As If I Matter

My name is Cristina D. Johnson.

Since May, I've been overwhelmed, consumed by and obsessed with the debilitating grief over my break up of my five-year relationship, as well as the loss of every single "friendship" associated with that relationship. I've defriended at least 50 people from my Facebook page. My PTSD wreaked havoc on my life for the past year, but especially since May.

Being abandoned so young, I grew up with (and still hold to) this belief that I am nothing...worth nothing. I mean, really, if your own parents didn't want you, who would? Right? It started for me, so young (around age 3, when I was placed in a foster home), that it is an extremely deep-seated belief. "You are nothing" runs through my mind, every single time I try to wear a dress or put on jewelry. "You are nothing" echoes in my head anytime I go anywhere. Especially now...after the things that were done to me.

But that's not what this is about.

Today I was perusing my Facebook - which now consists of 127 friends - and I saw my name on someone's status - Robin - and she was commenting on how good a writer I am. "Just sayin'," she said in her status. I almost cried. Robin and I haven't ever really talked much - our sons were friends and her son was wonderful to my Trevor - and we got together a couple of times, but that's it.

But that's not all.

Ron and Cindy adopted me - legally - when I was 36 years old. Yeah, yeah I know it sounds weird - an adult adoption - and most people look at me cock-eyed when I tell them, but to me - at the time - I had no concept of family and in some way, I guess I was both fantasizing about having parents, and also thinking I was helping them. (So technically, my real name is Cristina D. Kuptzin-Johnson).

Anyway for awhile (actually for almost the entire time I dated "him"), we were estranged. Cindy and I texted occasionally but I stayed clear away from Ron. He was frightening to me. Very tall, domineering and intimidating. Much like my birth father.

In May, Cindy and I were talking (apparently, because I don't remember any of it) on the phone as I was heading to a motel to attempt suicide. Cindy showed up and found me, I believe. And "he" also showed up...I don't know who showed up when, but Cindy was there.

That's when our communication opened back up. Cindy understood - much more than "he" did - that it was not a suicide attempt; it was a cry for help...it was desperation, fear, pain...so many things but not a desire to die. (it's called Suicide Ideation).

As "he" went out and told everyone all about my disorders and attempted suicide, Cindy continued to talk to me and check on me, while he would yell at me or swear at me or mock my disorders, attempt to control me and constantly hurt me. While all this was happening, Cindy was there, always checking on me. Always worried about me. Like a mother, I suppose.

And, of course, there was Bill, checking on me and Hannah who was frantic over my well-being and irate over the way "he" was treating me.

But lately, as I go through therapy and work on myself, I am finding tiny little lights...little pieces of heaven.

Ron - with whom I have not spoke in over five years - has been quietly sitting on the sidelines, waiting for me to call the shots - as if I matter.

Cindy has been here every day, texting every day asking how I am - as if I matter.

Hannah texts me for advice or to see how I am doing - as if I matter.

Robin boasts about how good my writing is - as if I matter.

Nate and Derek help me with their knowledge because I have no idea what I'm doing with my whole website situation - as if I matter.

My cousins, Jan, Cora.... they reached out to me (Jan was even gonna visit!) - as if I matter.

My Aunt Neen encouraged me to keep writing, to get it out, to be strong - as if I matter.

Cindy came over today and cut Trevor's hair and watched (and helped) as I taught him to shave for the first time. She sat and talked with me for a few hours - as if I matter.

With her, she brought a box that had a small stereo in it that Ron sent, as well as some other things that he picked up for me at the store. As if I matter.

Officer Gingras knew what PTSD was and he helped me so compassionately, with such kindness.

And, finally of course, there's Bill who has been my rock, my best friend and everything I could dream of...been there for me through everything As if I matter.

Because my "You are nothing" runs so deep, the thought that I might matter, I might be important or valuable, is like (as I told my therapist) trying to get a rock to absorb water but I have to admit, these little pieces of compassion, acceptance, love...these kindnesses ....these small things (and big things) that you all have done, chip away at that rock and I want to thank you all.

Even though it aches, it's like pushing a sore tooth - it feels good, too.

Character Flaws

My Name is Cristina D. Johnson.

Had therapy today - she made me cry. The discussion was about me asking the question, how come all of "our friends" see what he's done (or know what he was doing) and they still just want to hang out with him, and haven't even reached out to me?

"I don't understand," I lamented.

"What would understanding, do for you?" she asked.

This is a question I took in and really thought on.

"That's a very profound question," I answered, as my eyes began to tear up. It brought up such immense pain, that I stuttered out the answer after a few moments of silent tears.

"Understanding why....would help me to know I'm not ugly or dirty or unworthy," I choked out.

Why? Why didn't anyone check on me? This has plagued me for months. I wondered, how could people want to be with someone who was so hurtful, so insensitive to me - their "friend" - in desperate need of help and compassion. How could they all abandon me in favor of someone who did such detrimental things to me at such a critical time? Why?

I couldn't understand it and it's hurt me.

"Has it occurred to you that it's not you, but them?" she asked.

No...it hadn't because of all the things he said about me. People just took his word for it and I know the picture painted of me would look like a painting dropped in mud. It hadn't occurred to me that the problem may be theirs.

"Relationships end," she said matter-of-factly.

I hadn't thought of that.

"Clearly [he] didn't have the tenacity to help you through the pain you're going through," she said, adding, "and maybe those 'friends' don't either. That's their problem - it's not your problem. It doesn't mean there's something wrong with you," she said. "Perhaps it's just part of their character flaws."

"Two suicide attempts is hard for some people to take," she said. Which I acknowledge, but have made as many apologies as possible for.

She remarked on Bill and Cindy and Hannah, saying how these are the kinds of people I need in my life: supportive, understanding, compassionate, patient.

"Bill is the kind of guy you need," she said. "He obviously truly wants to see you healthy and independent and he's proven it."

This, too, made me cry and I admitted to her that I - for a brief moment the other day, after blogging about him - allowed myself to believe I deserve to be treated the way he treats me; with kindness and consideration and respect and genuine love.

I have an event coming up. We talked about it briefly....I am a little nervous about it. She suggested, "So don't do it?"

"I already said yes," I responded.

"So why not back out? You've done it before with [Dee] and with Tony. Why not now?"

I began to cry again.

"Because if I step outside of my box, and my comfort zone [of conformity and complacency], then people will leave."

"So you're afraid if you step out of your box, people will leave you?"

Yes. If I don't do what I'm supposed to do, people will leave me.

What a terrible way to live...a terrible way to believe.

And that's how I've always been.

Called Police

Had to call the police the other night when I discovered two of my email accounts were shut down and my website was shut down. The officer was nice but at first didn't understand the gravity of the situation.

He asked if I would be willing to go with a police escort to get my things from "him" and I said, "You don't understand, officer. I have PTSD and DID and he triggers me worse than anyone or anything ever has."

Once I explained this - as well as the email and website issues - he contacted the ...other party, and then called me back.

He said the "other party" would be returning my things to the Essex police department, and an officer would bring them to me, but said there would have to be some contact in order for him to transfer ownership of my website. This is the most dreadful thing in the world to me - having to hear his voice. Just the thought of the things that happened, cause me to throw up. People have no idea...just have no idea....God...

The officer then told me there should be no further contact between us and I assured him that I have absolutely no desire to see, speak to or hear him at all, ever. Not because I hate him, but because I loved him so much, and I am still beyond mortified over the things he did to me. Deliberate things, horrible things, agonizing things.

He accused me of "stalking" him because I went to the same sitting spot I've gone to for months, with Bill, with no idea of whether or not his boat would be there. While there, his boat did show up and, yes, I yelled a few obscenities but I didn't really figure he heard me. It just felt good to scream...God it felt good to scream. He hurt me so bad, and still is. Just needless, vengeful, childish stuff...just exerting control, like always.

It hurts that I had to defriend a number of people from my friend's list because simply seeing a picture of his boat triggered me. It got that bad. It got that abusive. Plus he's concerned about his image. Ironic, I think, given what he's done to mine.

I immediately emailed my therapist. I was so shook up Friday night. I couldn't eat, kept gagging, crying, scared. I don't know why scared, but scared. Scared, I guess, that one person could have so much control over your life and you feel helpless to do anything about it. Scared of myself ...scared that my choices have led me to all these horrible relationships that always end up with me feeling terrified.

But never like this. I've never been affected like this.

All it does is make me question everyone and everything (including myself) even more (which is why I defriended so many people).

How can I trust, after this? How can I ever trust anyone with my journey? My pain and my experiences? How can I ever open up to anyone again when it was spat in my face, used to deliberately hurt me?

Gagging now, just thinking about it....

The no contact order was initiated by me, for the record, which isn't officially a 'no contact' order because there's no need - clearly we want nothing to do with each other. It was just an unofficial police officer telling us no contact.

Fine with me.

For you: You'll always have a place in my heart - I loved you deeply, and that doesn't just go away. I wish you the best and hope you have a happy life.

Mixed Up

I don't even know how to start this blog. I've been through the wringer the past three months and it's just so tiring and exhaustive. I mean, when does it stop?

In May, when I was at my lowest possible point (which one would have to be, to attempt suicide), I was abandoned by the one person who swore they would always be there. I was having flashbacks and panic attacks daily. I was having black-outs and I was in therapy, working so hard to figure out how my past was affecting my present.

As anyone with any knowledge of or experience in PTSD knows, a perceived threat, elicits a strong response that is rooted in the pain or fear of the past. It's lightning quick. It's processed through the amygdala in the brain as a threat and the PTSD sufferer responds accordingly. For me, the responses varied usually either rage or pain but always rooted in fear.

After I was gossiped about and people were told my private business I was so humiliated and I became terrified to go anywhere. Even to the store. Even to the mailbox. And I needed a friend so bad. Ironically, I kept turning to him and he kept triggering, knowing he was doing it...knowing it was killing me.

In a PTSD crisis, every emotion is amplified and I begged and begged for compassion, but got none. I have PTSD mostly as a result of abuse from men - many men - and he quickly became an enormous trigger for me because he would say or do something nice, but then he would say or do something cruel - the same mixed messages my father gave me when he would vacillate between beatings and punishments, and molestation. I tried explaining this to him in an effort to - again - beg him to stop, but to no avail.

I got to the point where I was gagging every time I heard his footsteps, because I was so triggered. Eventually it escalated to vomiting, just from the overwhelm. At that time, I had nobody. Nobody I trusted. The only person who said she was my friend, was going out with him so I had no reason to trust her. And none of "our friends" ever once called or messaged me to see if  I was okay. Yesterday, I deleted most of them from my friend's list, trying to feel safe, trying to eliminate any connection to this person who hurt me so badly.

People come and go in your life - I know many have in mine - and this is my story and when people come and go in my life, they become a part of my story. When they inject themselves - in either good or bad ways - they are a part of my story.

For the past month, I have been blessed to have my best friend in the world - Bill - come help me. Although I have others - Cindy, Hannah, Howie, Ron (in the background) - who help as much as they can, Bill came and nursed me through some pretty horrific breakdowns. This is what I needed from the beginning - from "him" - someone who would help me and genuinely care about what I was going through. Someone willing to hold my hair when I vomited from sheer nerves. Someone who would wipe my tears or give me kleenex; someone who would take me places - anywhere - just randomly, to get me out of the house; someone who truly cared.

Bill has been a God send and has proven to be my absolute best friend, my right arm, my shoulder to cry on. He's been awakened in the middle of the night by crying and gagging and never once complained. Just asked if I was okay, turned on the light, lit me a cigarette and rubbed my back while I went through my painful attacks. Not a single time when I trembled went by, that he didn't hold me until the trembling subsided.

All of these symptoms have been exacerbated by the cruelty of others. And I am not claiming to be an angel, but I will say I tried my best - tried to make people understand, only to be misunderstood and judged. I'm not surprised by this.

Anyway, Bill left today........

He left for Illinois. This on top of a very difficult evening wherein I was forced to contact the police over all the BS going on.

Last night was supposed to be a sort of farewell party for Bill - although it certainly was no picnic. I cried a lot, shook a lot, plus had an anxiety attack in the middle of it all over other things going on. Couldn't eat the food we made. Just couldn't stomach it.

The thought of losing my best friend, the thought of not having someone here to help me through my attacks, frightens the shit out of me and I can't see what the future looks like.

One thing I have learned, though, is that Bill was always my best friend. Even through my relationship with "him" Bill was there - always. And when he got here, it was as if no time had passed at all. Same old Bill. Genuine, authentic, loving, giving, caring. He gave more to me in this past month, than I've gotten in the past five years from everyone I met and knew for the past five years, combined. In one month, he showed me more attention, affection, compassion and concern than anyone, ever.

I believe some people are simply incapable of that kind of depth. I've met them. I've lived among them. In a way, I suppose it's good that I had my own ...call it judgment, ratified. I learned that all the things I feared about the "thems" in the world, are true. And then some.

And I also learned who and what a true friend is. Anyone who knows him, is fortunate. He is the epitome of a good man, good friend, and good human being.

We both sobbed as he left today, even though eventually he'll be back. But one thing I know is this: Bill will always be my best friend. I miss him terribly.

For The Record

Response to threatening email:

I have NEVER questioned ANYONE about your whereabouts or activities. I stopped caring the moment you told me you were cheating on me before we even split. (YOU told me this).

I have NEVER "stalked" you - I hang out at my place quite often and cannot predict if or when you'll be there. Frankly you're the last person in the world I want to see and I definitely have witnesses to this. I can't even stand the sound of your VOICE!

You've NEVER had any concern for my child - haven't even once inquired as to his well-being - so this is just an empty threat to try and push buttons that you know will get a reaction. My child is safe and loved and cared for, far more than he was when he was with you - you who threatened to "shove your fist down his  throat" and repeatedly abused him, both verbally and physically. You have no idea how to be a father figure and never did, not with him. You persistently insisted he be the way you thought he should be, rather than letting him be the autistic child he is. He is much better off without you in his life and much happier.

I've never published ANY lies - just my perspective after you went out and slandered me all over three towns, repeatedly took advantage of my disorders and deliberately antagonized said disorders.

I have requested several times to get ONE THING from you which was handed down in the family - ONE THING - and all requests have gone ignored. Not one nasty message has been left on your home phone; I even wrote a letter requesting it, only to receive no response. It's pretty simple.

I have not posted any defamatory remarks on facebook. Again, I have told my side of the story which - as you told me when you were out sharing my LEGALLY PRIVATE, PERSONAL information with God-knows who - is "none of your goddamn business" and for which I could sue you but instead have chosen to sit in pain and cry over that betrayal. Unbelievable that someone who would claim to love you, would be so heartless and cruel. You flat out abused me, and hid it. Made sure you came out looking like a rose, all the while, cheating. What a GREAT guy!

And as for YOU...I shall honor your wish and not refer to you by name - I shall refer to you as "Dee" and I shall refer to your bosom buddy as "Gawhey" since that's the pet name you've given to your latest conquest (who you use and have used for months). As for your son reading my blog, it's not my responsibility to monitor what he reads. It's yours, SuperMom. You live THROUGH your kids, you're not the super mom you try to claim to be. You're as fake as the rest of them and have no idea what it is to be a friend. You just pretend...like everyone else.

The problem with you people (yes, you people) is your first inclination is to call the cops, rather than face up to your fakeness and weaknesses. Trust me: I haven't said anything defamatory - if I had, the entire towns of Haddam, Chester and Deep River (as well as anyone else reading it) would know a whole hell of a lot more about you both than they do now - all true, and you KNOW it.

I won't be threatened and I won't be bullied....not anymore. You did that for WEEKS - deliberately antagonized me while (according to you) seeing someone else, knowing I was in PTSD crisis. I was in desperate need of help and you did everything you could to trigger and hurt me. Until I was out and away from you, I was unable to say or do anything - I had to put up with it (during which time I spent every second I could at Eagles Landing - MY spot - before you even had your boat in the water because I couldn't tolerate your abuse). So don't threaten me. Don't try to bully me anymore. It won't work.

Left to Myself

My Name is Cristina D. Johnson

"What's wrong?" Michelle (my therapist) asked as she opened the door. My eyes were brimming with tears. Bill sat in the waiting room with me, watching me intently. Rose to give me a hug.

"I'll be okay," I lied.

As I walked into Michelle's office, the crying started. "I can see you're upset," she said as she handed me a box of tissues.

"We just found out Bill is leaving for Illinois this weekend," I choked out.

 She sat quietly for a moment. "Let's just take a minute and breathe," she said. I huffed out a few labored breaths. It felt like someone was squeezing my chest with a vise.

"What else?" she asked, intuitively knowing there was more.

"I had to talk to Gary yesterday. That didn't help."

She nodded.

"And I was going to go see Carolyn but I backed out - I just can't do it. I'm not ready," I said.

She nodded again and I was still sobbing, although I'd calmed slightly.

"So let's just take a minute and get you  grounded," she said calmly. "You have a lot going on and we have a whole session to talk about it."

I nodded and we just sat there in silence for a couple of minutes.

Bill has been here for about a month, although I've known him over twelve years. We've worked together, lived together, dated, then lived together again, and then parted ways as friends. We both understood - to our core - what unconditional love is and we both agreed that our friendship was more valuable than trying to be in a relationship.

And so it's been for years. He's been a constant friend, not just to me but to my son as well.

For the past month, he has been my constant companion. He's seen me through multiple meltdowns, slobbering, snotty, trembling break-downs over my break up. He's listened to me sob over my pain, held my hands when I was shaking and wiped my tears away with his thumbs. He's stood by as I vomited and gagged and was there with a wet washcloth when it was over, each time telling me, "Don't apologize. You don't have anything to apologize for."

He came initially to see how I was doing and, in his own words, he'd never seen me as bad as I was. The things I was going through with the break-up, the agony of my therapy and the flashbacks...everything and he swore he would do whatever he could to get me out of that house, away from the horrible triggers and abuse I was experiencing and somewhere safe, where I could be independent.

He kept his word. He has helped me in every way possible. He has been my friend. My only friend. My true friend. He has made me laugh, eaten dinner with Trevor and I, and sat silently with me, intuitively knowing me so well, that he knew I needed simply to think. He's read every blog (and always has), and every book or article I've shown him. He's given me more support than anyone ever has, in my entire life.

"What is it you're afraid of?" Michelle asked me, regarding Bill leaving.

"Being alone," I answered. "Not belonging here. I don't belong here. I am scared to go to the grocery store. I'm scared to go anywhere," I cried. "He's my only friend."

Which led to the conversation about Carolyn and Gary.

"Why do they have so much power over you?" she asked.

"I don't know. I wish I knew. I gave them that power by letting them in. By getting close to them," I answered.

She nodded. "So how can you take that power back?" she asked.

"I don't know. I can't even stand the thought of either of them. I can't stand the thought of the things they did. I can't stand that he's doing the things he's doing. It literally makes me sick in my stomach."

And the truth is, I don't know. I don't know how.... I don't know.

"Bill has been a helpful distraction for you," she said. "His leaving is going to allow you to experience the grieving process."

"I've grieved and Bill has been there through it. I've gotten angry, I've wept..."

"Yes, but now you're going to be doing it alone and maybe that's what you're supposed to do," she said. Then she paused and she said, "I'm just going to throw this out there....it could be way, way off..."

"Maybe the years you spent with Gary were meant to bring you here, to this place. This place where you are feeling emotions that you've never felt before."

I'd actually thought about that - more than once - and I told her so.

"You say you're disconnected but I see you feeling feelings. Maybe, when Bill is gone, you'll experience the feelings of grief and pain and all that comes with grieving."

It was a tearful session. I feel sick - extremely nauseated. All of my "friends" are partying on his boat, oblivious to the PTSD and DID symptoms I've had to endure because of the things he did to me.

Bill is my only friend.

And he is leaving.

And I am afraid.

The Shame that Binds You

My name is Cristina Johnson

Been reading Healing The Shame that Binds You by John Bradshaw. Just got it this morning and haven't been able to put it down. Shame is something that I've struggled with immensely - especially lately, but really all my life. This book is doing a good job of explaining why.

I'd even recommend this book for my recent ex - he would benefit from it - or anyone who's been through any form of child abuse.

There's a section that deals exclusively with sexual abuse and incest and I've been trying really hard to understand why I - a child - would feel ashamed over something that I had no control over. I mean, we - incest survivors - hear that all the time and cognitively we know it's true - it wasn't our fault - but internally we still carry this huge shame that we can't make sense of.

In the book, it talks about how children in varying stages but particularly at young ages, idealize and idolize their parents and their parents' behaviors. My parents are perfect so there must be something wrong with me. It must be my fault that I'm being abused because my parents are perfect. I must be bad!

For me it started with abandonment (not sure about other abuse) when I was preverbal...when bonds are created. But it begins with being not worthy enough for mommy or daddy to pay attention to you. I and my brother ended up in a foster home when I was very young - I don't know how young - but obviously this had a psychological affect on my psyche. And, given the circumstances under which we were living, I wouldn't doubt there was a lot of neglect on my mother's part. I do have one memory of it and it wasn't pretty. I was probably two or three.

And so it says in this book, the foundational years - first six months, then six to 18 months - there should be 'mirroring' but instead  what happens is our parents pass down their own shame, which was handed down to them, and so on. This can be in the form of any type of abuse - mild to severe, neglect to mental, to physical, to sexual abuse. All of which I and my brother endured.

My father's temper was violent and unpredictable. We were beaten a lot, indiscriminately, and without regard for dignity. We often endured punishments that kept us up until we were falling asleep standing up. I don't recall ever living with him, and not having holes in the walls.

But I idolized him.

And when he molested us, he would cry and I would go along because I couldn't stand to see him cry, even though I didn't want to do it, even though I knew it was bad and dirty. It must be my fault, though, right? Because Daddy's perfect.

So it is to this day...with everyone, until it just floods me...until I give in and allow myself to be vulnerable with someone, and then inevitably I shove them away because it's wrong to be weak. Wrong to show emotion. Bad, bad, bad. (Daddy would often chastise us for crying).

So in trying to understand shame, this deep, deep shame, I've been reading this book and it explains how you become your shame and that is exactly what I've been going through. Explains how - from being abused at such a young age - you lose your self. I have no sense of self. Who am I?

There's a part of me that I admit was hopeful that I would learn from the women in this area. I would learn sophistication and I would learn to be proper. I have a severe handicap but I really counted on compassion but without exposing myself, you know? I'd hoped I could sail through it, watching - observing - and learn to be "likeable" and "worthy".

I exposed myself to him, reluctantly... and I was met with exactly what I feared. This, I won't forget. It simply compounded my shame here - in this place, in these towns - and only made me more afraid to show my face anywhere.

I - like so many survivors - just want to be accepted and loved but the shame that grabs you and follows you and growls at you in your mind, keeps you from reaching out. 

God, if only people knew.

Dreams and PTSD

My name is Cristina D. Johnson

It's not uncommon for people with PTSD to have nightmares - usually of their traumas. I have rarely had that problem because of my DID - because of my dissociation and disconnection from the things that happened to me. Sometimes I wish I could or would dream of them. I wish I could be angry or hurt about them but it's just not there...not yet anyway.

But recent events I am connected to and last night I had three dreams of "him" - one a horrible nightmare - all three, bad. I have learned a lot about dreams over the past year and fully believe in their symbolism. My former therapist used to interpret dreams and it always made sense. It was also almost always exactly what dreammoods.com would say.

***Trigger Warning***
In the worst dream, I was on a table and he was raping me - orally (which I find significant) - and there were people there holding me down who seemed to be friends of his or something. The only person in the dream that I recognized was his mother who was holding my feet and did a couple of other things that were too graphic for me to put here. Anyway, he was vicious and brutal.

Next thing I know, he takes a scarf and wraps it around my throat and kills me. But when he kills me, I am not in my body - I am standing at the edge of the table as a child, looking on as he kills me. When he killed me, in the dream, nobody else was there. I was about seven or eight I think, watching him as he strangled me. I didn't feel anything.

***End Trigger***

According to dreammoods:

"To dream that you were raped or almost raped indicates vengeful or resentful feelings toward the opposite sex. You feel that you have been violated or that you have been taken advantage of. Something or someone is jeopardizing your self-esteem and emotional well-being. Things are being forced upon you. Dreams of rape are also common for those who were actually raped in their waking life."

"To dream that you have been killed suggests that your actions are disconnected from your emotions and conscience. The dream refers to drastic changes that you are trying to make. There is a characteristic that you want to get rid of or a habit that you want to end within yourself. Killing represents the killing off of the old parts and old habits. Alternatively, the dream represents feelings of being let down or betrayed by someone in your waking life. You are feeling overwhelmed, shocked and disappointed."

 All I have to say is....wow.....

Still Reeling

Day started off okay until I logged onto facebook and got sliced in two with photos I really don't care to see.... photos of former friends on his boat. It sent me reeling, gagging again. It seems so insensitive to me. And I spent most of the day with my heart pounding in my throat (I try not to take the anti-anxiety meds unless it's really necessary) so I finally gave in and took one this evening.

I wish there was closure but there isn't and I don't feel there ever will be because he can't be kind and I can't physically, mentally or emotionally handle even hearing his voice. I wrote him a letter...that's all I can do.

I guess it's hard for people to understand... I know it is.

Bill is leaving and it'll be just Trevor and I. Not sure when, but probably within the next week. I am afraid of this. Afraid of being alone and going through all this. I hide from people...don't like asking for help so I take it on the chin and then lay it on my therapist's lap, praying for it to just go away.

My anxiety is through the roof. I want the water so bad. I want to sit by the river and feel the breeze - especially now, it's so cool and refreshing outside. My thoughts keep revolving around all the things that are happening (and have happened). Going to sleep, I am overwhelmed with anguish and rage, both.

I wish I could go back to the way I used to be...I wish I could clear my mind but it's just haywire and I can't control it.

We went to the store today and I knew I was dissociating because it felt like I was watching myself walk to the car. I kept trying to come back to myself, but I couldn't - I was still seeing the picture from facebook. It hurt me so much...it really cut me bad.

I am still in disbelief. I am just gobsmacked...the hell of those last several weeks. The nightmare of being so tortured, so heartlessly. The abuse...the abuse he got away with, and came out looking like a rose while he vilified me and mindfucked me.

I just can't believe it. He said he loved me.

I told Michelle (my therapist) that one of the hardest parts is how I have to start all over again, now. I trusted him more than anyone and now - after being kicked and threatened while I was at my lowest - I fear ever trusting again. Especially a man. And then the "friends"....I'm just so hurt.

And afraid.

So scared to go out anywhere or be seen anywhere...  I fear isolation once Bill leaves because that is what I will do. I will isolate and try to work through all this on my own and the emotions tied to child abuse, rapes, etc. are so intense (those I've been able to feel), that I am terrified.

But I won't stop.

I Being I

My Name is Cristina D. Johnson.

When have I been "I"?

When I posted "Coming Out," I was being I...I was being "real" and goddamn it was scary, especially posting it on my facebook, going public to so many people I hadn't shared with and had, in fact, deliberately hidden from.

Today I was talking to Bill (a long-time, trusted friend) about the past five years of my life because I've given it a lot of thought. I suppose it even started before then - when I moved to Connecticut.

I had the intention of making a better life for myself and my son (and also my daughter at the time, but it ended up not working out that way). I was afraid of this...place. These people. Upper Crust Society - the "them" that I'd always feared and been ashamed to be around, and also held some contempt for. But somewhere inside, I wanted to be that. I wanted to be more than I always had been.

I didn't want to live in the ghetto anymore. I didn't want to be poor and broken anymore and throughout my life, I ran and ran - always running (I can't tell you how many places I've lived in or how many places I've gone to) but I was always running. I didn't know it at the time, of course, but I know it now.

Then I came here and I was still running...still running from all the darkness inside, the truth....the shadows that followed me with the promise of torment.

Then I met "him" and I thought, okay...this is my change. This is where I really take a step up and move further up and beyond. And BOY was I really running then, but in my mind, there was no way my demons could catch me if I were with him. No way because life would be different. He was more cultured (I believed) and he was more educated and intelligent and would help me escape my ugly. I could hide in his world.

And I did - for a long time.

So I was talking to Bill about this - about how I used to be, before I met "him" and how different I became. How I got sucked into this world - his world - and slowly became someone I didn't want to be and have never been: someone who judged others. I became exactly what I'd always abhorred in humanity...exactly what makes it feel like an "us versus them" world. I would sit around the picnic or dinner table and, at first, just listen - listen to others talk about people (poor, gay, drug addicts, etc) with little or no conscience or compassion.

But slowly, trying to be this "better" that I'd been seeking (whatever "better" is), I became one of those among them who, albeit not quite as much, fell prey to the gossip.

I didn't like it and I don't like it now. I am not that kind of person and never have been (although my blogs of recent could be argued otherwise, however I do not view them that way - I view them as opening up and sharing my pain and my heartache and they're certainly not "gossip" but, rather, my experiences).

"Yeah you used to get mad at people when they talked about others," Bill said to me. "It used to irritate you."

"Yeah it did," I recalled.

That's because I was one of those people that "upper crusters" talk about. So...

When have I been "I"? I certainly wasn't free to be "me" when I was among "the enemy" - those whom I'd heard bashing the poor, gay, different, etc. I was not free to be "me" because I was afraid to show myself.

I was, though, myself at one point: When I became vulnerable and weak; when I opened up; when I shared; when I was afraid; when I was open and honest about my past to everyone I know and have known for these past five years. When I gave him my trust and was vulnerable...terrifyingly so. It was the first time ever in my life. That was when I was "I".

It is so terrifying to put it out there, oh God you can't imagine.

I have a tendency to tell people something - some detail or part of my abuse or something about the effects of it - and then immediately push them away because I am afraid I've said too much.

Well it's the same way with this blog - with Coming Out. I was scared for three days of what people were going to say to and/or about me and for three days, I was severely affected. I was truly shocked when people - even family members that I hadn't talked to in decades - came out and encouraged me. Friends contacted me and shared with me. My therapist was proud of me, as were Bill and Cindy and my beloved Aunt Neen. It even inspired others (from a different site, as well as my online protege' to do the same - to come out and share their names).

So for a few days, I got to experience "I" - the real "I" that I've neglected all these years and the one that I've run away from my whole life. With every blog I write, I dig deeper into the "me" that I've never had the luxury of knowing and for every message, text, phone call, or letter, I feel more and more empowered, encouraged, supported and accepted.

I know there are people out there gossiping - I lived it and it's rife here.

But I won't live it anymore. That's not me. That's just the tiny pieces of a little girl who has spent her entire life trying to be "better" or "right" enough to be loved who just keeps trying to do everything she can to fit in.

It's much more satisfying to be accepted for the real "I" that I am - as terrifying as it is to be so exposed to people whose character I've come to know...to communities that are burdened by judgment, and don't even know it.

Thank you to those who have reached out to me, despite the ugliness I feel inside. I struggle a lot and know it's a long road, but your support and encouragement truly gives me hope and strength.

I Do Love Him

My name is Cristina D. Johnson

So today in session, I was frustrated because I told Michelle (my therapist) that I am frustrated because I want to work on me. Me. I'm tired of being enmeshed and consumed by the grief and pain I feel over my break-up with "him."

"You act like you're supposed to be over it by now," she said casually.

"I feel like I should because I have more important things to do. I want to move on - like he has."

"It's only been two weeks," she said compassionately. "You're in pain."

This made me weep. I use the word "weep" intentionally - because to me, weeping is crying from someplace inside untouched...a tender place of utter pain.

I wept and cried and sobbed. I feel so confused and so devastated and betrayed. There simply are no words. And for all these weeks - until recently - I've kept it all in, kept it to myself, so terrified over the things "he" told me he'd said to others.

Tonight one of his friends told me that "he" is hurting, too, which I just cannot fathom because of the things he's said, done and threatened.

This "friend" also said I look like an ass for "airing dirty laundry" and I need to clarify.....

I'm not trying to air any dirty laundry. I am defending myself when - for weeks - I was stuck in a basement with no friends and nobody who cared with a man who was - according to him -  telling everyone my personal business (some of which I know because I saw it on his FB).

I'm not trying to make him look bad, nor make myself look good. I am trying to heal.

When I was a very, very little girl - as far back as I remember - I wrote. I had no voice. My voice was taken. But the paper and pen were my friends and I could write whatever I wanted. Sometimes I would sit with paper and pen and just transcribe conversations my grandparents were having, just so I could write. Sometimes I would simply practice changing handwriting, making my "Y's" or "J's" different (eventually I learned calligraphy).

I write my feelings. It's both a curse and a blessing.

I think - at this point, given his friend's perspective - I should point out that I loved him - and still do - so much. I tried. Oh God I tried...I tried to be important. I tried to be what he expected as, also, I was raised to be. I went into my relationship with him intellectually - as did he - and somewhere in the middle of it, we decided to go deeper and we did.

I did, anyway. I can't speak for him.

I opened up like I never have before. I shared more than I have ever shared with anyone. I was terrified.

But this place - this man - was the wrong place, wrong man. Wrong venue. Wrong everything.

Things like I've gone through don't happen in pretty white houses with blue shutters and picket fences so sharing my truth, my experiences, my pain and my disorders was too much for him. On some level I get that. In fact, on some level...in some part of me, I kind of expected it. Nobody, I suppose (or, at least, nobody like him) should be expected to understand what I was going through.

Still, I hoped. I wanted to marry him. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him.

I'm not "over it" and won't be for a long time. Sharing such deep, hidden wounds with someone for the first time, only to go through what I went through with him, caused some serious damage to me.

But I love him still. I miss his scent. I miss how he (almost) always woke up in a good mood. I miss how he misspeaks words because of his Italian heritage. I miss his hands.

I miss him.

My intention in sharing my story is not to trash him or anyone. I hope this comes across loud and clear.

I sometimes have angry blogs, yes, but I am human and writing is my venue. I don't know how to speak - yet.

But I will one day.

And I'm sure one day, I will look back on this whole thing and be able to pluck from it, things I've learned...things I can take away from it. But for now, I am beyond hurt. Just crushed. Promises are important to me and many, many promises were broken. A lot of trust was betrayed.

I've never claimed to be an angel and I've publicly aired my own transgressions. I just never posted them on FB but they're there. For example, My Current Truth is my blog about how horrible I felt.....what a monster I felt like as he was doing "his thing."

I felt like a monster, an outcast, some kind of ....trash as he told me the things he told me he was telling others. Nothing and nobody could hurt me more than myself, beating myself up.

Even today, I had a "friend" beat me up over an incident that happened during this time.

It's my hope that in the end, I'll be able to show my face again and not be afraid. But as for love....as for relationships.... I understand I must first heal myself.

My blog is one piece of that.

Oh the Irony (lesson learned)

My name is Cristina D. Johnson

I wrote "It's All About Image" yesterday and - at the time - it felt so damn good to have my say. It felt so good, to tell my side, to share my pain and to elaborate on things that I'm sure were never shared during "his" many nightly escapades.

But one thing I am, is introspective and this morning it occurred to me that by writing that blog, I was doing exactly what I was accusing him of doing: protecting my image.

Even though the blog was sincere and I was sincerely angry and felt betrayed by a number of people, the bigger part of me knows that writing it was wrong and some of the things I said were things I shouldn't have.

The bigger part of me knows things I won't ever repeat about him, and also knows that I loved him - still do - and that's what hurts, but it's easier to just be angry. The truth is, I am still reeling, still stunned, and still devastated. I've been in what they call the "crisis stage" for a little over a year, and having the additional crisis of a break-up on top of it, was literally sickening. My heart was so broken. He'd promised....and broke my trust and it hurt so much and then he left me there, alone, talking to others about me, and the only thing I could do was be angry, although I cried...oh God I cried ...and still do.

So there I was blogging about image, in a vain attempt to protect my own image which, in my mind, is destroyed by the things he said about me to God-only-knows who. I am terrified to go anywhere or see anyone because of the events of the past several weeks and because of the crisis stage I'm already going through.

So in writing "It's All About Image" I was wrong and though it felt good to rid myself of some of the toxicity inside of me that's been eating me alive, it was not really me being true to myself, and honestly it was dishonoring at least some of what was good - there were a few good times. A few.

I am still not convinced that he ever loved me. Perhaps this is my issue, but perhaps it is true that he didn't. I have my own theories on this but he - on a few occasions (though not many) - showed some tenderness and I won't forget that.

But I will never, ever forget how painful the betrayals were, either.

Bare and open - here I am. Hurt beyond words, devastated, crushed and feeling so deeply betrayed and still in love with him - this man who's seeing someone else and who hurt me so deeply in ways he will never fathom.

My image is this: I am afraid and I feel alone, save for a couple of very good people who are helping me through this stage, although I tend to keep things in a lot because it is my tendency to hide. I am disappointed by the number of "friends" who walked away... just gave up... yet I'm not surprised. I am afraid to be seen by anyone, anywhere and I spend a lot of time preoccupied, confused, sometimes triggered, sometimes terrified for reasons I don't understand. I can't look at myself in the mirror - I am ashamed of who I am and how I look and I feel very awkward in social situations so I fake it.

I am so wounded, so hurt...and it all came out as anger in my last blog. I am so scared because I took it upon myself to tell everyone on FB about my story - at least in brief - and took the risk of sharing. The fear of that- fear of rejection and humiliation and judgment - is very, very big. So my image is out there....here I am.

It's All About Image

My name is Cristina D. Johnson

This is an angry blog. Just a forewarning.

Woke up this morning with text messages from "him" - bouncing back and forth between being nice and being an ass. I was immediately triggered.

I have never, ever in my entire life had a single human being trigger me as instantaneously as he does.

I know why that is, too.

For about eight weeks, we were still living together. We would bounce back and forth between deciding whether or not to work it out, or whether or not splitting was the best choice. He would say, "You're the one who said you were done," never realizing he made it impossible for me to stay.

Then...he would go out. Not only would he go out, but he would tell people my private business. I was horrified beyond belief. I couldn't believe he would betray my trust - my deepest trust - in such a way. But he was very clever about it. He "told just a few people" (which means anyone, really) knowing damned good and well that these towns talk - everyone talks. Never using any common sense or decency, always without regard for my own dignity.

Oh God how it hurt. I've been writing my entire life and I can't think of a single word (or set of words) that can adequately describe the pain I was going through. The lies he told me - how he misled me about the wedding and instead took my "friend" "L" (who, incidentally is apparently not much of a friend since she hasn't even once contacted me to see how I'm doing. Instead she hangs out on his boat or goes out with him). He made me feel like the lowest form of life by telling me lies, and then going behind my back. He blew things out of proportion, made himself look like a super hero and divulged everything from my issues to my financial situation to people whose business it was none of, nor was it his right to do so. Especially to an incest survivor. OH MY GOD the things I'd shared!! I was beyond terrified. And nobody checked on me. They just took his word for it - poor, poor him. The victim, the savior. Oh he made himself look like the real hero and me...well I was just nothing. As I always had been.

I attempted suicide. I was in crisis. It's not uncommon for people with my disorders. Neither is a lot of stuff - cutting, binging, drinking, drugs, etc. but the triggering...Dear God, every night he would trigger me, telling me he was going out, knowing it would trigger me and then carelessly walking away.

(Definition: Anything that brings about a symptom of PTSD. For example, a news story about the Iraq War may cause a veteran with PTSD to have thoughts and memories about the war. Triggers may include people, places, sounds, words, and/or smells. Source: http://ptsd.about.com/od/glossary/g/triggerdef.htm)

That about sums it up.

Being abandoned, being cheated on, being lied to, being talked about behind my back and then being told - when I asked - no, begged - him to please stop talking about me.

"You're just trying to control who I talk to and what I say," he would respond angrily. "It's my life."

"No, it's my information and my private business that I'm asking you not to share."

"It's none of your goddamn business who I talk to or what I say," he said one night.

He would say and do things, knowing they were going to trigger me and when the panic attacks came on, he would causally walk away, go out to his van, and go party - pretending his life was perfect as I sat alone in the house, mortified, horrified, embarrassed to be seen by anyone.

That was one of the most insidious aspects of his telling people (and of him telling me that people were talking about me): He never would tell me who he told what, and who said what so I was there, like a nothing. I had no importance, ever. I was nothing....just something to gossip about and he being him, would do all he could to protect his image. Because, after all, it's all about image.

He's not the person people think he is. He went out and made himself out to be a victim - which, in a way, he was; a secondary victim of my abuse and at times of my own verbal abuse.

When he would trigger me, I would become irrationally angry. Actually, it was profound pain that was misplaced (being triggered brings back feelings, memories, sensations, etc. from your past) and the only way I knew to react was by anger because that's what happens when you grow up on the streets: you fight.

I was also living in complete disbelief. How could someone who said they loved me, do this to me? How could he? I wasn't unreasonable - I was trying to get out as soon as I possibly could because it hurt to be there - but I asked him to please, please just wait until I'm gone before you start going out. Please.

Nope.

So it  got to the point where even hearing his footsteps or his early-morning coughing was sending shockwaves through my body. I was uncontrollably triggered and stuck.

"You can go out if you want," he would say, never considering how mortified I was that he told everyone my personal business. He even told people he fixed my car for me, never divulging the fact that it was OUR  car and it broke down because of OUR use and should have been fixed at least a year ago. It just so happened to be in my name. So he made sure he looked good.  Made sure everyone knew how much he loved me.

We can see that now, can't we? As he takes his new gf out on his fancy boat (which he cannot afford)? Yeah he loved me alright.

No....if love bit him twice in the ass he wouldn't know what it was.

Because, for him, when love gets complicated, it's too much.

So then he starts accusing me of being violent. Violent because I would grab the front of his shirt and cry and plead and beg, "Why are you leaving me? You said you wouldn't leave me! Why are you giving up on me!? You said you never would leave me!" ...this, is violence, for which he would call the cops on me if I ever did it again. (another huge trigger of mine, btw, being a child of the system - and a trigger he's well aware of).

In this morning's text messages, he flipped back and forth between being nice and being not-so-nice, even with a veiled threat about how if [my blog] begins to effect him, he'll handle it then.

Well, here I am - being real. Spread out wide open, everyone knows my secrets and my sins. Everyone knows my shame, now, because I chose to tell it - not because someone with no morals or sense of loyalty decided to spread it around. Because for me, it's no longer all about image.

It's about being real - and I'm being real.

Nothing in my blog is a lie, distortion or exaggeration.

I was so thrown off today just by his text messages this morning that the entire day was a trigger until I was exhausted.

I laid down and fell asleep, only to have a nightmare about him. Him and his brother.

They were being so cruel in my dream - heartless, cruel, vicious.

Control. Image.

It's all about that, isn't it?

Image?

What a fool I was to fall into that trap - to drown myself in this pool of high fa-looting, the-world-is-my-oyster, pretending to be someone and something I wasn't. And why? To live up to his expectations?

Well, who the hell is HE? A cheater, a liar, a fake? And *I* was trying to live up to HIS expectations?

But when the going got tough and I needed him more than anything in the world, he fled - to another woman (which he admitted to, but now denies) and is now seeing, (surely just coincidence).

Then...out of nowhere, came friends and supporters - people who aren't so obsessed with their image. People who've either been there or understand or want to help or want to be friends with me or want to help me.

I discovered in this process - this process of coming out and telling my truth and being real- who my friends truly are. Painfully, I also learned who, among those I've known for five years now, are not.

I could go on and talk about the REAL person I know - the reality of his life but he has to live with himself. He must be exhausted - just like I was - holding up such a fake facade, living up to others' expectations, trying to be something he isn't.

But unlike him - I have empathy. I pity him, despite the fact that he is the single most biggest trigger of any person ever in my life. I have never, ever been triggered by anyone as much as him - mostly because of the deliberate and intentional pain he put me through. Mr. Perfect. Mr. Wonderful. Oh but if people only knew the truth...

This is the end of my angry blog and I must say that in the past five years I've met two amazing people - R & R - father and daughter. Dad R is so authentic and lovely, wonderful and fantastic and daughter R is the same. To them I say: I miss you. I always authentically loved you both.

Devil Among Angels

My Name Is Cristina D. Johnson

My therapist has said it to me before, but said it again to me today:

"It's easier to be a devil among angels, than an angel among devils."

She's referring to the past couple of blogs wherein I admit to doing, saying, being anything and everything I can to be accepted and not abandoned.

It's easier for me - for a child - to blame themselves for all the "bad" and all the "dirty" within them, and to try and fit in, than it is to be the person who can just be themselves.

So view myself - and always have - as this ugly stain in the fabric of life; this irreparable, broken, "classless cunt" (as he referred to me) who's worth nobody's time, love, compassion or attention so I keep everything in, do what I can and hope nobody sees the truth - sees how "dirty or ugly or bad" I am.

For me it's a lifelong thing but particularly over the past five years when I stepped out of my comfort zone and became engaged with people who were....let's just say of a different class. As I stepped outside of that comfort zone, I stepped into a whole new world.

Lots of white and crystal and things that a dirty little girl like me didn't fit into...but damn I tried.

He told me that people were coming out of the woodwork saying things about me. He was very cryptic about this, leaving me to believe the absolute worst. Oh my God! They know! They know! and my first instinct is to run away - run away as far as I can. I still feel this way, mostly. There's been very little compassion.

I believe it was my therapist who said people just want the dirt, the grit, the gossip - something to talk about. They don't really want to know how you're suffering...how you're struggling...they just want to know the nitty gritty.

And I think this is true....
                                        .........and pathetic.

In a video my cousin shared with me the other day, Dr. Brene' Brown talks about listening to shame. It was a very, very powerful video but one thing she said that stuck out to me the most was this:

"I feel bad," is guilt.
"I am bad," is shame.

I've spent my whole life believing "I am bad." Believing I didn't deserve someone like "him" - when in hindsight, I gave him everything I possibly could....gave him more of myself than I'd ever given anyone, only to have that white and crystal world explode in my face and leave me even more scarred and feeling that I am bad than before.

Being abandoned by people who called themselves my friends, just reinforces that I am bad. I must be.

After all, I spent particularly the past five years as a devil among angels ...perfect people with perfect lives, perfect hair, perfect clothes, perfect partners, perfect homes and boats, perfect everything and here I was....bad.

At some point, I know I will offload this shame. There are brief moments when I think to myself, "Wow....someone loves you..." but they're fleeting. Still, when they come, they're very powerful and they ache. Mostly, though, I am overcome by this incessant voice in my head that tells me I am bad. I am dirty. I do nothing right. I am not worthy.

The bottom of this mountain is big.

So is my determination. People left me - I knew they would because I haven't shared any "nitty gritty" or gruesome details about my abuse (for the most part) but oh....bet your sweet ass, I will one day. I won't share it for the punishment of my perpetrators nor for the glory or to make myself look good. I will share it with the God-Honest intention, the authentic desire and hopes and prayers that someone in that white crystal world will read it and feel some compassion....someone will learn....

And hopefully, someone else will come out...and someone else will come out...and someone else will come out.... and eventually we - we incest survivors - will stop being devils amongst angels, but the angels we have always been, if misguided.

Please Don't Leave!

My Name Is Cristina Johnson

When I was five and six years old (the earliest my memories begin), I lived in Pensacola with my father, step-mother, step-sister and step-brother. At the time, my father was molesting me, my younger brother, and me and my brother simultaneously.

He was also very violent - very unpredictable, like huge violent waves crashing on the shore; you never knew what he was going to hit or when, just knew it would be destructive. He also had a very strong, powerful voice - very loud and frightening, especially to children.

But when he was molesting us, he was tender, kind, benevolent. It was the only time he was ever gentle.

Then, one day, without notice or warning or even knowing what was going on, I and my brother sat on our knees in the living room on the couch, staring out the window and I remember crying (can't remember if my brother was) and screaming as if he could hear me through the glass, "Please daddy!! Don't go!! Where are you going?? Please, Daddy! Don't go!!" as he threw one after another of huge black garbage bags into the burgundy Chevy van we had. To this day, I'll never be able to see a van and not think of it. Later that night, without explanation, my brother and I were put on an airplane to go back to St. Louis and live with our grandparents (his parents).

I say all of this because I experienced a severe panic attack this morning, and it brought back that feeling -  that horrible abandonment.

Yesterday, a friend came over and brought some beer. We (he, Bill and I) all had a pretty good afternoon, chatting and I cooked a great dinner for everyone. This friend - H - has PTSD and DID like me so we share a lot of commonalities and it's just nice to have someone to talk to who "gets it" - like, truly gets it.

Anyway, long story short, last night I was not myself. After H left, I did some things that weren't my nature and awoke this morning not remembering any of it, although I did remember that Bill promised the night before to go get cigarettes first thing in the morning and I would brew the coffee. So my memory of last night was splotchy with blank, black spots.

As Bill left to go get the cigarettes, memories came flooding back of last night and I freaked out - completely panicked - and began to shake. I was terrified.

And this is where the memory of my father leaving comes in:

It was taking Bill too long to go to the store and the story in my mind was, "You're bad. You're a bad girl!" and that Bill was leaving me...just like Daddy did 35 years ago.

"Please don't leave, Daddy!"

I panicked - ran all around the apartment, looking out the door and the windows, scared like a child. I was a child, but I was the child that Daddy used for sexual pleasure and then just left. The dirty child the unwanted child. The bad child. And Bill was leaving me because of it!

The truth was out and Bill knew it, now, and he was leaving!

"He's taking too long. He shouldn't be taking this long. Where is he? Oh my God he's leaving! It's all my fault!"

Please don't leave, Daddy!

Then I heard the rumble, after far too long, of his old Ford pickup truck pulling into the drive and I was overwhelmed with fear and confusion and shame.


He came in and I tried to tell him, tried to communicate but it wasn't coming out right (I was stuttering again) and he gently said, "Take your time. It's okay."

I explained that I didn't remember anything about last night and I was afraid and then I did remember some things (I was talking a mile a minute) and now I feel ......I couldn't say it.

"It's okay," he assured. "It'll be okay...everything will be okay...." he kept repeating as I sat on the bed rocking and shaking and crying.

"That's not what the story is in my head," I admitted to him cautiously, fearfully.

"What is the story in your head," he asked.

"D-D-Dir..." I couldn't speak it and he just kept stroking my hand and my shoulder and saying, "Take your time."

"Dirty!" I finally blurted out. "DIRTY! DIRTY! DIRTY!" came my rather loud, shameful confession. In my head, it was the voice of a child whose father used his perversions to show her "love" but left.

So there I was, stuck in 1976, staring out the front pane window as my father inexplicably left my brother and I to wonder, "Did we not do enough? Did I do something wrong? I must just be really bad and dirty."

At this point, I got a text from Gary. He had some of my stuff and wanted to bring it by. Oh great. Just what I needed. I was being thrown back to age six and at the same time being expected to handle things like the 41-year-old woman that I am today....which included facing one of the biggest triggers in my life: Gary.

He showed up. I didn't want him in the house. I was not well. I started to feel it in my stomach. I saw him and my skin was aflame almost instantly. The feelings come flooding back and mingle with my already disturbing feelings of being "bad" and "dirty" and here's this man who has proven, again and again, that I am bad and dirty and has told everyone about it! So now everyone knows I'm bad and dirty! Everyone knows! Oh God, get him out of here!

I began to tremble uncontrollably, tried to say "leave - just go" but couldn't get it out....finally managed and he left. Still as I know him - no difference. I know him. And he knows way too much about me. I walked away and didn't even watch him leave, because it was killing me - for the second time this morning.

I went inside and within minutes was vomiting.

Over the course of about three hours, Bill was there trying to comfort me, rubbing my back, holding my hand, telling me it'll all be okay, hugging me when I trembled, telling me to stop apologizing (I was dreadfully embarrassed and always am when I "lose control" like that)...just being a friend. "I won't leave you," he kept telling me, over and over. "I'm never going to leave you," he kept assuring.

So there are people who say to move on, get past it, get over it, stop looking for government handouts, etc. etc....

To those people, I say this is no picnic. My body is exhausted right now, and my mind is swimming in dark thoughts of self-loathing, self-blame and fear of being seen. Oh God how I don't want to live this life - some days it's all I can do to just get out of bed because I can't know if or when I'll be triggered; if or when I'll panic. I have so much to do - so many things to take care of - and it's like looking at life cross-eyed. Everything gets jumbled and mixed up. Even trying to read my bills, my vision blurs and I can't focus on it and I get confused by it.

I am fortunate that I have Bill (and a couple of other people) who understand what I am going through - they know this is torture and torment for me - and they also know how hard I am working to overcome it. I am so grateful.


Since I began posting my blog on my FB page, I have had people come out and share with me and show true compassion (a sorely lacking commodity in these small towns), understanding, empathy and encouragement. People I never expected to care, are showing they do.

I am grateful for this.

Double Whammy

My name is Cristina Johnson.

After posting yesterday, my DID kicked in, although I didn't know it at the time. I didn't know it until today, when I woke up and the entire day - yesterday - was a complete fog. Then, I got hit with a major panic attack this afternoon, just before therapy: got overwhelmed.

Panic attacks are horrible feelings. It feels like you're on fire and you can't breathe - like someone has a vise around your chest - and you can't stop shaking. For me, my mind goes absolutely berserk and thoughts just race and race, like a movie in fast-forward that I can't stop. Jumping from one spot to another.

This attack hit me as I was preparing to leave for therapy. Fortunately, my therapist was there - saw my panic - and helped me through it.

"Just breathe, and remember you're safe now. You're safe here," she gently reminded.

I started talking a mile a minute - started trying to iterate the things that had triggered the attack - but she reminded me to calm down first. I was stuttering - something I've never done in my life, but over the past few months, I've begun stuttering out of the blue when stressed.(She later pointed this out to me).

Anyway, got through the crisis and talked about what happened.

Coming Out was written and posted on my FB and I publicly admitted to many of the things I've kept secret for most of my life, with very few exceptions. I recall bits and pieces of yesterday but I was in-and-out: a consequence of DID. I described it to her as looking through a frosted window. You know stuff is back there, but you can't see it. So I spent most of today, recalling bits and pieces of yesterday and I completely blacked out last night - lost three hours, apparently - which is beyond my control.

There's nothing more frightening than this. My therapist asked me why.

"Because there's no control and I don't know what I did or said. Did I do anything inappropriate? Did I act in some way that isn't me?" (It wouldn't be the first time).

I had a bunch of things hit me all at once and the overwhelm kicked in - the panic sets in. Small things add up, on top of big things and it becomes unmanageable. I had a second attack after going to the grocery store. It's been a tough day.

We talked a lot in therapy about how I have (what I called) a habitual tendency to do whatever anyone wants, just to make sure they don't leave me.

I did it today and was immediately aware of it.

"I wouldn't call it habitual," she said. "I would call it instinctive."

I agree. It's instinctive for me.

I had a very short conversation via text and immediately felt like I was losing someone so I told them I loved them out of sheer panic.Again, doing all I can to keep from being abandoned.

And this led to a discussion about Bill - this need I have to do whatever I have to do to make sure he doesn't leave me. I am that way with everyone.

Ironically, when I am afraid someone will leave, I also will sabotage it - I won't let them leave me, I'll leave first.

I have a different kind of trust in Bill, though, because of the nature of our friendship and how long we've known one another. He's a very altruistic person....much more than any other person I've ever known.

It hurts so much to go through this process. To face so many demons, all at once, and also to feel so alone, even if I do have a handful of people who are here supporting me. Bill says I protect people from myself. He says I tend to hold people at bay because I don't want them to see what's inside of me. There's a lot of truth to that.

But, when I say "alone," I mean the loss of so many "compassionate friends" (as Gary referred to them), who haven't once asked me how I am, if I'm okay, how I'm doing or if I need any help. I am terrified to go out - terrified because of the things he's said about me to so many people - things he had no right to say.

So I feel isolated and shunned; ostracized and judged and so ultimately betrayed and abandoned.

These are shameful feelings - shame, shame, shame. That word keeps coming up. It's like I've lived my whole life afraid of people seeing the "ugly" inside of me - the reality of what I've experienced - but I've hidden it pretty well, only to have it exposed without discretion or regard. So unfair; so cruel.

But I have plans - aspirations - and they're built on this foundation of pain that I've endured (and continue to endure) and will learn from and teach from. I will give it purpose, and make a difference.

I just have a long way to go and it hurts to know that this tangled mess of barbed wire inside of me - this mess that keeps shredding me from the inside out - is not my fault.

And for those who say "get over it" or "stop living in the past" or "move on" (and I know a few of those), I say this: That's what I'm doing. Healing from the past - a brutal past that you don't just "get over and move on" because that, my friend, is what I've always done. Stoically looked at my past as someone else's story, ignored it's effects and pretended it didn't happen.

Now I'm taking the real, authentic, true steps to heal and move beyond this place where my past and my demons invade my mind and my dreams and my life.

Compassion would suggest an understanding that we can't cover up our wounds - we must heal them - and it's important  to understand how horribly invalidating it is to tell someone "get over it" (or any form thereof), and very painful. It's hard enough to take the time I need to take to go through this journey, never mind being judged for "living in the past."

Trust me. This ain't no picnic.

Coming Out

Someone once asked me how come I never used my real name when blogging or writing about my past and my experiences. I really thought a lot about this.

I realized it had a lot to do with that dreaded word: Shame.

Especially in this area - not that it's not taboo all over the country. People just don't want to hear about incest and rape. They turn a blind eye to it, which makes the shame of the survivor even bigger.

Anyway, today I'm here to tell you: My name is Cristina Johnson.

I'm tired of hiding, pretending, being the silent victim. I'm tired of playing the roles I'm supposed to play - so tired. It's been like that my whole entire life...all the way from toddler-hood. I've always tried so hard to be and do and say all the "right" things, so I could be loved and accepted.

It's hard when there never was a "before" to your abuse (for me, it began before I remember), so there's no "me" to speak of. So I just watched and listened, observed like an eagle, what everyone else was saying and doing, and tried to find some way to do and say the same things, with my own twist on it.

No more.

For five years, I've listened to people sit around their boats or in their fancy houses and talk trash about people who are just like me - people who are suffering horribly inside. I've listened to them badmouth gay people - which blew me away - and trash-talk others only to turn around and shake their hands.

I witnessed this, and I knew - because of it - there was no way I could be myself. No way I could show who I really was, no way I could tell anyone my story because they would do the same thing to me: Talk trash about me.

"They're compassionate people," he said to me, as he spread so many lies and exaggerations around these towns about me. But I can count on less than one hand who of those "compassionate" people dropped me a message or phone call to ask if I was okay, or how I was doing, and honestly, those who did, I was surprised. The ones who didn't; I was equally surprised.

Not anymore, though.

People in this area - like most places - live in their little fancy lives, seeing only what they want to see, hearing and believing only what they want to believe. They'll sit around their scotch and Merlot and tsk and say "poor dear" and never do a thing to help.

I'm not hiding anymore and I'm not being "nice" anymore. I'm pissed. I was done wrong in so many ways and I've always been honest, even if I didn't disclose my personal information (although that, now, doesn't matter since he took it upon himself to spread it on his own, telling me it was none of my "goddamn business.")

I should've known - the night that he called me a "classless cunt" that he was not the man for me. The countless times I saw him fighting with my son. I should have known. But I was quiet, silent and scared....scared to be myself.

Not anymore, though.

Now, I'm here to tell you my name is Cristina Johnson and I am an incest survivor, kidnapping survivor, multiple gang-rape survivor, as well as individual rapes. I was molested by my father, my brother, my uncle and my step-father. I was abandoned repeatedly as a child and I know how a gun feels to your head and in your mouth. I also know what it feels like to be stabbed and strangled to the point where you almost die.

And as I was going through this healing process - which began with the "classless cunt" comment - it became debilitating and I became terrified.

And I was, once again, abandoned by someone I loved who couldn't accept or handle the pain I was going through and even continued to hurt me more and more and more every day, never considering the effects of PTSD and DID.

He hurt me over and over again, put me down,  mocked my disorders and deliberately lied and betrayed me. Of course, also, making sure I knew not only that he was "seeing someone else" but that he had been since before we ever split up. To someone with PTSD and with a history like mine, this was absolutely crushing.

That's not love. That's cowardice.

My name is Cristina Johnson and I will heal from this. I will come through it.

But I will never forget what he did to me, as he went out acting as if he was a savior and victim. I hope he never knows the horror of what he put me through....then again, maybe it'd do him some good. Just like a lot of people who don't know the true definition of compassion. Look it up.