad I am. I'm bad. I can't tell people this! I can't utter these words! I can't say these things! People will hate me! I'm BAD for thinking these things....

But I couldn't help it.

I remember kindergarten. We had play time and we got different colored necklaces to wear, that directed which play areas we were allowed to play in. The purpose, I suppose, was to make sure every child got a fair share of the play time in different play areas. It smelled of crayons and Elmer's glue and construction paper.

It was also the only safe place I knew.

So I thought, today, about these kids and I thought about statistics and I thought about the pain I was going through in kindergarten, every night after I got home. I remembered hiding and wishing my kindergarten teacher would take me home with her. She was pretty and nice and good to me.

Of the 20 kids killed today, statistics tell us that one in three girls and one in six boys were either sexually abused or being sexually abused regularly. This is a life sentence. This is torture.

I thought - I  couldn't help it, I'm sorry - but I thought, "They are the lucky ones. Why couldn't that have happened to me?"

Of course, then I think of the state of our world and what our children are "learning" and how fucked up our education system is, even in high-dollar, elitist, too-expensive-to-live-in Connecticut and I think, again, "Yep they were the lucky ones."

Of course, that's not to diminish the grieving of the parents and families left behind. But the children that were killed - most call it a tragedy.

Some childlike, wounded, bleeding part of me cries, "It's a blessing. Why couldn't it have been me?"

Yes....that's how bad I am. I am a bad person.

So many people will hate this post.

But that's because they cling to God and say "evil visited this town today" (Governor Malloy) and say "it must have been God's will" (which is bullshit) because they just can't fathom that - guess what - mean people live here.

Period.

Has nothing to do with God, Pope, but thanks for the condolences.

Everyone asking for prayers. So habitual.

I wish someone had come into my classroom when I was in kindergarten and killed me.

I'm sure most who read this, will probably agree.

Nope. No feelings.

Started to feel
felt a rip
reached for the drawer
grabbed my scrip
tears choked me
I gagged on the pills
but needed to stop
the bleeding that spills
into my bones
floods my mind
relentless, cruel
pounding, unkind
turned it off
like I was taught
within this whirlwind
I won't be caught
I refuse to look
at the reality
that keeps coming back
and tormenting me

Everything just simmers there inside me, scorching me with unknowing and uncertainty. I am afraid to feel because I don't know what is right or appropriate. I am afraid.

Is this where it starts?

****This is a "live blog" meaning that I add to it when I am able. Check back for updates. I try to add as often as possible. Also be aware there are triggers in this blog.****

Daddy was a Vietnam Vet. At least, that’s what he told everyone. I didn’t really pay much mind to it, even though it seemed to be a big deal to him.

But, because of the unspoken rule in Grandma’s house that we didn’t talk about war (because Pop – my grandfather – was in WWII and suffered a nervous breakdown [plus gained a lot of medals] as a tail-gunner), I wasn’t very well-versed in war and thus, had little care for it. Pop would talk to my brother about it, but never me. I always assumed it was because my brother was a boy, which suited me fine. Pop didn’t love me anyway.

Daddy was also a very talented man and exceptionally handsome, although he had to grow into it. As a young man – early and late teens, early 20’s – he wasn’t particularly good-looking. At least, in my opinion. He wore ghastly horn-rimmed glasses and was as thin as a rail.

He was 18 when he met my mother. She was a 15-year-old runaway.

They lived in a “love-in” (basically a commune) and really I didn’t know any of this until recently, when a family member felt it was time I knew the truth about what happened. Up until that point, I had heard many stories and did not know how I ended up (or if I ended up) in a foster home in Florida when I was three and my brother, two.

They were heavy into drugs – that was pretty popular back then, in the early 70’s – as were these “love-ins” where my father apparently fell in love with another man, with whom he and my mother both had a sexual relationship.  There was a second man, as well, but Daddy fell in love with John.

Turns out my father later enlisted because he and my mother decided they were going to "clean their lives up." He was stationed in Florida but was thereafter arrested for selling drugs. He received a dishonorable discharge and did three years, I believe, in prison. He believed that my mother had turned him in, because she’d found someone else.

According to some accounts, my mother’s new boyfriend (whom she found while Daddy was in prison) was a drug-dealer and we were taken away when she attempted to sell us for drugs.

My mother was never the motherly type, although she was a beautiful woman with long, flowing brown hair and gentle, soft, brown doe eyes, full lips and a fantastic smile. Her shape was very feminine, full-breasted with a perfectly curved body. She kept her beauty throughout her years, until at least 40 and her drinking and lifestyle began slowly eating away at her physical appearance.

They have both claimed the other beat them. My mother has told me that my father nearly killed me as an infant because I wouldn’t stop crying.

I have discovered, though, through the years, that both are liars and I can’t count on either of their words. Especially my father who is pathological at lying.

Through therapy, I have come to the presumption that my abuse (and that of my brother) began pre-verbally. That is: before I was able to talk. With drugs, sex and pornography rampant in those days and as a child of two young people with little to no moral compass, it would stand to reason we were –at the very least- sorely neglected.

I do have one minor memory of that time – I was probably three years old – and my mother was taking my brother and I somewhere in a car with two other men. I had to pee. I told her I had to pee but she didn’t listen so I ended up peeing in my pants, in the car.

My mother yelled at me angrily – I know, in hindsight – that she was more concerned with what the two men thought about her little girl peeing in their car, than she was the fact that I was mortified I’d peed in my pants.

My brother simply sat quietly in the black, back seat of the car while my mother took me out of the car. That is the extent of that memory.

She also claimed to me multiple times (after I met her. See, when we were taken away from her as toddlers, we didn’t see her for years so I never knew her until I was around 8 years old and met her for the first time) that Daddy had “forced” her to do drugs. Obviously I don’t believe that. My mother is the constant “victim” and always has been. Nothing is ever her fault and nothing ever has been. Accountability seems to be lacking in her vocabulary.

During the years we were estranged from Mom, Daddy would send us letters in the mail from prison. Grrandma had a whole desk drawer, dedicated to letters from Daddy. Of course, in prison there really is only two things to do: read and write. My father wrote a lot. He wrote songs, poetry and letters. Lyrics, thoughts, ideas. His penmanship was beautiful. His words were beautiful and of course we thought he was ideal. He was wonderful.

Grandma made sure we believed this.

So when we found out he was showing up for Christmas in 1976 with his new wife and her two children with the intention of taking us to live with him, we were ecstatic.

The truth is, however, that is when the nightmare began. Perhaps this, then, is where my story starts.

-------------

Daddy was completely different than the pictures of him I'd seen. Or perhaps different than the forgotten images I held of him, frozen in my infant mind. He was fuller, stronger, bigger. He was, indeed, the biggest man I knew and in some ways, that's not an exaggeration. He was, after all, six foot, two. He wore John Lennon glasses, though I didn't know that's what they were called back then, and he was very authoritative. He frightened and enthralled me; intimidated and excited me. There was a sort of childish, "Wow! I really have a Daddy now!" kind of energy within me, even if that "Daddy" was a frightening and mysterious man.

His wife, Vikki, I didn't like, nor her children but that is possibly because I was so preoccupied with my daddy. I wanted his attention but he kept giving it to them and in some way, this made me feel a little out of place. I was also terribly sick this Christmas so between the two, I just kind of kept quiet and sat in the background, wishing someone would tell my Daddy that I wanted to be held and comforted. I suppose I wanted to know for sure he was never leaving us again.

It wasn't that I didn't love Grandma and Pop but I was so excited to be with Daddy.

I was also excited about the biggest Christmas present under the tree. It was for me!

I was so excited, in fact, that despite how sick I was, I ran down the hallway, shrieking excitedly - as most five-year-olds might do - "The big one is for me! The big one is for me!"

I was so lost in my excitement that I was stunned when a hand grabbed my arm and yanked me in such a way that I was spun around violently and suddenly staring blue eyes-to-blue eyes, right at my father. His face was angry. His mouth turned into an angry frown. He snarled at me with a hushed growl:

"If you say one more goddamn word, I will throw that present in the garbage. Do you understand?"

This was not the kind of reaction I was used to. Grandma and Pop were gentle, for the most part and my brother and I could certainly be rambunctious, although that wasn't always so. (Grandma once told me when she came to Florida to get us from the foster home we were in, I sat in a rocking chair holding a babydoll, completely emotionless. She brought me home. She said I showed no emotion: no anger, sadness, fear or anything. "Then one day in the kitchen you threw a temper tantrum," she recalled. "That was one of the happiest days of my life."). Over the years, however, Grandma and Pop had let us adjust and though we weren't spoiled, we had a lot of fun.

So staring into those angry blue eyes of my father who was so angrily and disapprovingly uttering words of throwing away my Christmas gift, I was speechless. My chin began to tremble but I knew - somehow inherently - I'd better not cry. I nodded my ascent and he released his grip on my arm. He arose, then, as I stood there still shocked, not entirely sure what to do. The hallway was dark. The textured crimson wallpaper threatened to suffocate me. I wanted permission to move. Needed permission.

Reluctantly, I looked up at the towering figure over me. "Go ahead," he said as if nothing had happened. "Go play."

I quickly turned and tentatively walked down the hall to the relative safety of the dining room where Grandma and Pop sat. I still struggled, holding in the tears that choked me. How bad I must be, for Daddy to say something like that. What a bad girl I must be.

------------
Like a mosaic, multicolored and complex, my mind struggles with flashes and taps on my memory's door. The drive to Pensacola is absent my memory. Our arrival there, as well, I do not vividly recall but can only speculate.

I would share a room with Leigh - she was 13 - and my brother would share a room with Alex - he was 16. They were Vikki's kids.

Mine and Leigh's room was mostly white, as I recall. I had a small bed that was white and Leigh had a white dressing table that was covered and cluttered with everything a little girl would want to play with: make up, hair spray, curling iron. She was quick to take note of my interest and very sternly ordered that I never, ever touch her dressing table. Although I never did actually touch the delightfully exciting stuff on it, I did once get beaten for accidentally leaving a piece of candy on it, which melted to her curling iron. I couldn't believe I'd done it. I didn't remember putting it there. Leigh was so angry at me and I understood. It seemed I was always messing up.

Travis and Alex's room was dark with bunk beds. I remember being jealous. I wanted bunk beds. I was not allowed in the boys room, ever.

The house was flat. This was intriguing to me. Grandma's house was three stories but this one had one story and a flat roof. I believed we could climb onto that roof and, indeed, we once did. In fact, we did many times. I recall the yard - it was enormous. It was on a corner lot and Alex and Daddy would often play frisbee in their cut-off denim shorts. I wanted to play, but I couldn't. Daddy could make the frisbee skip on the asphalt of the road and they could catch it behind their backs and throw it from between their legs. It was exciting to watch.

It was relieving as well, because when daddy played frisbee, he wasn't paying much attention to Travis or I.

I didn't like it there. At least, not in that house. It was overstuffed and everything seemed so big and so crowded. Vikki had two cats - Siamese cats - named Ching-Ching and Choo-Choo. They were loud but they were pretty. There was another cat - a black cat and I don't remember it's name - and another cat, Tiger, who I thought was so pretty. I loved cats and all animals - even insects.

It was here - in Pensacola - that we started school. Vikki was a teacher of some sort and she was adamant that I learn the alphabet and digraphs. She taught me phonetically - by sound - and I learned very quickly, eventually - at age five - able to recite the alphabet by sound, as well as all digraphs and by six could say the alphabet backwards without skipping a beat.

Vikki often took me to her work and sometimes put me in front of important people and she told me they were important so I knew I had to do everything perfect and be polite and not make any mistakes. I did this numerous times, always succeeding and always at the amazement of her superiors.

Vikki was a larger woman, but not obese. She had long red hair, straight as straw and thin as a spider's web. It spilled down her back like shredded satin. Her eyes were green and she was often the victim of my father's frequent angry outbursts. While she worked as a teacher (I believe), my father worked at a gas station.

We had a Pinto that somehow worked for us and I am sure at some point there was another vehicle because I remember Daddy having an accident. He took us - my brother and I - and Alex to the scene of the accident. It was on the side of the highway and my brother and I sat in the bed of a pick-up truck.

"Stay here and don't move," Daddy commanded, as he and Alex trod off into the grass, towards a wire fence where, apparently, he had his accident. The cars were whirring by and I wanted to see but I couldn't see over the truck bed. I wanted to see where Daddy had had his accident. I got up on my knees so I could look. Daddy picked up a long, slender, mangled piece of metal. I didn't know what he was saying, but he was telling Alex something about it.

As soon as I saw they were returning to the truck, I quickly sat back down.

Daddy came to me and, without a word, drew back the mangled metal piece and swung at me. I held my arm up and felt the sting of the metal on my forearm. I knew not to cry.

"I told you not to move!" he sneered, as he threw the metal piece into the bed of the truck.

I felt blood on my arm, dripping down, but I knew not  to cry. I was bad. It was my fault, I shouldn't have knelt up to see. My brother wisely sat in the same place the whole time, saying not a word. I sat with my back to the cab of the truck, holding my arm, careful not to get blood anywhere. Why are you so stupid?

I stared at the metal bar and I thought about how badly Daddy must have felt when he had his accident. I was glad he wasn't hurt. I overheard conversations between him and Vikki enough to know it was a pretty serious accident. Or, at least, it sounded like one.

I felt bad for Daddy. I felt bad I disobeyed. I wished I could please him. I never did, though. Not until things changed at home.

It was definitely a learning curve. We went from the pacifistic, matriarchal environment of Grandma's house, to a darker place - a world of violence and unpredictability. Grandma always made us breakfast and checked our schoolwork. She made sure we had all we needed to go to school and even though the neighborhood we lived in was utterly unsafe, we were kept sheltered from that at our young ages.

Now we lived with new people - including this "Daddy" who was really nothing like the "Daddy" that Grandma had told my brother and I about - and strangers, who we didn't understand. A world we didn't understand. 

After the accident, with only one vehicle, we had to go pick Daddy up from work. We'd pile into the Pinto, my brother and I in the back seat, and pick him up. He often spoke bitterly of his job and one time I heard him call his boss's wife a bitch. I didn't know what that was, but I thought it must be something good because she was always very kind to me. It was rare, in that time and in that place, to see kindness and attention.

One day, it was just she and I in the booth (there was a booth at the gas station) and she lifted me gently, and sat me on the counter, gave me some candy. I sat there happily, swinging my legs and munching on my candy. I asked her, "What is a bitch?"

"Well, where did you hear that word, honey?" she asked sweetly.

"Well, that's what Daddy said you are," I responded, paying little attention to her reaction. I was focused on my candy and joyfully swinging my legs, happy to be away from the "family" I was a part of.

On the way home that night, Daddy was frighteningly infuriated. He was yelling at me from the driver's seat and I was very confused.

"What did you say to her?" he demanded.

"Nothing, Daddy," I responded, honestly. I really didn't remember our conversation - only that she'd given me some candy.

He reached back, grabbing at me, swinging his fists at my legs but unable to fully make contact because I was seated behind him. 

"Tell me what you said!" he screamed.

My brother and Vikki were silent.

"I don't know, Daddy. I swear I don't know."

We got home and the torment continued. I was beaten and thrown against things. At one point, I was taken outside and made to stand in front of the big pine tree where Daddy ordered Alex to throw pine cones at me until I talked. I was not allowed to move.

The prickly tips of the pine cones stung my skin with each blow and he would scream, "What did you say?"

When I repeated, "I don't know," another pine cone would be thrown.

I later found out Daddy was fired from his job. I didn't know why.

In hindsight and after years of recalling memories, I now understand but at the time, I simply did not know.

This is about the time the daily beatings began and any attempt to move, speak, or do anything was terrifying. It was a silent terror - one my brother and I dared never speak of, but knew we shared, even though I believed my brother was the favorite - he always was the favorite because he never did anything wrong. Still, he got beaten, too.

------------------

Family meetings were not just brutal but humiliating. I suppose, at the time, there was little humility left but looking back, I feel the humiliation now.

We met in the dining room, which was really not a dining room; it'd been set up with an orange floral sofa that sat across from the sliding glass windows that opened into the back yard. There were other seats, and a breakfast bar that separated this "dining room" from the kitchen.

Every day - every day - we had "family meetings" where we were (my brother and I, that is) reprimanded and punished for our misbehavior of the day, whatever it may have been.

It is very difficult to describe.

At my age, now, my mental snapshot of my father is frozen in time and it's different than it was back then. Back then, he was - as I said before - stronger, more muscular than he had been when he was younger and his hair was still short, but he had the most beautiful blue eyes behind those John Lennon glasses. His laugh was contagious. His music was hypnotic, at least to me it was. To me, Daddy was the greatest writer, composer and musician in the world and having the privilege of watching as he strummed his guitar with his thick strong fingers was the greatest privilege there was. I was so proud of him.

Still, despite his strength, violence, rage and unpredictability, there was a sadness about him and it was  this - this deep sadness that he portrayed - that I wanted so desperately to heal.

So when we had these family meetings and discussed the behaviors of my brother and I, the most painful parts were when his beautiful blue eyes would tear up and drops would run down his rugged, strong face. I am a bad girl. I made daddy cry. He's crying because of me and I deserve every punishment I get. Please stop crying, Daddy. Please don't cry. I'll do anything.

And with each meeting, my brother and I would be verbally reprimanded for whatever our transgressions may have been: leaving a door open; not mitering the corners of our bed sheets; eating improperly; speaking improperly; dressing improperly; being bad.

I was the worst. My brother never got in trouble - he was always the good boy, the one everyone loved.

Still, during our family meetings, everyone gathered and my brother and I were to stand in front of our father, watching and listening to the things he said to us. The terrible things we'd done.

"I don't ever want to see you hold a cat like that again," he said to me with a menacing calmness that brought tears to his eyes and, in turn, to mine. I'd held our black cat up in the air, over my head, looking at his eyes, and then pulled him close to me. But doing this was so bad, it made Daddy cry and so, I must never, ever do this again. My heart broke because I made Daddy cry.

Daddy would order us to remove our clothing as Vikki, Alex and Leigh sat by watching. It was an important meeting and everyone needed to be there. It was serious, and it was handled as such.

Daddy would then lay us each - one at a time - across his lap and beat our naked bodies with a long wooden spoon while the rest looked on. The stings of the spoon, in the beginning, were torturous and if my body arced in such a way that my feet flew up and accidentally hit him, he would beat harder.

I learned quickly to ignore pain and not fight back.

We would then pick up our clothes from the floor, and walk out of the room to our bedrooms.
-----------------

Leigh was the one who was responsible for seeing that Travis and I got off to school on time but she didn't like that job, so she made it very important for me to learn to tell time. Once I could tell time, I could do it on my own and I was excited not just because I was going to learn to tell time, but because I was going to get some attention from Leigh.

She was very pretty with long brown hair. She had a boyfriend who almost always wore a long military jacket that seemed too big for him, and his hair was dark and curly. They would sit together in front of the house and kiss and I found this fascinating. Leigh usually would catch me looking and yell at me, and I would run away - that was about as much attention as she paid to me (except for that time with the candy and the curling iron). I don't think she liked me very much. I don't think anyone really did.

So for weeks, she had me practice learning time. The stove in the kitchen was the color of pea soup with a clock on the back. Not much different than Grandma's stove - only hers was white. The clock had an extra "arm" on it - that was the timer and I should ignore that, Leigh explained to me and I felt a warmth as she spoke to me kindly.

I tried desperately hard to learn but it didn't make a lot of sense to me at  first and Leigh would get really mad at me and yell. I felt terrible for upsetting her; she was trying very hard to teach me something and I was failing her.

One day, she asked me, "Crissy, what time is it?" (Crissy was the name I was called by, back then) and I looked at the clock on the back of the stove. I guessed. I didn't really know what time it was but I was so afraid of upsetting her and I wanted to make her proud.

I guessed it right!

Leigh shrieked with delight and what was better, was Daddy and Vikki were there!

"Now they can do it on their own," Leigh said to Daddy and her mother. "I don't have to stay behind."

Daddy agreed and from then on, I was responsible for making sure Travis and I got to school okay. We would walk together. It seemed like a hundred miles but it was freedom and we loved the freedom. So each morning, I would brace my hands on the stovetop, jump to lift myself up to see the clock and when the hands were on the right numbers, I would tell Travis it was time to go.

The area we lived in had sidewalks and I remember being enthralled by them. They were pristine and new - even the gutters were seemingly white and clean. So different from our over-crowded, over-stuffed home where it was hard to even breathe. There were a lot of homes that were being built and Travis and I would go into the shells of these homes and dance around, pretending they were our house, even though there were no walls. Strangely, the smell of the pine trusses and wall joints reminded me of Daddy - he worked with wood and his tools a lot; as I said, he was very talented. There was nothing my Daddy couldn't do.

I also remember during our walks to school how terribly sad I felt for the various things I would see on the sidewalks. Especially leaves and worms. I always stopped and picked them up, placing them into the grass. I knew the worms lived in the dirt and I was afraid that someone might come along and step on the leaves and I didn't want them to be hurt, so I laid them on the grass. I did this every day, very carefully. The leaves were quite fragile but they were beautiful to me.

So our adventures on the way to school were a welcome respite from the torment of being at home and during those times, I forgot what life was like in that house.

One time, when I went to check the time, I braced my hands on the stovetop like always and the burner was on. I yanked my hands away, looked down to see searing rings matching the pattern of the burner, covering my entire left hand. I was instantly terrified. I didn't tell anyone - not even Travis - but, instead, just guessed the time and we left for school.

While I was there, one of the teachers discovered my hand because, being left-handed, I was unable to write.

"Honey we need to call your parents," she said gently.

My heart pounded. No. No, no please, please don't call them!

"Please," I remember begging. "I'll write. I'll do it. Please don't call them!"

She told me it was a very bad burn and I needed to see a doctor. I don't know who they called - Daddy or Vikki - but I ended up at home.

"How can you be so stupid?!" I remember hearing. My head was swimming. I knew I was in trouble. I knew Daddy would beat me for this and I was right. Everything is a blur, except for being beaten for my burnt hand. How stupid I must be. I would never do it again, I promised.

At some point - for reasons I don't recall - Travis and I were no longer allowed to go into the house when we got home from school. We had to wait for either Leigh or Alex to get home from their schools, to let us in. This was okay - we had a tree "fort." Actually it wasn't a fort; it was an overgrown bush that was hollowed out. We would hide in there and sometimes we would hide behind the hedges in front of the house because we had to pee really bad and we couldn't go in. We were once caught by the neighbors peeing behind the hedges and they told our parents.

We were beaten for that. How could we embarrass the family that way? Daddy was terribly ashamed of us and I was ashamed that we had done such a bad thing, even though I didn't really know what else to do. We would have to find some other place to pee - someplace where nobody could see us - if it happened again.

--------------- Trigger Warning ------------

"Hey Crissy, wanna fool around?"

I don't remember the first time he said it to me, nor do I recall my response but I'm sure it was an excited "Yes!" because Daddy always said it with a loving smile - as if he really loved me and wanted me to play with him and he wanted to play with me. I must have been desperately excited to get happy attention from Daddy.

At some point, those words would cause my body to tense, my stomach to drop. I would be overwhelmed by things I couldn't and didn't understand. Fear? No. I couldn't possibly be afraid because Daddy never hurt me when we "fooled around." He was very gentle and loving as he taught me things - big girl things. I was special during those times, even if I didn't like touching him or licking or kissing him or him touching me.

There was a bit of relief when he would ask me if I wanted to fool around. I was relieved that I had a chance to make Daddy happy. I was relieved that - at least for that period of time, as our naked bodies meshed and mingled and I performed for him - I was not in danger of being beaten or yelled at or getting into trouble. At least during those times, I knew what I was doing was right and okay and I was being a good girl, even if I hated it.

The slimy feel and salty taste of semen sickened me but I was always very careful to be a good girl and not do anything that would hurt the soft flesh of Daddy's penis. The taste of his skin as he made me lick it, all the way down his torso was okay - I didn't mind - but I didn't like all the hair down there as I got lower and I really didn't like the taste of his anus but he would keep cooing to me, "That's my girl, good girl. Keep going," and I would do my very best, to do everything exactly the way he wanted.

Often I would pose for him on his unkempt bed and he would maneuver my body parts around to certain poses as he touched himself. I could see his penis get bigger and bigger. It was really big and barely fit in my mouth and because of that, Daddy taught me to be very careful of my teeth. That's what I mean when I say he taught me "big girl stuff" - he taught me to be cautious and careful. Sometimes - but not often - I would mess up and accidentally my teeth would touch the skin but Daddy didn't get mad. He would just remind me, "Watch your teeth, honey."

"He called me honey. I'm a big girl."

In these moments, he was the best Daddy in the world. He always helped to wipe the white stuff off of me, handed me my clothes and would tell me I was a good girl, as he sent me off to my room to get dressed.

---------------------

I once told Daddy no; "No I don't want to fool around," I said, almost in a whisper, afraid that he would get angry. When he asked again, "Come on, Crissy. You sure?" I knew it was my opportunity to reconsider and I took it.

This was the first time I had ever told him "no" so I was glad I was able to change my mind. I didn't want to upset him.

As typical, I went to his room, but this time it was different. He positioned my naked body on the bed so that I was on my hands and knees. He told me not to look.

I obeyed.

I felt his large, rough hands on my back side, rubbing and caressing. I kept my head turned towards the wall.

Suddenly I felt an intense pain as he pushed something into my rectum. I lurched forward, crying and balled up into the fetal position, crying.

"Oh I'm sorry, honey," he cooed. "Did that hurt?" he asked, not waiting for an answer. "Okay we won't do that again," he assured and I saw him put a hotdog down onto the floor.

I knew not  to say "no" after that. He had never hurt me before, so I just knew he'd hurt me because I told him no, initially. I would never say no again.

I would, however, be brought to tearful begging.

That was the day when Daddy asked me to come into the boy's room - where I was never allowed. The "Crissy, do you want to fool around?" question had already been asked and answered and I slowly walked to this new and forbidden location, only to see my terrified little brother sitting with my father, naked on his bunk bed.

"It's okay, honey," he said gently. "Come on in."

He smiled at me, reassuringly. My brother's big blue eyes were as huge as I'm sure mine was. I was stunned. I had seen my brother naked before. When we lived at Grandma's house, we bathed together as young children. It was purely innocent and we played a lot in the tub. Grandma often got a kick out of us splashing and playing with the bubbles.

But this was different - very different - and my emotions were very mixed up. I was both disgusted to see my brother's naked body along with my father's, but also I felt a need to protect him and a helplessness, knowing I could not. I was stunned to discover that my brother, too, was experiencing the same things I was. Everything was mixed up and I was scared.

I walked into the room tentatively, unsure, frightened.

He coerced my brother to lay down. My brother was four or five. I was five or six.

"Come here, Crissy," he said, guiding me towards my brother's exposed body. My brother was not all the way on the bed. He was crying, but without sound. Just silent tears sliding from his blue eyes, dripping down onto the bed. His feet hung off the bed.

Daddy told me to get closer and eventually directed me to perform oral sex on my brother. I looked at my father, shocked and afraid. "Daddy please, please don't," I begged. When I said the words, my brother's crying became audible and he, too, began to beg. "Please Daddy, Please no."

But Daddy wouldn't listen and kept assuring us it was just fine and we would be okay.

I did as I was told, crying and begging the whole time. As I did, Daddy touched himself and - as I was accustomed to seeing - his penis grew larger and larger. My brothers did not but rather felt like a mouthful of jello as I did what Daddy instructed me to do.

Daddy then made us switch positions and, again, we begged and pleaded but I knew there was nothing that we could do.

He ordered me to lay back and directed my brother where to lick and kiss on my body. I cried, as did my brother, the whole time. I hated the feel of his mouth down there. It was humiliating but Daddy wouldn't let me move my arms or hands. Instead both my brother and I - with each turn - were told to keep our arms up above our heads.

We could do nothing but follow his orders, though gently they were given.

I do not know how long this session lasted, but it seemed an eternity. I was so ashamed and embarrassed and angry - angry at my brother, I recall. Angry because, perhaps, I wasn't able to stop it. Angry, perhaps, because of envy? I don't know. But our relationship was forever changed after that day. Some form of hatred or loathing bloomed between us; a hatred that had never existed before.

And it didn't seem to matter that we cried, begged, pleaded and ultimately performed as asked. That night, we had our regular family meeting and, again, my brother and I were beaten. This was confusing. We did all he'd asked. Why would he do this?

This was the question, always.

I was once beaten because - in the midst of Daddy and I "fooling around" - Vikki came home and Daddy quickly stashed me under their bed, nude. Beneath the bed was so cluttered that I could barely fit. I felt things pressing against my back and because of how afraid and harried daddy seemed to be, and how important it seemed that I hide, I was as still as I could be, making sure to hold the brown bed skirt down so Vikki wouldn't find me.

But she did and when she did, she yanked me from under their bed, yelling, "What are you doing under there," as if I were very bad for being there. Daddy soon came into the room and saw that Vikki had found me and he, too, chimed in with the same words, "What on earth are you doing under there? Where are your clothes?"

I was confused, yet also knew - because of how Daddy had acted when Vikki came home unannounced and unexpected - that Daddy was trying to hide our "fooling around" from her so I took the tongue lashings and went to my room crying.

That night, in front of the family, my transgression was revealed to the whole family during our meeting and I was beaten for being in my parents room without permission.

I knew I could say not a word because, if I did, Daddy would get in trouble. I don't know how I knew this, but I knew it very well so I took my beating and went to my room, hurt and confused.

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The days and nights spent in our new Pensacola "home" were terrifying and unpredictable. There were many fights and violent rampages, outside of our regular beatings and abuse, but there were also moments of laughter and beauty.

Sometimes Daddy would take us to a nearby park that I recall having a picnic table and one of those old rusty merry-go-rounds that you could spin round and round on.

Daddy would perch himself on the table, sitting on the top with his foot on the bench, so he could rest his beautiful guitar on his knee. He would then sing to us, as we went around on the merry-go-round. Daddy's singing and music were like magic to me and it was such a special thing, to be there with just him and my brother, having him sing to us. Just us.

To me, it meant he did love us. He truly did. That's why he sings to us.

"Puff the magic dra-gon, lived by the sea..." his oftentimes loud, powerful voice transformed into the beauty of song, melodic and hypnotizing. At family gatherings throughout my childhood - despite how much I feared him and despite how much he hurt us - I would swell with pride, knowing it was my Daddy that everyone was surrounding as he played his guitar and sang his music.

Indeed, his music was beautiful and he would sometimes sing songs just for us - songs for kids that were sad, but they were for kids, nonetheless. I adored him - especially in these moments.

But then we would have another family meeting or we would fool around again or we would be otherwise punished and it was very confusing.

Dinnertime was a very difficult time. We were not accustomed to the rules. At Grandma's house, we were often told "whoever cleans their plate the best, wins!" by Grandma who was a jovial person, for the most part. And there were no qualms or stares or consequences when my little brother and I would commence to licking our plates in a fun competition to see whose plate was the cleanest. We were taught the proper manners: Please, Thank you, etc. (we were taught some things in French because Pop had been stationed there during the war and my brother and I took great pride in being able to say 'pass the butter please' in French).

But in Pensacola, we sat silently, for the most part. Only Daddy and Vikki talked. We - my brother and I - had to sit absolutely straight in our chairs. We were not permitted to have more than one hand on the table at a time and had to eat with one hand, put that hand on our lap, and then use the other hand to drink with. We had to sit with our ankles crossed and, because we were unaccustomed to so many rules - were punished quite a bit.

"See how ugly you look!" Daddy would chastise as he would take one of us who had  inadvertently chewed with our mouth open or spoken with food in our mouth. "You sit here and look at that!" he would say, as he made up a makeshift table, separate from the rest of the "family" and would place a mirror in front of us, forcing us to watch ourselves eat.

It hurt to be so disgusting and ugly that we had to be separated from the family but it hurt even more that Daddy thought I was ugly.

It hurt to awaken with blood on my pillow from being hit by Daddy the night before. The fear of knowing I'd stained my pillow was pervasive but I could not hide it and I did not know what to do with it.

It hurt to be blamed for things - and, thus, beaten - for things the neighbor kids did or my brother did.

It hurt to be forced to walk in the heaviest rains, home with my little brother in tow because we'd been forgotten at the school. At six years old, I had to convince my teacher to let me take my brother home or we would get into trouble - that my father had not forgotten us, we were supposed to walk home.

It hurt to live. It hurt to exist. It hurt to know nothing I did or could do, would ever be enough to keep Daddy from crying or being angry.

One day, without warning, we heard the familiar sound of fighting between Daddy and Vikki. My brother and I knew, during these times, to stay as quiet and hidden as possible.

We heard slamming and yelling. I don't know why but on this day, my little brother and I came out of our hiding and watched as Daddy pulled the burgundy van to the front door. He was running in and out of the front door of the house. We stood on our knees on the couch, silently watching for awhile, wondering what was happening but our silence turned to crying and pleading when we saw Daddy start throwing large black garbage bags into the van, screaming at Vikki that he was leaving. He was taking his beloved guitar. He was leaving us!

We - my brother and I - began pounding on the big picture window behind the couch. We cried and screamed, wishing he would hear, "Please Daddy don't leave!" but he didn't hear us. "Daddy please don't go!" our little fists knocked on the glass as we cried and pleaded.

Our desperate attempts to stop him from leaving us went unheard and I remember seeing the little black windows in the back of the van as Daddy pulled out of the driveway, leaving us behind.

In the blur of my memory, the next thing I recall is that night - the same night - sitting on an airplane with my little brother next to me and Vikki - along with, I believe, her sister - standing in front of us on the plane. I remember feeling very sad and Vikki jumping in front of us, up and down excitedly. "Isn't this exciting!" she shrieked. "You get to see your Grandma again!" I remember, when she jumped, the whole plane bounced but I didn't feel happy at all. I was very confused. My brother and I remained quiet.

I do not remember the flight back or seeing Grandma again. I don't remember the airport or the ride back to Grandma's house. I only remember Grandma being angry because we were sent back with very little. A few days later, she was again angry, because Vikki had sent some of our toys in the mail but they were crammed together in a big box that had been damaged.

I wondered where Daddy was and if or when he would be back. I also wondered if he left because of me. Because I was bad or I was too much or I was too ugly. I wondered if Travis felt the same.

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A new lifetime.

This lifetime was brief and foggy.

Grandma was a robust woman. A matriarch. Pop was a wordless man, so the few times he would speak, I knew to listen and listen good. The house on Hebert Street was enormous to me. The textured crimson wallpaper in the foyer and going up the staircase always fascinated me.

Great-grandma "Mom" - as she was called by everyone in the family - was frequently using Plaster of Paris to repair holes in the walls so it seemed the burgundy wallpaper had white wounds, bandaged by Mom.

At the foot of the stairs was a giant mirror and we would run down the stairs and jump the last few, laughing at our expressions, my brother and I, trying to see who could be the funniest.

Our cousins would sometimes come visit but not often. The neighborhood was bad. Very bad. So bad, that Pop was robbed more often than not when he went to the corner liquor store to buy more Hamm's for him and Grandma.

One night, we all went to Kroger. I don't remember why. It was unusual. Pop always did the grocery shopping with Grandma's neatly written grocery list in hand. It always amazed me how she would position the pen - always the same black, clicky pen - in her crippled fingers and write perfectly straight, perfectly neat.

But on this night, we were all together and Pop got out of the car to go inside.

Grandma's window was cracked. Cigarette smoke puffed out the window into the dark air and I suddenly heard a loud bang. A man had run to our car and was reaching in Grandma's cracked window. He was grabbing at her purse, saying something to her but I don't remember what. I just remember looking at Pop as he walked away and hearing Grandma's screams, "George! George! Help George!" as she clutched and tugged at her pocketbook. Pop was deaf in one ear. He didn't hear.

My little brother and I remained frozen in the back seat. I wanted to do something but I didn't know what. I was simply frozen.

Grandma put us back in Irving Elementary where we were tormented daily because we were the only white kids in the school. We walked to school, down Hebert, across Natural Bridge Avenue and down into the bowels of the ghetto. People always called out to me - mostly men - "Hey white girl! Hey, come here white girl!"

The overcrowded houses and broken concrete and boarded up condemned homes were somehow better than the shells of homes my brother and I played in, in Florida. Better, I suppose, because at least we were away from the abuse and even if we weren't safe outside of Grandma's front door, at least we were safe from Daddy, even if we missed him.

My little brother and I figured out crafty ways to escape our tormenters. One of the best ways was to take change from Grandma and Pop's change jars that they kept on the old desk in the dining room, when they weren't looking. We would stuff our coat pockets with pennies, nickles, dimes and quarters and then - when the typical perpetrators would come near - we would take the change and throw it high into the air.

"Oooh! Money! They throwin' money!" we could hear them scrambling like hungry rats on a carcass as we bolted at lightning speed to get away.

During these times, I was frequently sexually assaulted, though nothing like what Daddy had done. Mostly I was chased and pinned down (once it actually happened in the front yard, on the small hill that led up to the porch. I laid there and stared at Mom's roses that lined the walk while two older boys "clothes burned" me [that is, simulated sex with clothing on]). It was then, that Grandma decided to put us in a different school. I remember her calling the principal at Irving - Mr. Brown - and complaining to him about the two boys who'd followed us home and done that to me. Mr. Brown told her it didn't happen on school property so there was nothing he could do. Grandma was mad about that.

It was during this "lifetime" that I told Grandma I no longer wanted to be called "Crissy." I wanted to be called "Tina."

"Crissy is a little girl name. Besides, it reminds me of that girl on Three's Company and she's stupid."

Grandma laughed and made sure to tell the whole family that my name was now Tina. The whole family honored my wish and - to this day - still do, even though my name has changed several times since.

It was also during this time that Grandma and Pop became our legal guardians. I didn't know what it meant, but I remember going into a judges office and everything was big and tall. The judge was a nice old man and he had a bowl of candy on his desk. He asked if we wanted some. My brother and I said yes and he pushed the bowl to the edge so we could reach it. Grandma and Pop were in there, standing (or sitting?) behind us as we took piece after piece and munched on the candy.

"Do you kids think you want to live with your Grandma and Grandpa here?" the judge asked. I was so preoccupied with the candy, I didn't really care and I just nodded my head. So did my little brother.

And we continued eating the candy.

That was when Grandma and Pop became our legal guardians.

Grandma told us one day that Daddy was working as a truck driver and she told us the name of the company but the name was a long one, and we couldn't remember it. She told us he said he might be able to come visit.

Grandma changed our schools and we started going to Waring ABI - it had something to do with busing. I didn't understand it, except that they wanted to have equal numbers of black and white kids in the schools. So our bus stop changed and instead of walking to the darkening parts of the city, we went towards the south end.

But because of the neighborhood, our bus was all black and my brother and I were frequently attacked, teased, and tormented on the bus. We quickly learned we could walk an extra few blocks and use our lunch money to take the city bus to school. This also left us with enough money to stop in and see the donut lady and play a game of pinball. The donut lady was always very nice to us. She always had a lot of big gold necklaces on and they seemed magical to me against her chocolate skin. She knew what we were doing and she sometimes ordered us to go so we wouldn't miss the city bus.

Sometimes we would just hide behind the bushes and deliberately miss the bus and go home. Grandma let us stay home on those days.

One day when we were walking home, there was a big semi truck parked on the side of the road next to the vacant lot where our block ended. We read the words on the trailer: Health Examinetics. We couldn't remember  the name Grandma had said, but we knew "Health" was the first part and the second part was too long so we knew, instantaneously, that Daddy was there.

Simultaneously, we began running as fast as we could. Daddy was there! Daddy came!

We rushed into the house and there he sat with Grandma and Pop at the table. His hair was long - long and beautiful. His glasses the same. He had a chain that went from his belt loop to his back pocket. He wore jeans.

I don't remember a lot of what was said or how long he stayed or even when he left, but I do remember him telling my brother and I to bring our piggy banks to him.

Our "piggy banks" were Parkay butter dishes that Grandma had cut a slit into. Mine was yellow.

Daddy took the lids off and dumped a bunch of change into each of our butter dish piggy banks.

I know we were told he was working on getting a house for us to all live in: me, him and my little brother. I know this because at some point, my little brother and I became upset when we found out that Daddy was marrying Margay and we were going to all live together - including her.

I remember this because one day, my little brother and I took a tape recorder downstairs into the basement and plugged it in. We recorded ourselves talking to Daddy, telling him we didn't want to live with Margay. We wanted to live in the woods - like he'd told us - just the three of us. We wanted what he'd told us.

It was a fantasy.

The day came when Grandma told us we were moving. This time, to Greensboro, North Carolina. Summerfield, to be more specific.

I was in fourth grade - 9 years old.

The fantasies I shared with my little brother of living with my father in the woods in a cabin, just the three of us, were quickly replaced with terror. Living with Daddy again was now going to be a reality and I was terrified.

For  weeks, I was uncertain of how to handle the situation. I knew we couldn't live with Daddy. I knew it was unsafe but I couldn't tell Grandma about Pensacola. I couldn't tell her about the things I knew and the things that happened.

Yet, I couldn't bear to go to North Carolina, either.

Grandma didn't want us to go, either.

Because Grandma was a frequent television watcher, I was very familiar with drama. I sometimes mimicked things I saw or heard on the t.v.

One night at the dinner table, as our time to leave was nearing, my little brother and I were horseplaying - kicking each other under the table, like we often did.

"Knock it off!" Grandma ordered.

But, as usual, that only worked for a minute at best, before we were back at it again.

Grandma admonished us a couple of times before finally Pop spoke. "Knock it off!" he said with a rugged, firm tone.

"That's okay," Grandma said tearfully. When I heard the troubled sound of her voice, I was immediately sorry. "It's just one more reason for me to be glad when they're gone!" she said, and she stood abruptly, crying silently, and walked up the stairs.

My brother disappeared, too. Everything was silent and I sat there at the table, stunned and ashamed.

I knew she didn't mean it. It reminded me of something I'd seen on The Little House on the Prairie or Days of Our Lives. I knew she didn't mean it because she was crying when she said it.

Not knowing what to do, I stood and started clearing the table. I took everything into the kitchen and started washing the dishes. Pop came in and I tensed. He never liked me.

"Thank you," he said to me, and I was stunned again. It was the nicest thing he'd ever said to me.

I just nodded and finished the dishes.

I then went upstairs and found Grandma sitting on the edge of her bed. She was crying. She had a kleenex in her hand. I said nothing, but sat next to her.

She reached a crippled hand over and rubbed my back, as if I needed comforting.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean it."

"I know," I said to the floor.

Just then, my little brother appeared from beneath the bed. He had been under there from the beginning.

Grandma hugged us both and in that instant, I knew I had to do something.

I had to do something.

Life became very heavy and I had to figure out how to make it lighter.

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The weight of my choices was heavy. It was both selfish and selfless: Even though the things Daddy had made my little brother and I do together, had created a huge chasm in our relationship, I still felt a need to protect him, even if in some ways it was to a lesser degree than I wanted to protect myself.

One night, I made the choice to tell Grandma we couldn't go live with Daddy again. I'd really thought long and hard about it. I was terrified to tell her.

He was, after all, her son. What would she think of me?

I came down the stairs. I'm not sure what it was that gave him a clue about what I was going to do but my brother - who was perched in front of the television - saw me come down. He was laying with a soft cotton blanket over him, tan colored with satin trim, and he immediately got up from his spot on the floor and came into the dining room where Grandma was sitting in her usual spot with her usual beer mug - a huge Hamm's mug with funny, fingertip-sized circles etched around the base - watching the television.

I don't remember what I said at first, just know I couldn't bear to look at her. But I also knew what I had to do. By the time I'd reached her and stood in front of her, my little brother was standing behind her. I looked at him and he was desperately, frantically shaking his head as if to plead with me, "no no no please don't tell!"

I will never know how he knew what I was about to do.

"Grandma?" I said to her pink slippers.

"What?" she responded, matter-of-factly.

"I need to tell you something," I said, again to the floor, ignoring my brother's terrified face.

"What?" she asked again, as if she wanted to hurry it up so she could get back to her show. She couldn't have known what I was about to say.

"I don't want to go live with Daddy," I said. "We can't."

"Why not?" she said, this time more attentive.

I stared at my feet; at the speckles of the dining room tile; at her swollen ankles. I couldn't think of the words so I just said what I knew, which was entirely too much for a fourth grader.

"Because he abuses us," I said, hoping that would be enough.

"What? How?" she asked.

Oh God.

I was frozen. Silent. What are the words? What words do I use? I knew words.

"Sexually," I finally said.

I felt my little brother's body deflate. I caught it, somehow, in my periphery.

I didn't see her reaction. I don't know if she was shocked or hurt or surprised or angry. I don't know because I didn't look, even when she answered.

"Okay, I will talk to him about it."

That was the last thing I wanted her to do. I just wanted her to say "Okay you don't have to go," but it seemed all the air was gone from my lungs and I couldn't say another word. I just nodded and went back upstairs to my room, hoping Grandma would handle the situation and we wouldn't have to go.

For a couple weeks, nothing more was said about it and I was partly relieved - some part of me felt relief that we wouldn't have to go live with Daddy. Some part of me believed Grandma had made arrangement so we wouldn't have to go. Yet, another part of me was leary of the silence, afraid. Afraid... did she blame me? Had she talked to him? What had he said? Was he in trouble? I hoped not - I didn't want my Daddy to be in trouble - I just didn't want to live with him.

Finally one day, Grandma announced that Daddy would be there in a couple of days to get us.

It seemed the floor beneath me caved in. I felt a punch to my stomach. I was stunned. The little part of me that was clinging to the belief that we wouldn't have to go, crumbled and burned to ashes.

I looked at her in disbelief and for the first time since I'd said anything about it, I inquired: "But, what about..." and my voice trailed off.

"Oh I talked to him," she said. "He says it won't happen again."

That was the end of the conversation. The end of my hope. I lost all faith in Grandma that night.

The way she'd said the words was very casual, as if she'd talked with him about driving too fast or drinking too much soda.

She never offered any words of comfort or solace. Never protection. Never validation. Just "He says it won't happen again."

But Grandma you don't understand!  I screamed inside, words I wouldn't dare utter. I'd never disrespect her that way. What Grandma says, goes.

My brother was, I believe, relieved.

I, on the other hand, was determined not to go.

So one night, I decided to take a bunch of pills. I would steal Grandma's aspirin from the medicine cabinet upstairs and sneak them downstairs. She would suspect nothing because I went to the basement often - usually to write. It was a dank place, the basement with it's stone walls and concrete floor, exposed rafters and huge round furnace that always reminded me of the places where they burned bodies when people died. Although you could see the fire through the little opening in the  furnace which my brother and I often opened, it was cold in the basement. I was always afraid my cat - Smokey - would fall through the top of the furnace where he liked to lay. Of course, he never did.

I had a plan. I'd take all the aspirins in the bottle and I'd fall asleep. I'd sleep until Daddy came, and I'd still be sleeping when he left and he wouldn't take me, because I'd be sleeping and I'd get to stay at Grandma's.

I went downstairs, pulled up the litttle rickety foot stool to the equally rickety laundry table. The mint green paint was chipped from most of both pieces, revealing old, rough wood, unsanded. I took out the bottle of aspirin and began swallowing over and over, with a glass of water, until they were gone. Then I laid my head down on the laundry table and picked at the splintering wood and chipping paint as I waited to go to sleep.

I awoke feeling dizzy and disoriented. I became aware that not enough time had passed - that it was still the same night and Daddy was still coming.

I fumbled around the basement, stumbled up the stairs and as I reached the top, tried pulling myself together so Grandma wouldn't know what I'd done.

I opened the door and she was there, with her Hamm's mug, wearing her pink nightgown and slippers, watching T.V.

I was still dizzy and I was seeing double so I had a hard time focusing.

Grandma looked at me, said nothing.

"I'm going to bed," I told her.

"Okay," was all she said.

I managed to get to my bed. I laid down. Resigned.

I gave up.

Daddy was coming and there was nothing I could do.

And it was all Grandma's fault.

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