My therapist and I have talked about relationships...how you're always in a relationship, whether with your partner, children, neighbors or the grocery store clerk. These are relationships.
In having these discussions, we've talked about regulating emotions - something that's super hard. I wish I had a map, or some way to draw a picture of how it works.
I can have a relationship with someone and if they're doing things that hurt themselves, I try to be a good friend to them, I try to help and support and encourage. On some level, there's compassion and understanding and it doesn't put me off. I don't take it personally, for example, if someone cuts. I know it's part of their journey and struggle. I just try to be there for them.
I can also have that same relationship and have them do something that frightens or angers me and I shut down. It goes through my brain, processed immediately - instantaneously - and I completely shut down.
Intellectually, I am realizing, "Okay people are fallible. Everyone makes mistakes." but this part inside of me that's shut down is saying, "No, HELL no! DANGER! DANGER!"
I recently had a falling-out with a friend. A good friend. A good, good, good long-time friend. And the timing was really bad, too, because I was "mourning deeply" (as my therapist put it) the loss of my relationship with Gary and all the friends that went with it.
It affected me so badly, that I essentially cut everyone off. I really didn't want to talk to anyone, although I did briefly. For days, though, I screened my calls and was relatively unavailable. I mean, if it could happen with this person, it could happen with anyone!
But because we're so close - and always have been - we're kind of talking about it. Kind of. I'm trying to be different, trying to handle things differently than in the past where I would simply walk away....fast.
I'm trying to use my intellect, rather than my emotions....people are fallible, it's not fair to blame him, it's okay... but the dialogue inside is so much different. The fear of abandonment; the fear of hurt and pain...the story that plays in your head your whole life about not being good enough (all on the heels of a very loud and clear such message from Gary and his friends). It hurts and even if I recognize the irrationality of it, I don't know how to fix it.
Regulating emotions. I've written about it before....it's a struggle. The emotions are so intense.
That's why relationships - at least for me, and I'm sure, many other incest survivors - are so intense.
To my dear friend: I love you. I always have and always will. I'm so sorry that I am so damned difficult. I know I am fortunate to have you in my life. There is absolutely nobody in this world like you and I know you love me... I'm just afraid and trepidatious right now.
All my love.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Sunday, October 21, 2012
The "First Time" (sexual content)
My name is Cristina Johnson
It's been a tough week. I went through my phone and deleted all but one photo:
I was mesmerized by this picture. I cried as I deleted photos ...oh did I cry... but this one...this one I couldn't delete. It seemed to epitomize so much of our relationship. How much we looked like the "perfect couple" which - I'm sure - Gary always looks like with any woman. The "perfect couple." People never imagined we would split. This photo for some reason, had me bawling all day, all evening.
I cried. I called him. I left a sobbing voice mail. I was torn apart. So many memories...gone with a tap on the trash can icon.
My supporters have encouraged me to delete the photos from facebook as well. "Time to let go," they say kindly, supportively.
Then, today, I braved the hundreds of photos I have on my facebook, in an attempt to delete some, but not before offering (over voice mail) to let Gary have whichever ones he wanted. He never responded, so I will try to pick and choose the ones he'd like and try to get them to him.
But as I was going through them, deleting those of me and "Dee" and some of him and I (interestingly almost ALL at the bar or on the boat), I came across this one:
and I couldn't stop crying.
I sat in the living room, in the dark, except for two candles burning. I kept looking at this picture, which I couldn't bear. Across from me, on the coffee table is a beer bottle, cigarettes and a green lighter, the two candles going and a plate - given by "Dee" which I deliberately use as an ashtray because of the negative energy tied to it...I've already thrown away most of the junk she gave me). There's a small remote that goes to the shelf stereo where I sometimes listen to David Lanz, Leonardo Ludovico and George Winston (I prefer the sounds of piano, cello and piano in harmony)....
And a razor blade. It sits on the table, occasionally reflecting the flames on the candles. I hold my head and cry.
I used the blade last night, ran it along my thigh. Nothing major.
But I was in so much pain....
One thing taken from an incest/rape victim at the age that I was, is the first time.
At the risk of embarrassing my daughter (which probably won't happen - she doesn't read my blogs), she texted me when she was 16. Told me she'd "gone all the way" with her boyfriend of a little over a year.
My feelings were mixed. I called her immediately.
My first question was obviously, "Did you use a condom?"
"Duh, yes."
My second question, spoken rather awkwardly, "Well...how was it?"
"It hurt like hell!" she said. She gave me further details - I suppose that's one of the good aspects of having her live so far away. She talks to me about everything. I listened intently. I was secretly so elated that her first experience was with someone she 'loved' (at the time)...that it wasn't traumatic.
I once told Gary that I was "still waiting for the first time," and he got angry, stormed off.
A couple years later, it came up again. This year - 2010 - we went to Selden's Creek. It was always awkward for Gary and I to be alone together. We never really knew how to "be" with each other. But this night, I drank a couple beers as we sat tied to a huge tree and a limb that was tangled in the marshy grass near the boat.
I started talking with him about sex. About that "first time" thing ....I explained it to him.
"I want to know what it was supposed to be like," I told him, afraid, ashamed.....not really knowing what his reaction would be.
We were surrounded by nature, not a soul in sight. We watched beavers and otters swim by, took the dinghy out and saw a whole flock of beautiful white swans. Trees like you've never seen. It was truly beautiful.
And by sunset, we were alone on the boat again. I made dinner. We continued talking, although I can't remember about what.
And then he attempted to give me my "first time"
He was attentive, gentle, kind....much different than usual. He spoke to me, kind words. He went slow, calmly, rather than treating me like a conquest, the way it typically felt.
I opened up that night, more than ever before. Tried - tried so hard - to stay present and be there with him, throughout the experience. Mostly accomplished, but still struggled. (I dissociate during sex).
It was a truly beautiful experience....
...I thought.
After that, we took a trip to Shelter Island. We anchored out at Sag Harbor. Oh the wind was horrendous. The boat wagged in the water like an excited dog's tail and neither of us could sleep. We anchored there about two or three nights.
We hadn't made love since Selden's Creek, so I was still lost in that emotional experience, as far as intimacy and I kind of believe that he, too, was somehow touched....although that belief was short-lived.
Anchored out about two hundred yards away from another boat, he decided he wanted to have sex in the cockpit, out in the open, in view of the other boat.
I completely shut down and every thought that he might have "gotten it" (as far as my need for tenderness, gentleness, slowness, calmness), disappeared in the wind. I did whatever he wanted....as usual. The "first time" was instantly deleted from my brain. I thought he cared....I thought he got it...Oh....I was so wrong.
That was in 2010....when he carved our initials in the picnic table at the beach at Coecles Harbor.
The First Time, I realize now, will never come. The reason is because for me to experience the "first time," I'd have to experience it hundreds of times, to replace the hundreds of times I was molested or raped. He thought, by giving me one "first time," I would suddenly be "fixed" and we could just go back to being an emotionally devoid, sexually perverse couple.
He was wrong, and so is anyone else who thinks they can give us back our first time. Our first time was taken. Taken. Oh my God how that hurts.
I'll never have that "first time" like my beautiful daughter did.....I envied her, I admit it, shamelessly but with utter love.
What's the first time supposed to be like?
It's been a tough week. I went through my phone and deleted all but one photo:
I cried. I called him. I left a sobbing voice mail. I was torn apart. So many memories...gone with a tap on the trash can icon.
My supporters have encouraged me to delete the photos from facebook as well. "Time to let go," they say kindly, supportively.
Then, today, I braved the hundreds of photos I have on my facebook, in an attempt to delete some, but not before offering (over voice mail) to let Gary have whichever ones he wanted. He never responded, so I will try to pick and choose the ones he'd like and try to get them to him.
But as I was going through them, deleting those of me and "Dee" and some of him and I (interestingly almost ALL at the bar or on the boat), I came across this one:
=I sat in the living room, in the dark, except for two candles burning. I kept looking at this picture, which I couldn't bear. Across from me, on the coffee table is a beer bottle, cigarettes and a green lighter, the two candles going and a plate - given by "Dee" which I deliberately use as an ashtray because of the negative energy tied to it...I've already thrown away most of the junk she gave me). There's a small remote that goes to the shelf stereo where I sometimes listen to David Lanz, Leonardo Ludovico and George Winston (I prefer the sounds of piano, cello and piano in harmony)....
And a razor blade. It sits on the table, occasionally reflecting the flames on the candles. I hold my head and cry.
I used the blade last night, ran it along my thigh. Nothing major.
But I was in so much pain....
One thing taken from an incest/rape victim at the age that I was, is the first time.
At the risk of embarrassing my daughter (which probably won't happen - she doesn't read my blogs), she texted me when she was 16. Told me she'd "gone all the way" with her boyfriend of a little over a year.
My feelings were mixed. I called her immediately.
My first question was obviously, "Did you use a condom?"
"Duh, yes."
My second question, spoken rather awkwardly, "Well...how was it?"
"It hurt like hell!" she said. She gave me further details - I suppose that's one of the good aspects of having her live so far away. She talks to me about everything. I listened intently. I was secretly so elated that her first experience was with someone she 'loved' (at the time)...that it wasn't traumatic.
I once told Gary that I was "still waiting for the first time," and he got angry, stormed off.
A couple years later, it came up again. This year - 2010 - we went to Selden's Creek. It was always awkward for Gary and I to be alone together. We never really knew how to "be" with each other. But this night, I drank a couple beers as we sat tied to a huge tree and a limb that was tangled in the marshy grass near the boat.
I started talking with him about sex. About that "first time" thing ....I explained it to him.
"I want to know what it was supposed to be like," I told him, afraid, ashamed.....not really knowing what his reaction would be.
We were surrounded by nature, not a soul in sight. We watched beavers and otters swim by, took the dinghy out and saw a whole flock of beautiful white swans. Trees like you've never seen. It was truly beautiful.
And by sunset, we were alone on the boat again. I made dinner. We continued talking, although I can't remember about what.
And then he attempted to give me my "first time"
He was attentive, gentle, kind....much different than usual. He spoke to me, kind words. He went slow, calmly, rather than treating me like a conquest, the way it typically felt.
I opened up that night, more than ever before. Tried - tried so hard - to stay present and be there with him, throughout the experience. Mostly accomplished, but still struggled. (I dissociate during sex).
It was a truly beautiful experience....
...I thought.
After that, we took a trip to Shelter Island. We anchored out at Sag Harbor. Oh the wind was horrendous. The boat wagged in the water like an excited dog's tail and neither of us could sleep. We anchored there about two or three nights.
We hadn't made love since Selden's Creek, so I was still lost in that emotional experience, as far as intimacy and I kind of believe that he, too, was somehow touched....although that belief was short-lived.
Anchored out about two hundred yards away from another boat, he decided he wanted to have sex in the cockpit, out in the open, in view of the other boat.
I completely shut down and every thought that he might have "gotten it" (as far as my need for tenderness, gentleness, slowness, calmness), disappeared in the wind. I did whatever he wanted....as usual. The "first time" was instantly deleted from my brain. I thought he cared....I thought he got it...Oh....I was so wrong.
That was in 2010....when he carved our initials in the picnic table at the beach at Coecles Harbor.
The First Time, I realize now, will never come. The reason is because for me to experience the "first time," I'd have to experience it hundreds of times, to replace the hundreds of times I was molested or raped. He thought, by giving me one "first time," I would suddenly be "fixed" and we could just go back to being an emotionally devoid, sexually perverse couple.
He was wrong, and so is anyone else who thinks they can give us back our first time. Our first time was taken. Taken. Oh my God how that hurts.
I'll never have that "first time" like my beautiful daughter did.....I envied her, I admit it, shamelessly but with utter love.
What's the first time supposed to be like?
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Good feelings that hurt
My name is Cristina D. Johnson
I have so much to say tonight. I hope I don't ramble. I had a very exciting session today.
Something really huge happened Monday, but I didn't realize it at the time. In my blog, "To Show or Not to Show," I wrote:
"She brought her other hand up to gently squeeze my shoulder. This made a part of me scream inside, "DON'T BE KIND TO ME!!!! STOP IT!!"
It hurt more to have her be that kind - to touch me despite my wound - and say those words, than anything else."
This session brought up something very deep, that I wasn't expecting, but being willing to explore it, I looked within myself and started questioning why I felt that way. Why I reacted like that internally, though I didn't say a word. That session affected me so deeply, in fact, that as soon as I got home, I vomited. It was that powerful.
I talked with Cindy at length about it and then later, talked with Bill but it was right before dinnertime, just after he'd gotten off work. I said to him in a text, that I loved him - I truly love him - in a place that hurts. He couldn't have known this, but I was speaking from that wounded place - that place that feels this intense feeling. But since he didn't know, his response frightened me and shut me down. I almost went to bed but instead, this time, decided I would tell him.
And we talked about it at length....I told him I have this huge, huge wall but there are pinholes in it and every once in awhile, he or Cindy will reach through it and touch that part of me. It's very childlike and afraid.
It's also very frightening to feel so I am always on guard - always have been - and I'm only now realizing this.
The next day, I wrote "Tenderness Kills," and I wasn't going to post it on my facebook page like usual, but I did send it to my therapist. It's always been easier for me to write than speak. I never heard back from her so I was very nervous to go see her today.
"So, tell me about your email," she said after our opening pleasantries.
I told her, as I was writing it, that I envisioned a child, cowering, always afraid...always waiting for the next foot to fall.
So she asked me about that...and I explained.
Family meetings.
These were meetings held every day where Daddy and his wife and her two kids (ages 13 and 16) would meet in the family room with my brother and I. We were five and six years old. Each time, Daddy would have us stand in front of him and he would tell us all the things we'd done wrong that day. He would then make us take off our clothes as the rest of them looked on, and he would put us over his knees and beat us with a wooden spoon. He would then tell us to get our clothes and go to our rooms. We could hear the others snickering behind our backs. Perhaps the worst parts of these meetings was when Daddy would cry, making me feel as if I were the lowest life form on earth (he also did this when he molested me, and I would do whatever he wanted, hoping to stop him from crying).
I told her about my mother's lying - so many lies - and how, when I tried to tell her about my abuse, she said to me, "Oh that's nothing. You should try...." and then she went on to tell me some story of her childhood, completely invalidating me. That was when I was 12 and I never talked with her about it again.
I lived on the streets and in the system from age 12 until I ran away and got pregnant at 15. I was kidnapped, first though, at age 11. When we lived in North Carolina with my father, he strangled me and smothered me as he molested me. He beat us and constantly stormed around, punching holes in the walls or breaking furniture. He was unpredictable and frightening (except for most of the times he molested us when we were younger).
"So no wonder you envisioned a child cowering," Michelle said. "It seems that's all you've ever done."
"Yes, it is," I agreed.
As we began to talk more about this "part," I became increasingly excited to have an explanation for what had happened the night of our previous session so now, hopefully I won't confuse the reader by going back to Monday night, when I'd told Bill what I had.
Part of me shut down with Bill's response to my profession of love for him.
But I emailed him - it was too much to say in texts - trying to explain it. All cerebral, but with this new awareness of this FEELING that I didn't realize I had.
The rest of the night, we texted back and forth but I remembered very little of it the next day. I discovered the next day I'd emailed and called my attorney, I'd opened a window and I'd gotten coffee ready to be brewed. I did not remember any of this. This is where DID comes in. If you understand the Internal Family System's Model, there are three "types" of parts: Managers, Firefighters and Exiles.
Managers (to cope) are the "parts" that handle day-to-day stuff, keep things in order, get groceries, pay bills, etc. They manage.
Exiles (hurt)are the "parts" that hold very powerful, intense emotions - pain, rage, fear, shame, among others - and are usually young parts, stuck in a place in time where they are still being abused.
And the Firefighters (compulsive) are the ones who come in when the exiles are starting to emerge and the managers can't handle it. The Firefighters either watch over and soothe the Exiles or they hush them by any number of means, including binging, cutting, distracting, drugs/alcohol, shopping, etc. There's a whole list but when the "system" (the term used to describe the multiple parts of someone with DID) becomes disrupted, the Firefighters step in and take over.
This is what happened Monday night: First the overwhelming session with Michelle, then the issue with Bill - all surrounding this young, wounded part of me.
One of the Firefighters said, "Oh no, no way" and I think has always said, "Hell no. Do not be tender to me!" because this other part - this part that loves so intensely, is very authentic and young and open.
So if I go by the Internal Family Systems model, it would seem that I have an Exile that is beaten down, terrified and wants to be loved, that's being protected by a firefighter that's saying "hell no, stay away!"
But now that I understand it more, it makes more sense and I feel like there's going to come a time when I can talk to that part - or those parts (?) - and soothe them myself.
I never truly understood why it hurt so much to hear my grandmother say, "Oh honey, I'm so sorry," when she came to the police station and found me beaten and bloodied after my kidnapping. In my mind, for all my life, I've always felt that it was the worst possible thing she could have said to me.
Now I know why: Don't be kind to me!
Of course, there were constant reiterations and reinforcements of this belief....going through so many rapes by men who said they were there to help me; being molested by men in the system; being attacked in hospitals. Why would a child expect kindness or tenderness after that? Why would I expect (or feel comfortable receiving) kindness or tenderness. For years, a soft, tender touch would make me cry. I still sometimes whimper.
Over the past few months, I've felt that terrifying feeling for Bill and for Cindy. Through those pinholes.
I want to explore it more...open them up....break down that wall....
I'm both afraid and excited about it.
I have so much to say tonight. I hope I don't ramble. I had a very exciting session today.
Something really huge happened Monday, but I didn't realize it at the time. In my blog, "To Show or Not to Show," I wrote:
"She brought her other hand up to gently squeeze my shoulder. This made a part of me scream inside, "DON'T BE KIND TO ME!!!! STOP IT!!"
It hurt more to have her be that kind - to touch me despite my wound - and say those words, than anything else."
This session brought up something very deep, that I wasn't expecting, but being willing to explore it, I looked within myself and started questioning why I felt that way. Why I reacted like that internally, though I didn't say a word. That session affected me so deeply, in fact, that as soon as I got home, I vomited. It was that powerful.
I talked with Cindy at length about it and then later, talked with Bill but it was right before dinnertime, just after he'd gotten off work. I said to him in a text, that I loved him - I truly love him - in a place that hurts. He couldn't have known this, but I was speaking from that wounded place - that place that feels this intense feeling. But since he didn't know, his response frightened me and shut me down. I almost went to bed but instead, this time, decided I would tell him.
And we talked about it at length....I told him I have this huge, huge wall but there are pinholes in it and every once in awhile, he or Cindy will reach through it and touch that part of me. It's very childlike and afraid.
It's also very frightening to feel so I am always on guard - always have been - and I'm only now realizing this.
The next day, I wrote "Tenderness Kills," and I wasn't going to post it on my facebook page like usual, but I did send it to my therapist. It's always been easier for me to write than speak. I never heard back from her so I was very nervous to go see her today.
"So, tell me about your email," she said after our opening pleasantries.
I told her, as I was writing it, that I envisioned a child, cowering, always afraid...always waiting for the next foot to fall.
So she asked me about that...and I explained.
Family meetings.
These were meetings held every day where Daddy and his wife and her two kids (ages 13 and 16) would meet in the family room with my brother and I. We were five and six years old. Each time, Daddy would have us stand in front of him and he would tell us all the things we'd done wrong that day. He would then make us take off our clothes as the rest of them looked on, and he would put us over his knees and beat us with a wooden spoon. He would then tell us to get our clothes and go to our rooms. We could hear the others snickering behind our backs. Perhaps the worst parts of these meetings was when Daddy would cry, making me feel as if I were the lowest life form on earth (he also did this when he molested me, and I would do whatever he wanted, hoping to stop him from crying).
I told her about my mother's lying - so many lies - and how, when I tried to tell her about my abuse, she said to me, "Oh that's nothing. You should try...." and then she went on to tell me some story of her childhood, completely invalidating me. That was when I was 12 and I never talked with her about it again.
I lived on the streets and in the system from age 12 until I ran away and got pregnant at 15. I was kidnapped, first though, at age 11. When we lived in North Carolina with my father, he strangled me and smothered me as he molested me. He beat us and constantly stormed around, punching holes in the walls or breaking furniture. He was unpredictable and frightening (except for most of the times he molested us when we were younger).
"So no wonder you envisioned a child cowering," Michelle said. "It seems that's all you've ever done."
"Yes, it is," I agreed.
As we began to talk more about this "part," I became increasingly excited to have an explanation for what had happened the night of our previous session so now, hopefully I won't confuse the reader by going back to Monday night, when I'd told Bill what I had.
Part of me shut down with Bill's response to my profession of love for him.
But I emailed him - it was too much to say in texts - trying to explain it. All cerebral, but with this new awareness of this FEELING that I didn't realize I had.
The rest of the night, we texted back and forth but I remembered very little of it the next day. I discovered the next day I'd emailed and called my attorney, I'd opened a window and I'd gotten coffee ready to be brewed. I did not remember any of this. This is where DID comes in. If you understand the Internal Family System's Model, there are three "types" of parts: Managers, Firefighters and Exiles.
Managers (to cope) are the "parts" that handle day-to-day stuff, keep things in order, get groceries, pay bills, etc. They manage.
Exiles (hurt)are the "parts" that hold very powerful, intense emotions - pain, rage, fear, shame, among others - and are usually young parts, stuck in a place in time where they are still being abused.
And the Firefighters (compulsive) are the ones who come in when the exiles are starting to emerge and the managers can't handle it. The Firefighters either watch over and soothe the Exiles or they hush them by any number of means, including binging, cutting, distracting, drugs/alcohol, shopping, etc. There's a whole list but when the "system" (the term used to describe the multiple parts of someone with DID) becomes disrupted, the Firefighters step in and take over.This is what happened Monday night: First the overwhelming session with Michelle, then the issue with Bill - all surrounding this young, wounded part of me.
One of the Firefighters said, "Oh no, no way" and I think has always said, "Hell no. Do not be tender to me!" because this other part - this part that loves so intensely, is very authentic and young and open.
So if I go by the Internal Family Systems model, it would seem that I have an Exile that is beaten down, terrified and wants to be loved, that's being protected by a firefighter that's saying "hell no, stay away!"
But now that I understand it more, it makes more sense and I feel like there's going to come a time when I can talk to that part - or those parts (?) - and soothe them myself.
I never truly understood why it hurt so much to hear my grandmother say, "Oh honey, I'm so sorry," when she came to the police station and found me beaten and bloodied after my kidnapping. In my mind, for all my life, I've always felt that it was the worst possible thing she could have said to me.
Now I know why: Don't be kind to me!
Of course, there were constant reiterations and reinforcements of this belief....going through so many rapes by men who said they were there to help me; being molested by men in the system; being attacked in hospitals. Why would a child expect kindness or tenderness after that? Why would I expect (or feel comfortable receiving) kindness or tenderness. For years, a soft, tender touch would make me cry. I still sometimes whimper.
Over the past few months, I've felt that terrifying feeling for Bill and for Cindy. Through those pinholes.
I want to explore it more...open them up....break down that wall....
I'm both afraid and excited about it.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
Tenderness Kills
Sitting rigidly, surrounded by Zen
my heart pounding, silently lashing myself
Idiot! Fool! Stupid!
I felt the weight of her next to me
as she slowly sat down.
I stared ahead, my legs outstretched
Stiff as the legs of a chair
Lashing, Lashing in my mind.
Cowering inside from my own hatred
I felt her hand - warm and soft -
lift mine, supine, in her own.
She said nothing for a moment,
just gently held my wounded arm
I heard her sigh a light sigh
Stupid! Idiot!
I felt her other hand reach up
gently squeeze my shoulder
"I'm sorry you're in so much pain,"
she said softly.
Don't be kind to me!
Don't be kind to me!
I was screaming inside.
Don't be kind to me!
Tenderness kills. It always has.
Don't touch me tenderly
Don't love me.
Don't be nice to me!
Tenderness Kills.
Tendernesss weakens.
Brings tears. Brings fears.
Puts your belly up
For everyone to punch.
Tenderness kills.
Don't touch me there....
Don't make me cry.
my heart pounding, silently lashing myself
Idiot! Fool! Stupid!
I felt the weight of her next to me
as she slowly sat down.
I stared ahead, my legs outstretched
Stiff as the legs of a chair
Lashing, Lashing in my mind.
Cowering inside from my own hatred
I felt her hand - warm and soft -
lift mine, supine, in her own.
She said nothing for a moment,
just gently held my wounded arm
I heard her sigh a light sigh
Stupid! Idiot!
I felt her other hand reach up
gently squeeze my shoulder
"I'm sorry you're in so much pain,"
she said softly.
Don't be kind to me!
Don't be kind to me!
I was screaming inside.
Don't be kind to me!
Tenderness kills. It always has.
Don't touch me tenderly
Don't love me.
Don't be nice to me!
Tenderness Kills.
Tendernesss weakens.
Brings tears. Brings fears.
Puts your belly up
For everyone to punch.
Tenderness kills.
Don't touch me there....
Don't make me cry.
Monday, October 15, 2012
To Show or Not to Show? (warning: Graphic)
My name is Cristina Johnson.
Michelle - my therapist - works independently at Sound Counseling Center. She's a bubbly, energetic person whose energy is often contagious making it sometimes downright impossible to be melancholy while in her presence. She has deep blue eyes and long, thick, gorgeous brown hair. She's a voluptuous woman who almost seems to bounce, rather than walk, and I've never had a session with her, where she didn't pull her feet beneath her in her chair, and listen to me (or speak to me) intently. Her laugh comes easily, as does her empathy. She's very good at matching your energy.
Walking into Michelle's office is a waiting room just outside the therapy room. Everything in her office, I would guess, is from Pier 1 Imports and it's very Zenish - which I like. It suits my personality and is very comforting.
In the session room, are two contemporary sofas - cream-colored - sitting kitty-cornered from each other. Behind one is a large plant and a lamp. Where the two ends would meet, Michelle's black leather chair sits, so that she can see you, whichever couch you choose to sit on. I always sit on the one across from her - the one that keep us separated by the contemporary black coffee table. She always has a candle burning and there's always a blanket available, plus a weighted blanket - often used to comfort people in therapy (she's offered it to me a number of times but I always decline).
Today, was a hard day. I was scared to go in and truth be told, I had two beers before I went, plus a klonopin. I was nervous because I wasn't sure if I should show her my wrist. I was concerned for a couple of reasons: First and above all, I did not want to be locked up. This is such a huge issue for me that it's be at least three other blogs alone. Even the Sidran Institute - an organization dedicated to trauma - has articles about the re-traumatization of trauma victims through hospitalization.
So I was very afraid that I would be locked up if I showed her my wound.
Secondly, I felt all the familiar feelings that come with self-injury: shame, guilt, anger and I didn't know how to talk about them.
Third, I didn't actually remember the cutting - just the moments before and after. How do you tell someone that?
And finally, I was afraid because it'd been unimproved since I cut it so I was concerned I might need to go to a doctor...which was why I thought about showing it to her. To ask her advice. I was encouraged to do this by both Bill and Cindy.
I sat down in my usual spot, across from her. She sat in her black leather chair, pulled her feet up and asked, "So how's it going?"
"Okay," I said...not really sure what to say. "Last night was a rough night,"I admitted, honestly.
"Why's that?" she asked.
I told her I was very depressed last night, thinking about Gary's ring. Gary has a class ring, although he didn't graduate. He has always worn it since I met him and, I told her, there were about three times he'd taken it off and me - like a childish school girl - would put it on my finger and pretend it was an engagement ring. I would also marvel at how big it was because I have always had a very strange fascination with men's hands. I attribute this fascination to my father who played beautiful music but could also kill you - all with the same powerful hands. It amazes me that a man's hand can be either gentle or kill you.
"Interesting," she said. "What else?"
I looked down at the ground. My feet were rocking back and forth, toe-to-heal and back, and my body was rocking with them. I told her I was afraid to say.
Silence.
"Bill and Cindy think I need to show you my arm," I finally uttered, and added with unnatural speed, "because I don't know if I should see a doctor or not but I don't want to be locked up." It sounded like a run-on sentence when I said it.
She said some things but the moment she said, "I can't promise you that," my mind went blank. I became very hot. I was so hot and frightened and I said, "I think I need to go."
She leaned forward in her chair and gently said, "I think it would be a good time for you to stay."
Being the pleaser...not wanting to let anyone down... I sat back, despite my urgent need to bolt.
"It's entirely up to you, whether you want to show me or not," she said gently. "You don't have to."
I took a breath. Very (very) quickly lifted my arm so it reached half-way across the coffee table, quickly lifted my sleeve and gave her a glimpse of the cut before pulling my long sleeve back over it and holding it in my lap.
I began to cry, she asked why I was crying.
"I feel anger and shame and pain."
"Explain those to me," she said.
"Anger because last night, as I was looking at it [the cut] part of me was angry because I didn't do it 'right' or I did it 'the wrong way'," I confessed, terrified.
"What is the wrong way?" she asked.
"I don't know. It was just some fleeting part of me that kept criticizing that I didn't 'do it right'," I repeated.
"Okay. And the shame?" she asked.
This was when I cried the most. "I don't want you to give up on me," I whimpered. I sounded like a child. I was embarrassed and my shoulders started shaking.
"Oh Cristina," she said. "Look at me."
Of course, I couldn't look at her. Couldn't bear it. She said it again, "Look at me," she said, and as I managed to lift my head to look out the window next to her, she said, "I won't give up on you. It's not in my DNA."
She let that settle and then she asked, "Can I come look a little closer? Do you mind if I come sit by you?"
I nodded.
She came over and I tentatively pulled up my sleeve. She took my hand gingerly. Sighed an empathetic sigh.
"I'm sorry you're in so much pain," she said, softly. Tears rolled down my face. I couldn't speak.
She brought her other hand up to gently squeeze my shoulder. This made a part of me scream inside, "DON'T BE KIND TO ME!!!! STOP IT!!"
It hurt more to have her be that kind - to touch me despite my wound - and say those words, than anything else.
I just nodded, refusing to acknowledge any such pain.
Then my cell phone rang - I forgot to put it on mute - interrupting the session. She went back to her chair while I explained how to make pork chops to my daughter, which lightened the mood quite a bit.
"Well," she said, as I hung up the phone, "It's worse than I thought it would be, but it's not as bad as I've seen," adding, "That's not a double-dog dare!"
"But," she explained, "I don't know what your doctor would do - I don't know what doctors are trained to do in such situations so I can't promise that he wouldn't call someone. I don't know how medical doctors are trained as far as self-inflicted injury."
But she told me it didn't look infected, asked how I was caring for it...told me she's sure it needed stitches at first but now it's too late.
I explained it all. She seemed satisfied and since she didn't know what my doctor would do, I decided to continue doing what I'm doing.
Sunday, I went to the laundromat with my wrist bandaged. It was hot - especially doing laundry - and there were about a dozen people there. Not one didn't stare, nor did anyone show any curiosity. I find this both interesting and perplexing. I've spoken to people when I saw scars, and my friend, Hannah, and I discussed it.
"Awkward," she expressed.
"Depends on how you approach them," I suggested. "Whether with judgment or empathy."
Secretly, though the scars are embarrassing and ugly, everyone wants to share their story - they just think nobody wants to listen and they don't want to burden anyone. Typically, at least. There's such shame involved in it...so much shame.
Michelle - my therapist - works independently at Sound Counseling Center. She's a bubbly, energetic person whose energy is often contagious making it sometimes downright impossible to be melancholy while in her presence. She has deep blue eyes and long, thick, gorgeous brown hair. She's a voluptuous woman who almost seems to bounce, rather than walk, and I've never had a session with her, where she didn't pull her feet beneath her in her chair, and listen to me (or speak to me) intently. Her laugh comes easily, as does her empathy. She's very good at matching your energy.
Walking into Michelle's office is a waiting room just outside the therapy room. Everything in her office, I would guess, is from Pier 1 Imports and it's very Zenish - which I like. It suits my personality and is very comforting.
In the session room, are two contemporary sofas - cream-colored - sitting kitty-cornered from each other. Behind one is a large plant and a lamp. Where the two ends would meet, Michelle's black leather chair sits, so that she can see you, whichever couch you choose to sit on. I always sit on the one across from her - the one that keep us separated by the contemporary black coffee table. She always has a candle burning and there's always a blanket available, plus a weighted blanket - often used to comfort people in therapy (she's offered it to me a number of times but I always decline).
Today, was a hard day. I was scared to go in and truth be told, I had two beers before I went, plus a klonopin. I was nervous because I wasn't sure if I should show her my wrist. I was concerned for a couple of reasons: First and above all, I did not want to be locked up. This is such a huge issue for me that it's be at least three other blogs alone. Even the Sidran Institute - an organization dedicated to trauma - has articles about the re-traumatization of trauma victims through hospitalization.
So I was very afraid that I would be locked up if I showed her my wound.
Secondly, I felt all the familiar feelings that come with self-injury: shame, guilt, anger and I didn't know how to talk about them.
Third, I didn't actually remember the cutting - just the moments before and after. How do you tell someone that?
And finally, I was afraid because it'd been unimproved since I cut it so I was concerned I might need to go to a doctor...which was why I thought about showing it to her. To ask her advice. I was encouraged to do this by both Bill and Cindy.
I sat down in my usual spot, across from her. She sat in her black leather chair, pulled her feet up and asked, "So how's it going?"
"Okay," I said...not really sure what to say. "Last night was a rough night,"I admitted, honestly.
"Why's that?" she asked.
I told her I was very depressed last night, thinking about Gary's ring. Gary has a class ring, although he didn't graduate. He has always worn it since I met him and, I told her, there were about three times he'd taken it off and me - like a childish school girl - would put it on my finger and pretend it was an engagement ring. I would also marvel at how big it was because I have always had a very strange fascination with men's hands. I attribute this fascination to my father who played beautiful music but could also kill you - all with the same powerful hands. It amazes me that a man's hand can be either gentle or kill you.
"Interesting," she said. "What else?"
I looked down at the ground. My feet were rocking back and forth, toe-to-heal and back, and my body was rocking with them. I told her I was afraid to say.
Silence.
"Bill and Cindy think I need to show you my arm," I finally uttered, and added with unnatural speed, "because I don't know if I should see a doctor or not but I don't want to be locked up." It sounded like a run-on sentence when I said it.
She said some things but the moment she said, "I can't promise you that," my mind went blank. I became very hot. I was so hot and frightened and I said, "I think I need to go."
She leaned forward in her chair and gently said, "I think it would be a good time for you to stay."
Being the pleaser...not wanting to let anyone down... I sat back, despite my urgent need to bolt.
"It's entirely up to you, whether you want to show me or not," she said gently. "You don't have to."
I took a breath. Very (very) quickly lifted my arm so it reached half-way across the coffee table, quickly lifted my sleeve and gave her a glimpse of the cut before pulling my long sleeve back over it and holding it in my lap.
I began to cry, she asked why I was crying.
"I feel anger and shame and pain."
"Explain those to me," she said.
"Anger because last night, as I was looking at it [the cut] part of me was angry because I didn't do it 'right' or I did it 'the wrong way'," I confessed, terrified.
"What is the wrong way?" she asked.
"I don't know. It was just some fleeting part of me that kept criticizing that I didn't 'do it right'," I repeated.
"Okay. And the shame?" she asked.
This was when I cried the most. "I don't want you to give up on me," I whimpered. I sounded like a child. I was embarrassed and my shoulders started shaking.
"Oh Cristina," she said. "Look at me."
Of course, I couldn't look at her. Couldn't bear it. She said it again, "Look at me," she said, and as I managed to lift my head to look out the window next to her, she said, "I won't give up on you. It's not in my DNA."
She let that settle and then she asked, "Can I come look a little closer? Do you mind if I come sit by you?"
I nodded.
She came over and I tentatively pulled up my sleeve. She took my hand gingerly. Sighed an empathetic sigh.
"I'm sorry you're in so much pain," she said, softly. Tears rolled down my face. I couldn't speak.
She brought her other hand up to gently squeeze my shoulder. This made a part of me scream inside, "DON'T BE KIND TO ME!!!! STOP IT!!"
It hurt more to have her be that kind - to touch me despite my wound - and say those words, than anything else.
I just nodded, refusing to acknowledge any such pain.
Then my cell phone rang - I forgot to put it on mute - interrupting the session. She went back to her chair while I explained how to make pork chops to my daughter, which lightened the mood quite a bit."Well," she said, as I hung up the phone, "It's worse than I thought it would be, but it's not as bad as I've seen," adding, "That's not a double-dog dare!"
"But," she explained, "I don't know what your doctor would do - I don't know what doctors are trained to do in such situations so I can't promise that he wouldn't call someone. I don't know how medical doctors are trained as far as self-inflicted injury."
But she told me it didn't look infected, asked how I was caring for it...told me she's sure it needed stitches at first but now it's too late.
I explained it all. She seemed satisfied and since she didn't know what my doctor would do, I decided to continue doing what I'm doing.
Sunday, I went to the laundromat with my wrist bandaged. It was hot - especially doing laundry - and there were about a dozen people there. Not one didn't stare, nor did anyone show any curiosity. I find this both interesting and perplexing. I've spoken to people when I saw scars, and my friend, Hannah, and I discussed it.
"Awkward," she expressed.
"Depends on how you approach them," I suggested. "Whether with judgment or empathy."
Secretly, though the scars are embarrassing and ugly, everyone wants to share their story - they just think nobody wants to listen and they don't want to burden anyone. Typically, at least. There's such shame involved in it...so much shame.
Thursday, October 11, 2012
Cutting and Self-Harm
My name is Cristina D. Johnson.
This isn't an easy blog to write... it's full of stuff that nobody wants to talk/hear about: Self-harm.
I attempted suicide more than once in my life but more recently, in October (?) of last year and then March of this year. Tried overdosing. I'm not the only person who does this, who has my disorders.
Yesterday was a bad day for me. I was overwhelmed and buried, flooded and confused.
Yesterday was Gary's birthday. I cried most of the day.
That wasn't the worst, though...knowing he's celebrating his birthday with his new girlfriend and all the old friends I once knew. (I did call and leave him a voice mail, wishing him a tearful happy birthday).
I also went and got my driver's license renewed, and I got fuel for the house - for heat. Now, this might not seem like a big deal, but to me, it was shameful that it was a big deal. Like whoopy-doo...you managed to do something pretty much anyone in the world could do? I was ashamed for feeling I'd accomplished something. "I feel so stupid," I remarked to Bill in a text, but I couldn't elaborate on it. I just felt so stupid. Celebrate getting your license? You idiot...
I was also overwhelmed by increasing evidence of my DID. I'd apparently spoken to Bill on the phone and spoke in the voice of a child...whispering...saying "Shh! he's coming! Here he comes! Shh!"
This really threw me because I didn't remember it but when I put it together with all the other DID stuff that's happened, the mounting evidence that I suffer from this affliction makes me sick. Sick. I don't want to be that fucked up! No no no! But, alas I must admit I dissociate. A lot. In fact, I was with Michelle when I actually remembered that I'd gotten my driver's license yesterday.
There were a few other things but the worst came when I thought about going to court tomorrow. I began to panic, and I mean PANIC. What if they take me to jail? They'll take Trevor away! OH MY GOD!
I was inconsolable. I was making plans. I called Cindy, I called Bill I told Cindy where there's money so she could buy Bill a plane ticket home. "Please, please don't let them take my baby," I cried desperately. The feeling that was flooding me is indescribable. Trevor....Trevor is what keeps me going every day. He has no idea the strength he gives me. I don't lean on him, mind you. I know the harmful effects of that, but I look at him, and I watch him and I know he needs me and it keeps me straight, although there are nights when I can't be a "mom" and - because Trevor is so, so smart and we're so attuned to one another, he knows that it's a bad night for mom. He's autistic - supposedly incapable of feeling emotions - but with me, he gets it.
We've talked about our disorders. For many years I never told him anything but one day, he asked me about the cuts on my arms and I explained to him that it's part of my disorder (anyone with any experience with an autistic child, knows you can't bullshit them and just coming straight out with the truth [to their capacity] is the best way). He asked a few more questions. I don't feel he has a complete grasp on my disorders, but he understands more than any teenager you'll meet.
I don't know what happened but I cut last night... somehow it serves so many purposes. I emailed my therapist, told her I'd cut. I actually said, "I am emailing you to tell you that I cut tonight. The reason I'm emailing you is because I don't want to talk about it."
Incest survivors, particularly, are prone to self-harm and self-injury. It could be in the form of bulimia, hair-pulling, cutting, overdosing, alcohol abuse, or any other kind of self-destructive, self-effacing, self-abusive means.
There's all kinds of literature out there about it but I'm just gonna tell you straight out: It relieves pain. It releases a rage you're afraid to feel. To see blood or vomit helps you know you're alive - you're a living person, not a shell.
In reference to cutting, I've actually read that - in the schools nowadays - it's the new "anorexia" for teenage girls. Many girls cut.
But most cut in hidden places. I have one friend who cuts on her inner thighs. I've known them to cut on their ankles, their upper arms, their stomachs. Anywhere....anywhere, just to bleed.
Me, I've always cut my wrists. I had a short bout with bulimia and I was a hair-puller in my 20's.
There's another reason people do this: It's a scream for help. It's a way of saying, "I have this pain inside me and it's eating me alive but I can't show it to you or tell you about it." And they won't. They won't tell you about it.
Today, in therapy - though I had said I didn't want to talk about it - it was the elephant in the room. I know - because of the many moments of awkward silence, that she was giving me room, just in case I brought it up.
And I did.
There's practically no worse feeling than waking up with a couple gashes in your arms (one of them really needs stitches but you can't go to the emergency room for stitches on your wrist because most doctors don't understand that it's not a suicide attempt) and then knowing you scared the shit out of everyone who matters to you.
You feel like a loser, a failure, a mistake, hopeless, omg what's wrong with me?
Yet, there's also this strange fascination and even a sense of pride... you want everyone to see....but you want nobody to see.
Oh God if I could stand in the middle of the world on a huge podium and shout, LOOK! LOOK AT MY WOUNDS!! and somehow, magically, everyone would understand it's not a manipulative way of getting pity; it's not "for show" (as I've been accused of by my ex); it's not to show off how you've hurt yourself.
If I could show everyone these wounds and these scars, and somehow give a voice to them...let the wounds and scars talk for themselves... oh how I wish people would/could learn.
Gratefully, those closest to me (Cindy, Bill, Hannah, Howie) understand (and understood last night) that calling the police or ambulance is the worst mistake in the world. They understood I was overwhelmed. They know (a couple of them because they, too, experience this insurmountable pain and rage), that it's a temporary release.
I just want to note here, that I would never let Trevor see me cut and he does not know it happened, just in case anyone's wondering. He was safe in bed, asleep.
Self-injury is punishment for the "bad" that we are, because we did things. We performed fellatio on our fathers or cousins or uncles. We "allowed" ourselves to be raped. We created our own misfortunes and we must be punished. It's so, so, so much easier for me to turn my anger on myself, than it is to be angry at the father who beat, humiliated, tormented, molested and abused me (and my brother). Being angry at him is just unheard of.
In therapy today, I finally broke down and cried.
"Why do I do this?"
"What?"
I couldn't respond. She gave me a minute as I held my wounded wrist (covered by a long-sleeved shirt) to my face, wiping my tears, staring out the window.
"Why I cut. Why do I hurt people I love? Why do I cut and then tell everyone? Why do I cut?" I asked.
Very gently, very calmly, she responded, "If all your scars and your wounds could tell me their story, what would they say?"
Oh dear God what a great question.... and one I must mull over. It was frightening to even answer it to her.
Cutters are not losers. They're not idiots or manipulators. They know exactly what they're doing, even if they don't always understand why.
Next time you see a slit wrist, just know it has a story to tell.
This isn't an easy blog to write... it's full of stuff that nobody wants to talk/hear about: Self-harm.
I attempted suicide more than once in my life but more recently, in October (?) of last year and then March of this year. Tried overdosing. I'm not the only person who does this, who has my disorders.
Yesterday was a bad day for me. I was overwhelmed and buried, flooded and confused.
Yesterday was Gary's birthday. I cried most of the day.
That wasn't the worst, though...knowing he's celebrating his birthday with his new girlfriend and all the old friends I once knew. (I did call and leave him a voice mail, wishing him a tearful happy birthday).
I also went and got my driver's license renewed, and I got fuel for the house - for heat. Now, this might not seem like a big deal, but to me, it was shameful that it was a big deal. Like whoopy-doo...you managed to do something pretty much anyone in the world could do? I was ashamed for feeling I'd accomplished something. "I feel so stupid," I remarked to Bill in a text, but I couldn't elaborate on it. I just felt so stupid. Celebrate getting your license? You idiot...
I was also overwhelmed by increasing evidence of my DID. I'd apparently spoken to Bill on the phone and spoke in the voice of a child...whispering...saying "Shh! he's coming! Here he comes! Shh!"
This really threw me because I didn't remember it but when I put it together with all the other DID stuff that's happened, the mounting evidence that I suffer from this affliction makes me sick. Sick. I don't want to be that fucked up! No no no! But, alas I must admit I dissociate. A lot. In fact, I was with Michelle when I actually remembered that I'd gotten my driver's license yesterday.
There were a few other things but the worst came when I thought about going to court tomorrow. I began to panic, and I mean PANIC. What if they take me to jail? They'll take Trevor away! OH MY GOD!
I was inconsolable. I was making plans. I called Cindy, I called Bill I told Cindy where there's money so she could buy Bill a plane ticket home. "Please, please don't let them take my baby," I cried desperately. The feeling that was flooding me is indescribable. Trevor....Trevor is what keeps me going every day. He has no idea the strength he gives me. I don't lean on him, mind you. I know the harmful effects of that, but I look at him, and I watch him and I know he needs me and it keeps me straight, although there are nights when I can't be a "mom" and - because Trevor is so, so smart and we're so attuned to one another, he knows that it's a bad night for mom. He's autistic - supposedly incapable of feeling emotions - but with me, he gets it.
We've talked about our disorders. For many years I never told him anything but one day, he asked me about the cuts on my arms and I explained to him that it's part of my disorder (anyone with any experience with an autistic child, knows you can't bullshit them and just coming straight out with the truth [to their capacity] is the best way). He asked a few more questions. I don't feel he has a complete grasp on my disorders, but he understands more than any teenager you'll meet.
I don't know what happened but I cut last night... somehow it serves so many purposes. I emailed my therapist, told her I'd cut. I actually said, "I am emailing you to tell you that I cut tonight. The reason I'm emailing you is because I don't want to talk about it."
Incest survivors, particularly, are prone to self-harm and self-injury. It could be in the form of bulimia, hair-pulling, cutting, overdosing, alcohol abuse, or any other kind of self-destructive, self-effacing, self-abusive means.
There's all kinds of literature out there about it but I'm just gonna tell you straight out: It relieves pain. It releases a rage you're afraid to feel. To see blood or vomit helps you know you're alive - you're a living person, not a shell.
In reference to cutting, I've actually read that - in the schools nowadays - it's the new "anorexia" for teenage girls. Many girls cut.
But most cut in hidden places. I have one friend who cuts on her inner thighs. I've known them to cut on their ankles, their upper arms, their stomachs. Anywhere....anywhere, just to bleed.
Me, I've always cut my wrists. I had a short bout with bulimia and I was a hair-puller in my 20's.
There's another reason people do this: It's a scream for help. It's a way of saying, "I have this pain inside me and it's eating me alive but I can't show it to you or tell you about it." And they won't. They won't tell you about it.
Today, in therapy - though I had said I didn't want to talk about it - it was the elephant in the room. I know - because of the many moments of awkward silence, that she was giving me room, just in case I brought it up.
And I did.
There's practically no worse feeling than waking up with a couple gashes in your arms (one of them really needs stitches but you can't go to the emergency room for stitches on your wrist because most doctors don't understand that it's not a suicide attempt) and then knowing you scared the shit out of everyone who matters to you.
You feel like a loser, a failure, a mistake, hopeless, omg what's wrong with me?
Yet, there's also this strange fascination and even a sense of pride... you want everyone to see....but you want nobody to see.
Oh God if I could stand in the middle of the world on a huge podium and shout, LOOK! LOOK AT MY WOUNDS!! and somehow, magically, everyone would understand it's not a manipulative way of getting pity; it's not "for show" (as I've been accused of by my ex); it's not to show off how you've hurt yourself.
If I could show everyone these wounds and these scars, and somehow give a voice to them...let the wounds and scars talk for themselves... oh how I wish people would/could learn.
Gratefully, those closest to me (Cindy, Bill, Hannah, Howie) understand (and understood last night) that calling the police or ambulance is the worst mistake in the world. They understood I was overwhelmed. They know (a couple of them because they, too, experience this insurmountable pain and rage), that it's a temporary release.
I just want to note here, that I would never let Trevor see me cut and he does not know it happened, just in case anyone's wondering. He was safe in bed, asleep.
Self-injury is punishment for the "bad" that we are, because we did things. We performed fellatio on our fathers or cousins or uncles. We "allowed" ourselves to be raped. We created our own misfortunes and we must be punished. It's so, so, so much easier for me to turn my anger on myself, than it is to be angry at the father who beat, humiliated, tormented, molested and abused me (and my brother). Being angry at him is just unheard of.
In therapy today, I finally broke down and cried.
"Why do I do this?"
"What?"
I couldn't respond. She gave me a minute as I held my wounded wrist (covered by a long-sleeved shirt) to my face, wiping my tears, staring out the window.
"Why I cut. Why do I hurt people I love? Why do I cut and then tell everyone? Why do I cut?" I asked.
Very gently, very calmly, she responded, "If all your scars and your wounds could tell me their story, what would they say?"
Oh dear God what a great question.... and one I must mull over. It was frightening to even answer it to her.
Cutters are not losers. They're not idiots or manipulators. They know exactly what they're doing, even if they don't always understand why.
Next time you see a slit wrist, just know it has a story to tell.
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
Honesty in Therapy
My name is Cristina D. Johnson.
Most people with my diagnoses (PTSD/DID) and/or history (Complex Trauma), have a tendency to jump from therapist to therapist. They get to the "meat" of the issues or start touching on something sensitive - or their therapist will - and they hit the road. No f'n way man, I ain't goin' there.
It hurts to be honest. It's terrifying and - I say terrifying because I can't think of any stronger words - to say to a therapist, "Yep you're right and that hurts because it's true."
That happened to me during my last visit. She did something that stirred up the mud and muck inside. She reached deep, deep, deep inside where I won't look, can't look, and at the time, I didn't tell her. Couldn't tell her. I believe I told someone else, at least a little - I don't remember who - but I couldn't tell her. It was an unfamiliar, frightening maternal thing. I've never gotten to know my mother - never wanted to - and want nothing to do with her. I've also always maintained that I don't care about her, don't love her, and never needed her.
I canceled my session with her on Sunday night. Sunday night was suffering with suicide ideation - bad. I wanted a gun...Swore I would buy one. I went to bed, woke up emotionally and mentally hungover. As if there were this huge grey cloud over me, surrounding me. I was still shaken, still hurt.
I was told some things by my son (again), how I need to stop taking my meds and "get over it," among other things. I finally shut his phone off. He hasn't paid the bill and he's 25...shouldn't even be on my plan.
Anyway all kinds of things happened, and my last session was part of it. It stayed with me and I've held it, like trying to hold your breath as long as you can. It's stayed with me and I see her tonight because she called me and rescheduled for today at 5:30. She warned me before that she's a "nag" and won't let her trauma patients go that easy. There were other parts of it. One big one being an issue between Bill and I and I was feeling trapped and controlled. That set me off, big time and just brought out my fighter. Not pretty. And at the same time, figuring why the hell should I be alive? I was a mess.
Now I feel afraid to talk to her - afraid of what to say... I don't want to feel what I felt during our last session and I don't know how to broach the subject...or if I even should. Not yet, anyway. Not ready.
Most people with my diagnoses (PTSD/DID) and/or history (Complex Trauma), have a tendency to jump from therapist to therapist. They get to the "meat" of the issues or start touching on something sensitive - or their therapist will - and they hit the road. No f'n way man, I ain't goin' there.
It hurts to be honest. It's terrifying and - I say terrifying because I can't think of any stronger words - to say to a therapist, "Yep you're right and that hurts because it's true."
That happened to me during my last visit. She did something that stirred up the mud and muck inside. She reached deep, deep, deep inside where I won't look, can't look, and at the time, I didn't tell her. Couldn't tell her. I believe I told someone else, at least a little - I don't remember who - but I couldn't tell her. It was an unfamiliar, frightening maternal thing. I've never gotten to know my mother - never wanted to - and want nothing to do with her. I've also always maintained that I don't care about her, don't love her, and never needed her.
I canceled my session with her on Sunday night. Sunday night was suffering with suicide ideation - bad. I wanted a gun...Swore I would buy one. I went to bed, woke up emotionally and mentally hungover. As if there were this huge grey cloud over me, surrounding me. I was still shaken, still hurt.
I was told some things by my son (again), how I need to stop taking my meds and "get over it," among other things. I finally shut his phone off. He hasn't paid the bill and he's 25...shouldn't even be on my plan.
Anyway all kinds of things happened, and my last session was part of it. It stayed with me and I've held it, like trying to hold your breath as long as you can. It's stayed with me and I see her tonight because she called me and rescheduled for today at 5:30. She warned me before that she's a "nag" and won't let her trauma patients go that easy. There were other parts of it. One big one being an issue between Bill and I and I was feeling trapped and controlled. That set me off, big time and just brought out my fighter. Not pretty. And at the same time, figuring why the hell should I be alive? I was a mess.
Now I feel afraid to talk to her - afraid of what to say... I don't want to feel what I felt during our last session and I don't know how to broach the subject...or if I even should. Not yet, anyway. Not ready.
Friday, October 5, 2012
The Elephant
My name is Cristina D. Johnson.
My blood runs cold tonight.
I was abandoned last night. Probably not literally, but in the end, at least for me, it was abandonment because once you say those words, they're spoken, and they reach down into a place that says, "See? You're a burden! You're trouble! Nothing but trouble!" which consequently pulls up that part of me that says, "Okay...seeya buddy. Never want to hear from you again."
I am irrational. I know. I am paranoid to go anywhere in my car smoking, afraid my landlady will happen by and see it (I told her I don't smoke). My basement door was unlocked this morning....FROM THE INSIDE.
So someone was in "my home" this morning, while I was asleep in bed. Fuck it.
The elephant in the room crushes me... I know what it is, and I know how it feels, but I cannot articulate it. I am not stupid. I am not useless. I am trustworthy.
Tiny images - like from little shards of a broken mirror - flash in my mind. Myself, giving me memories, little specks of time that I have consciously forgotten but I cannot see them, they flash so quickly.
That is what it is like. DID.
In the middle of a phone conversation and all the sudden, a flash....a flash of a shirt or something you can't quite identify but feel to the marrow of your bone, as if you're there - wherever "there" is - experiencing whatever that shard of pain is connected to.
And it's gone. Like a snap of the finger. So quickly, that if you don't interrupt the conversation and say, "Wait! I just saw something in my mind!" it disappears.
The emotional pain is overwhelming but it's so fleeting that it mercifully leaves in an instant. Same for the physical sensations that come with them.
Tiny little windows....into who I was, when I couldn't be there. When I couldn't withstand whatever was happening. That's what many children do. Escape into their minds. Out of their bodies so they don't feel the physical and emotional and mental torment of their experience. That's what creates "parts" or "alters" or "fragments".
These "parts" and "fragments" (there's a bit of a difference. Parts hold whole experiences, while fragments may hold only the emotion or the environment or the physical pain, et cetera) later come along in life and, as your psyche strengthens, these things are given to you as tormented gifts. Shadowy missing parts that you've blocked out.
Rage comes out for me a lot but because rage is an uncomfortable feeling, I swallow it back down, most of the time. Tonight, it's just suicide. This desire to not be alive. This deep-down belief that I don't deserve to be here...I don't belong here... The tears that would stain this page, were it made of paper, are filled with despair, yet I feel nothing for myself. As I said, my blood runs cold. I am bitterly angry at myself, disgusted with myself. What is wrong with you?
Feeling there is nobody to talk to... especially about the elephant in the room.
My blood runs cold tonight.
I was abandoned last night. Probably not literally, but in the end, at least for me, it was abandonment because once you say those words, they're spoken, and they reach down into a place that says, "See? You're a burden! You're trouble! Nothing but trouble!" which consequently pulls up that part of me that says, "Okay...seeya buddy. Never want to hear from you again."
I am irrational. I know. I am paranoid to go anywhere in my car smoking, afraid my landlady will happen by and see it (I told her I don't smoke). My basement door was unlocked this morning....FROM THE INSIDE.
So someone was in "my home" this morning, while I was asleep in bed. Fuck it.
The elephant in the room crushes me... I know what it is, and I know how it feels, but I cannot articulate it. I am not stupid. I am not useless. I am trustworthy.
Tiny images - like from little shards of a broken mirror - flash in my mind. Myself, giving me memories, little specks of time that I have consciously forgotten but I cannot see them, they flash so quickly.
That is what it is like. DID.
In the middle of a phone conversation and all the sudden, a flash....a flash of a shirt or something you can't quite identify but feel to the marrow of your bone, as if you're there - wherever "there" is - experiencing whatever that shard of pain is connected to.
And it's gone. Like a snap of the finger. So quickly, that if you don't interrupt the conversation and say, "Wait! I just saw something in my mind!" it disappears.
The emotional pain is overwhelming but it's so fleeting that it mercifully leaves in an instant. Same for the physical sensations that come with them.
Tiny little windows....into who I was, when I couldn't be there. When I couldn't withstand whatever was happening. That's what many children do. Escape into their minds. Out of their bodies so they don't feel the physical and emotional and mental torment of their experience. That's what creates "parts" or "alters" or "fragments".
These "parts" and "fragments" (there's a bit of a difference. Parts hold whole experiences, while fragments may hold only the emotion or the environment or the physical pain, et cetera) later come along in life and, as your psyche strengthens, these things are given to you as tormented gifts. Shadowy missing parts that you've blocked out.
Rage comes out for me a lot but because rage is an uncomfortable feeling, I swallow it back down, most of the time. Tonight, it's just suicide. This desire to not be alive. This deep-down belief that I don't deserve to be here...I don't belong here... The tears that would stain this page, were it made of paper, are filled with despair, yet I feel nothing for myself. As I said, my blood runs cold. I am bitterly angry at myself, disgusted with myself. What is wrong with you?
Feeling there is nobody to talk to... especially about the elephant in the room.
Thursday, October 4, 2012
Too deep to hear
My name is Cristina D. Johnson.
The past few days have been incredibly difficult. I've been dissociating more and it's absolutely terrifying. I wake up not remembering things I've done (I didn't remember writing the last blog) or I am suddenly somewhere I don't remember going to, wondering where I am and how I got there. Nothing dangerous - usually in the house - but it feels like someone's plopped me down into a foreign country. The headaches are worse, and they're daily.
My therapist was gone for nine days so I didn't have the regular appointments I usually do... we talked today about whether or not that might have something to do with the email I sent her today that simply said, "I am nervous to see you today" to which she replied, "Well then it's probably a good thing you're coming! See you at 3!"
Today she pulled a lot out of me, really. It's so hard to trust.... so hard.... but I want to heal and I want to be something, do something, make a difference so this is something I have to do.
Interestingly, she gave me an analogy similar to one I recently blogged (about being in a dark tunnel) and what she said, turned me inside out.
"I always tell my interns, there are people [like me] who are so far down this hole - it's like a well - that goes way, way, way down and it's so dark, they don't see the light and they cannot hear anyone's voices calling them to climb the ladder up," she said.
"My job is to go down there to you, and I will. I will go down in that darkness with you and I won't pull you up, I will be behind you with my hand on your back and you will make it to the light."
She was very gentle as she said this. Today's session was very gentle because I was very weakened and vulnerable.
She also asked if she could share something with me, that she learned from her retreat.
"Yes," I said.
She went on to describe that the break-up I've gone through isn't like a fifth-grade, "I don't want to play with you anymore" kind of break-up. This was a heart-breaking break-up from someone you expected to be a life partner.
She used her hands to illustrate that "When our hearts are broken, we are busy building walls around it, tall, thick brick walls to protect it when, in reality, when our hearts are broken, they are open."
I envisioned a butterfly, spreading it's wings.
It was very moving to me, to think of it that way. Yes, my heart is broken and omg am I vulnerable right now but I keep putting up these walls....not just to protect myself, but also to protect others (something I've done my whole life).
I have to give some serious thought to her analogy and telling me that she would have her hand on my back. It literally ached in my chest and I bawled all the way home.
I wonder who else will be there....at the top of the ladder.
The past few days have been incredibly difficult. I've been dissociating more and it's absolutely terrifying. I wake up not remembering things I've done (I didn't remember writing the last blog) or I am suddenly somewhere I don't remember going to, wondering where I am and how I got there. Nothing dangerous - usually in the house - but it feels like someone's plopped me down into a foreign country. The headaches are worse, and they're daily.
My therapist was gone for nine days so I didn't have the regular appointments I usually do... we talked today about whether or not that might have something to do with the email I sent her today that simply said, "I am nervous to see you today" to which she replied, "Well then it's probably a good thing you're coming! See you at 3!"
Today she pulled a lot out of me, really. It's so hard to trust.... so hard.... but I want to heal and I want to be something, do something, make a difference so this is something I have to do.
Interestingly, she gave me an analogy similar to one I recently blogged (about being in a dark tunnel) and what she said, turned me inside out.
"I always tell my interns, there are people [like me] who are so far down this hole - it's like a well - that goes way, way, way down and it's so dark, they don't see the light and they cannot hear anyone's voices calling them to climb the ladder up," she said.
"My job is to go down there to you, and I will. I will go down in that darkness with you and I won't pull you up, I will be behind you with my hand on your back and you will make it to the light."
She was very gentle as she said this. Today's session was very gentle because I was very weakened and vulnerable.
She also asked if she could share something with me, that she learned from her retreat.
"Yes," I said.
She went on to describe that the break-up I've gone through isn't like a fifth-grade, "I don't want to play with you anymore" kind of break-up. This was a heart-breaking break-up from someone you expected to be a life partner.
She used her hands to illustrate that "When our hearts are broken, we are busy building walls around it, tall, thick brick walls to protect it when, in reality, when our hearts are broken, they are open."
I envisioned a butterfly, spreading it's wings.
It was very moving to me, to think of it that way. Yes, my heart is broken and omg am I vulnerable right now but I keep putting up these walls....not just to protect myself, but also to protect others (something I've done my whole life).
I have to give some serious thought to her analogy and telling me that she would have her hand on my back. It literally ached in my chest and I bawled all the way home.
I wonder who else will be there....at the top of the ladder.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
The Last Hug
My name is Cristina D. Johnson and I'm sorry to those who think this stuff is redundant. This is my life. This is what I am going through.
My days are like this....
I wake up every morning at 6:30 when Bill calls me. It's 5:30 where he is and he has to be at work at 6 o'clock. Thankfully, this works out well because this is when Trevor is up, getting ready for school. He doesn't like me to be overbearing ("did you put on deodorant?" "Did you brush your teeth?" "Do your clothes match?" "Did you eat breakfast?") so all he really wants is for me to wake up, check on him, and that's kind of how it goes. Then he leaves for school.
I end up crawling back into bed because I spent the previous night up until at least 1 a.m. - sometimes as late as 3 or 4 a.m. - talking with Bill. Depends on the conversation and how I'm doing. He's always concerned when I'm not myself (like last night).
This morning, after I went back to sleep, I had another nightmare. This one was hideous.
It's a little sketchy and scattered but Gary was there and my son, Tony was there (I know this is connected to the hurtful and shameless texts Tony was sending me the other night when he was drunk) but he'd told Gary (in my dream) that'd I had been sleeping with him (Tony). I confronted Tony immediately! Never! never, ever, ever!!! I was so unaffectionate with my children because of this fear of the mentality that "oh...it's passed down from generation to generation..." Oh my God I wouldn't even bathe Tony as a child unless someone was present and the door was open. It's an unfortunate truth. (Fortunately, Trevor does not appreciate nor want affection - part of his autism).
Anyway, we were in a place, some place where they did performances and all our old "mutual friends" were there and they had masks on. They were singing. They would mess up on stage, argue, then start over again, but when this accusation came out, suddenly I was somewhere else...I don't know, maybe on a bus? Somewhere small and confined, and all the sudden people - these "mutual friends" (one I recognized immediately was Hedy), began throwing things at me and kicking me and hurting me. I saw Gary standing nearby and he had his arms crossed, over his chest...staring at me with disgust as these people kept yelling obscenities at me and kicking me and throwing things at me. At one point, I was in the street and they were kicking dirty snow and ice at me as I cried.
There was more to the dream than that, but this is the part that sticks out most, besides one other part: a black man who resembled Forest Whitaker who was kind to me. My instinct and intuition aligns him with Bill because, in the dream, he stuck out (he was black) and he was gentle (like Bill) and worked hard (like Bill) and, most importantly, he was kind to me (like Bill). He invited me to come to his apartment. He stood outside his door, unlocking it, and spoke so gently, telling me I was welcome inside - welcome to come in and be safe - and I was afraid. I was dirty. I couldn't go into the apartment.
I know this seems repetitive, but my days and nights are filled with torment over nightmares and flashbacks - all of Gary.
Today, shaken over my nightmare, I was talked through it by Cindy and Bill. At least to a point where - along with two Klonopin - I was able to make it to the store and post office. I felt accomplished, although weary and concerned about what to make for dinner. I opted for something simple: sloppy joes, but the ground beef was so damned expensive I chose some hamburger patties. I hate feeding my child what I can afford, rather than what I want to feed him.
Anyway....
Trevor got home from school as I was packaging up a care package to send to Bill (it's cold in Illinois and, well, he's a wuss as far as cold weather goes) so I had to get that sent. I did it.
I came home, I put up all the things I'd bought, spread the towel out on my bed as I always do (to protect against dirt, cigarette ashes, cat hair, etc.) and rocked...just rocked... and suddenly, I was hit like a truck with the flashback of when I moved in (I'm sure it had something to do with Samantha's post on moving alone with no help).
I told Trevor he could have the leftover steak in the fridge that I couldn't eat the other night. This pleased him, of course. "Are there any mashed potatoes left?" he asked. "Yep," was my answer, trying to be upbeat.
As he ate downstairs, alone, I sat on my towel, on my bed, and rocked and rocked and rocked...just rocking.... and I saw in my mind, the day I moved. Gary was the only one I could ask for help. He still had the seats out of the van from when he helped "Dee" move. He and Kurt helped. It took them two or three days to move her stuff. I'm sure they were very careful with her stuff.
It took one day to move mine and when it was done, I had scratches and scars, broken furniture...nothing was cared for or handled carefully. Nothing about what was important to me, mattered. It was a rush.
It was a hot day and Gary wore a white shirt. I believe he wore shorts. He kept ordering Trevor around, yelling at him although he was doing his best. I've never seen my son work so hard, without argument. He did everything Gary said and told him to do, but seldom without criticism, although he was working so hard to do his best. My baby wanted out of there so bad, that he put up with Gary's degradation and never said a word.
At the end of the day - when he called his friend, Kurt who had a truck to help move the last of the larger items - I was treated like I was diseased. Shows how clueless Gary is. He told Kurt God-only-knows what, who, in turn I'm sure, shared with his new girlfriend, Sandy (who was there that day), and who said something to me that she had no reason, business or right to say: "Take care of yourself. I hope you get better."
Well-intended, I'm sure, but none of hers (OR ANYONE'S) business!
That's how I was treated in my dream.
After everything was moved in, and though I knew Gary was seeing someone else - and had been - I recall, it was dark. He and Kurt were going to hook up that night.
We stood in the kitchen, by the back door before he left. He still wore a black bandana around his head to guard the sweat coming into his eyes. He was merciless that day. To me, and to Trevor.
I began to cry.
I walked up to him, I put my arms around him. Oh God.
I cried. I don't remember what I said. I don't remember what he said.
I just remember that he held me, rather sideways....as if he didn't want to cheat on his new girlfriend. As if, again, I was diseased.
I wanted more than anything at that moment for him to just hold me. HOLD ME. Hold me, goddamnit, the way I've needed you to for months!! Show me you don't want this! Show me you love me! Show me I matter to you!!!!
But it was just a sideways embrace. Like our entire relationship. I put my heart into it, my trust into it. I opened up and dared to be vulnerable, only to get half a hug and a pat on the head.
Now....
Now I have Bill who is absolutely in love with me - always has been. He's helped me (and is helping me....and us) more than anyone ever has. And I can only have nightmares about Gary and mourn and cry and feel afraid because of how people treat me. Even my own son.
Nobody gets it. No, "Dee," you DON'T get it and you never did - claiming to be my friend - and never will. You, in my dream, threw things and kicked me. You were never a friend. Just keep enjoying your absolut and living vicariously through your children, and letting men buy you drinks while you drink yourself into denial.
Bill.... Bill ...oh God.
How do I reach that level of trust and openness and vulnerability that I had with Gary - he promise....he promised....God he promised...
And although Bill has never let me down, never betrayed me, always been there, treats me spectacularly.... I am still so terrified. So afraid. So so afraid.
I don't know what to think or believe. I don't know who to believe. I'm so lost. I'm so, so lost. I'm afraid in my own home.
All I could think this morning was, "I don't belong here" and when I said it, I felt like I don't belong anywhere. I never have. Especially here - where everyone's wearing a mask and kicking me while I'm down. Oh God how that hurts.
This isn't to say there aren't supportive people out there and I suppose it's hard to be supportive when you've heard only one side of the story and you believe it. I suppose that's easy to do, when the person telling the story is buying the drinks, throwing the parties and has been here for over 30 years.
I got so far....so, so far in my therapy and in my journey when I lived with Gary. I thought he understood, at least a little.... but then he got misinformed by a mutual friend who, I'm sure meant well, but did not do any good to help. She hurt, more than she helped. An LCSW, at that. She did nothing to help Gary understand what was happening....just took his word for it (they went to school together) rather than asking my side of it.
It's going to take me a long time to get over this. I have cried so much today, that I'm glad I have nothing to do tomorrow. I will look like a raccoon with puffy eyes.
I'm flying blind. I'm in this dark, damp, dank dingy tunnel, the walls are cold and wet, and there's no light and I keep pushing forward, but there's no light yet.... I have to be vulnerable enough to just keep going...just keep my hands on the cold brick, around the curves, and hope...hope...hope that in the light will be Bill and Cindy and ....others.
Right now, in CT.....I feel like I'm in a different world. These people as a rule, have no idea. They just have no idea and you can't tell them because they don't want to hear it. They can't envision it because life here, in CT, is beautiful. Full of fall foliage and rivers and streams. The Sound and beautiful mountains and nature.
No, no, no you can't have DID or PTSD....that doesn't exist in this world.
Furthermore, if it does, get over it because we can't handle it.
Gary.......oh Gary.
Oh God I wish you knew. Oh my heart splits right now, right down the middle just wishing you knew. I never needed at hero. You thought I did. I didn't. I needed someone to help me bring out my own hero. Someone who would be there, unconditionally.
And there's Bill...there unconditionally...and you've made me fear him.
Everyone here, makes me fear people. Everything in my past makes me fear people. Going to the grocery store I am terrified of seeing someone who knows me. I hide my face. I move fast. Very fast. I don't want to be seen.
I will get better. I won't always have these horribly sad, depressing blogs but for now, this is part of my journey. And that's what this blog is about: The Journey.
I don't know who reads my blogs. I write them for me...and I truly hope/wish they help others, but this is my venue. Forgive me if I sound like a victim.
I am a fighter...just been knocked down pretty bad this time. I appreciate that some of you have stayed with me.
My days are like this....
I wake up every morning at 6:30 when Bill calls me. It's 5:30 where he is and he has to be at work at 6 o'clock. Thankfully, this works out well because this is when Trevor is up, getting ready for school. He doesn't like me to be overbearing ("did you put on deodorant?" "Did you brush your teeth?" "Do your clothes match?" "Did you eat breakfast?") so all he really wants is for me to wake up, check on him, and that's kind of how it goes. Then he leaves for school.
I end up crawling back into bed because I spent the previous night up until at least 1 a.m. - sometimes as late as 3 or 4 a.m. - talking with Bill. Depends on the conversation and how I'm doing. He's always concerned when I'm not myself (like last night).
This morning, after I went back to sleep, I had another nightmare. This one was hideous.
It's a little sketchy and scattered but Gary was there and my son, Tony was there (I know this is connected to the hurtful and shameless texts Tony was sending me the other night when he was drunk) but he'd told Gary (in my dream) that'd I had been sleeping with him (Tony). I confronted Tony immediately! Never! never, ever, ever!!! I was so unaffectionate with my children because of this fear of the mentality that "oh...it's passed down from generation to generation..." Oh my God I wouldn't even bathe Tony as a child unless someone was present and the door was open. It's an unfortunate truth. (Fortunately, Trevor does not appreciate nor want affection - part of his autism).
Anyway, we were in a place, some place where they did performances and all our old "mutual friends" were there and they had masks on. They were singing. They would mess up on stage, argue, then start over again, but when this accusation came out, suddenly I was somewhere else...I don't know, maybe on a bus? Somewhere small and confined, and all the sudden people - these "mutual friends" (one I recognized immediately was Hedy), began throwing things at me and kicking me and hurting me. I saw Gary standing nearby and he had his arms crossed, over his chest...staring at me with disgust as these people kept yelling obscenities at me and kicking me and throwing things at me. At one point, I was in the street and they were kicking dirty snow and ice at me as I cried.
There was more to the dream than that, but this is the part that sticks out most, besides one other part: a black man who resembled Forest Whitaker who was kind to me. My instinct and intuition aligns him with Bill because, in the dream, he stuck out (he was black) and he was gentle (like Bill) and worked hard (like Bill) and, most importantly, he was kind to me (like Bill). He invited me to come to his apartment. He stood outside his door, unlocking it, and spoke so gently, telling me I was welcome inside - welcome to come in and be safe - and I was afraid. I was dirty. I couldn't go into the apartment.
I know this seems repetitive, but my days and nights are filled with torment over nightmares and flashbacks - all of Gary.
Today, shaken over my nightmare, I was talked through it by Cindy and Bill. At least to a point where - along with two Klonopin - I was able to make it to the store and post office. I felt accomplished, although weary and concerned about what to make for dinner. I opted for something simple: sloppy joes, but the ground beef was so damned expensive I chose some hamburger patties. I hate feeding my child what I can afford, rather than what I want to feed him.
Anyway....
Trevor got home from school as I was packaging up a care package to send to Bill (it's cold in Illinois and, well, he's a wuss as far as cold weather goes) so I had to get that sent. I did it.
I came home, I put up all the things I'd bought, spread the towel out on my bed as I always do (to protect against dirt, cigarette ashes, cat hair, etc.) and rocked...just rocked... and suddenly, I was hit like a truck with the flashback of when I moved in (I'm sure it had something to do with Samantha's post on moving alone with no help).
I told Trevor he could have the leftover steak in the fridge that I couldn't eat the other night. This pleased him, of course. "Are there any mashed potatoes left?" he asked. "Yep," was my answer, trying to be upbeat.
As he ate downstairs, alone, I sat on my towel, on my bed, and rocked and rocked and rocked...just rocking.... and I saw in my mind, the day I moved. Gary was the only one I could ask for help. He still had the seats out of the van from when he helped "Dee" move. He and Kurt helped. It took them two or three days to move her stuff. I'm sure they were very careful with her stuff.
It took one day to move mine and when it was done, I had scratches and scars, broken furniture...nothing was cared for or handled carefully. Nothing about what was important to me, mattered. It was a rush.
It was a hot day and Gary wore a white shirt. I believe he wore shorts. He kept ordering Trevor around, yelling at him although he was doing his best. I've never seen my son work so hard, without argument. He did everything Gary said and told him to do, but seldom without criticism, although he was working so hard to do his best. My baby wanted out of there so bad, that he put up with Gary's degradation and never said a word.
At the end of the day - when he called his friend, Kurt who had a truck to help move the last of the larger items - I was treated like I was diseased. Shows how clueless Gary is. He told Kurt God-only-knows what, who, in turn I'm sure, shared with his new girlfriend, Sandy (who was there that day), and who said something to me that she had no reason, business or right to say: "Take care of yourself. I hope you get better."
Well-intended, I'm sure, but none of hers (OR ANYONE'S) business!
That's how I was treated in my dream.
After everything was moved in, and though I knew Gary was seeing someone else - and had been - I recall, it was dark. He and Kurt were going to hook up that night.
We stood in the kitchen, by the back door before he left. He still wore a black bandana around his head to guard the sweat coming into his eyes. He was merciless that day. To me, and to Trevor.
I began to cry.
I walked up to him, I put my arms around him. Oh God.
I cried. I don't remember what I said. I don't remember what he said.
I just remember that he held me, rather sideways....as if he didn't want to cheat on his new girlfriend. As if, again, I was diseased.
I wanted more than anything at that moment for him to just hold me. HOLD ME. Hold me, goddamnit, the way I've needed you to for months!! Show me you don't want this! Show me you love me! Show me I matter to you!!!!
But it was just a sideways embrace. Like our entire relationship. I put my heart into it, my trust into it. I opened up and dared to be vulnerable, only to get half a hug and a pat on the head.
Now....
Now I have Bill who is absolutely in love with me - always has been. He's helped me (and is helping me....and us) more than anyone ever has. And I can only have nightmares about Gary and mourn and cry and feel afraid because of how people treat me. Even my own son.
Nobody gets it. No, "Dee," you DON'T get it and you never did - claiming to be my friend - and never will. You, in my dream, threw things and kicked me. You were never a friend. Just keep enjoying your absolut and living vicariously through your children, and letting men buy you drinks while you drink yourself into denial.
Bill.... Bill ...oh God.
How do I reach that level of trust and openness and vulnerability that I had with Gary - he promise....he promised....God he promised...
And although Bill has never let me down, never betrayed me, always been there, treats me spectacularly.... I am still so terrified. So afraid. So so afraid.
I don't know what to think or believe. I don't know who to believe. I'm so lost. I'm so, so lost. I'm afraid in my own home.
All I could think this morning was, "I don't belong here" and when I said it, I felt like I don't belong anywhere. I never have. Especially here - where everyone's wearing a mask and kicking me while I'm down. Oh God how that hurts.
This isn't to say there aren't supportive people out there and I suppose it's hard to be supportive when you've heard only one side of the story and you believe it. I suppose that's easy to do, when the person telling the story is buying the drinks, throwing the parties and has been here for over 30 years.
I got so far....so, so far in my therapy and in my journey when I lived with Gary. I thought he understood, at least a little.... but then he got misinformed by a mutual friend who, I'm sure meant well, but did not do any good to help. She hurt, more than she helped. An LCSW, at that. She did nothing to help Gary understand what was happening....just took his word for it (they went to school together) rather than asking my side of it.
It's going to take me a long time to get over this. I have cried so much today, that I'm glad I have nothing to do tomorrow. I will look like a raccoon with puffy eyes.
I'm flying blind. I'm in this dark, damp, dank dingy tunnel, the walls are cold and wet, and there's no light and I keep pushing forward, but there's no light yet.... I have to be vulnerable enough to just keep going...just keep my hands on the cold brick, around the curves, and hope...hope...hope that in the light will be Bill and Cindy and ....others.
Right now, in CT.....I feel like I'm in a different world. These people as a rule, have no idea. They just have no idea and you can't tell them because they don't want to hear it. They can't envision it because life here, in CT, is beautiful. Full of fall foliage and rivers and streams. The Sound and beautiful mountains and nature.
No, no, no you can't have DID or PTSD....that doesn't exist in this world.
Furthermore, if it does, get over it because we can't handle it.
Gary.......oh Gary.
Oh God I wish you knew. Oh my heart splits right now, right down the middle just wishing you knew. I never needed at hero. You thought I did. I didn't. I needed someone to help me bring out my own hero. Someone who would be there, unconditionally.
And there's Bill...there unconditionally...and you've made me fear him.
Everyone here, makes me fear people. Everything in my past makes me fear people. Going to the grocery store I am terrified of seeing someone who knows me. I hide my face. I move fast. Very fast. I don't want to be seen.
I will get better. I won't always have these horribly sad, depressing blogs but for now, this is part of my journey. And that's what this blog is about: The Journey.
I don't know who reads my blogs. I write them for me...and I truly hope/wish they help others, but this is my venue. Forgive me if I sound like a victim.
I am a fighter...just been knocked down pretty bad this time. I appreciate that some of you have stayed with me.
Monday, October 1, 2012
Confused in the Kitchen
My name is Cristina D. Johnson and this is just a run-down of how I'm feeling right now.
I'm feeling exceptionally depressed tonight. Thankfully it's not accompanied by that dastardly suicidal ideation curse.
I feel inept, to help someone who is dear to me. She needs so much support and help and needs to believe that people love her, but I feel like a failure in that regard. All I have are texts and occasional phone calls to comfort her through a situation most people would never know. A situation even I don't know and cannot comprehend. There is absolutely no consoling her and there's nothing more I can do, although I've sworn to do all I can... is that enough?
My son attacked me last night. Bad. I had to turn off my phone, I was so distraught. I burnt Trevor's dinner but was able to play it off, thankfully, and he ate every bite. It was my special treat to him for being so helpful and understanding while I was sick.The dinner was ruined - for me, at least inside - although I managed to keep a smile on for him. He deserved it. He's a super child and even though he never says it, he loves me.
Relationships are burying me, as well as my schedule. I was standing in my kitchen tonight, just vacuumed the living room, and I was suddenly lost. I realized the date. I started getting flooded with overwhelm....when do I have to do what? I am confused. I stood there utterly confused and that made me feel ashamed. "Normal people don't do this. Get over it," I scolded myself. A residual effect, I'm sure, of my son telling me I was throwing a pity party for myself. He was taught that by people who don't know pain and he ran with it. Oh God if he only knew....if he only knew what it's like to stand there in the kitchen, alone, afraid...afraid to do anything...and not even able to keep track of the things you have to do. Like you're missing part of your brain. Like there's something wrong with you! You should be FINE! Get over it! Get over it!
Yeah this is a real fucking picnic, son.
And relationships....
I miss Bill desperately, yet I also know his absence helps me because it forces me to not be distracted from the agony (AGONY) of my ordeal with Gary. Today, yesterday, the day before...I cried...I cry almost daily, realizing things...looking back on things. Not just things Gary did, but things I did as well...but mostly how, in the end, I was just garbage which told me a whole lot, about the entire relationship. I was so blind. I was so stupid. I neglected to protect Trevor and the few times I tried, I was shot down for it. But God forbid I rock the boat, right? (No pun intended). I still wear the ring he gave me. I don't know what to do with it. I also have the pet pillow he bought me - a pink unicorn. "Here. It's the antithesis of everything you've ever believed about yourself," he said to me. I took this as a sign that he was with me, was trying to help me, wanted to go through this with me.....would not leave me.
What do I do with these things? The pictures? I wonder what he did with all the pictures. Oh we had so much fun that day, taking pictures...I have the envelope with what's left of them in it. Plus I have two framed pictures. Two 8x10's. What do I do with them?
I also wear the ring of a man who terrifies me. He's tall, powerful, and frightening. I have had it for years. I took it off for awhile, but put it back on about a year ago. Our relationship went sour....he's my adoptive father. Back then (about five years ago), things got really bad and he became a huge trigger for me. Now he and my adoptive mother are back in my life, although he, not so much. More my adoptive mother, Cindy, who's been like an angel...more than I could ever ask for in a mother.
And Bill....
God.
Nobody who knows us and our relationship would ever say anything BUT that we are soul mates. But I'm so terrified - still so wounded from the brutality of my last relationship - that I don't trust myself. For five years, Bill waited for me. Our relationship was always pure, always loving. He has been with me through everything, done everything. And now he works a thousand miles away, to help me and Trevor (and himself), but mostly me because of his growing understanding of how important stability is to me - something I repeatedly told Gary, but which went entirely ignored. Now I have this wonderful, faithful, loyal, honest man who adores me, helping me, believing in me and encouraging me....learning so he can help me and I am terrified. What if the same thing happens, as what happened with Gary? I didn't expect it from Gary, but it happened. I don't know.... I just don't know. I know that now - tonight - I am lonely and I miss Bill.
I got a lot done the past few weeks. Things have been moving forward with the help of Bill and Cindy yet somehow, tonight, something has a hold on me...like a shadow or a ghost and I just can't shake it.
Tony...My Tony. This is the thirty-thousandth time he's broken my heart.
Probably won't be the last, either.
Hopefully tomorrow will be better.
I'm feeling exceptionally depressed tonight. Thankfully it's not accompanied by that dastardly suicidal ideation curse.
I feel inept, to help someone who is dear to me. She needs so much support and help and needs to believe that people love her, but I feel like a failure in that regard. All I have are texts and occasional phone calls to comfort her through a situation most people would never know. A situation even I don't know and cannot comprehend. There is absolutely no consoling her and there's nothing more I can do, although I've sworn to do all I can... is that enough?
My son attacked me last night. Bad. I had to turn off my phone, I was so distraught. I burnt Trevor's dinner but was able to play it off, thankfully, and he ate every bite. It was my special treat to him for being so helpful and understanding while I was sick.The dinner was ruined - for me, at least inside - although I managed to keep a smile on for him. He deserved it. He's a super child and even though he never says it, he loves me.
Relationships are burying me, as well as my schedule. I was standing in my kitchen tonight, just vacuumed the living room, and I was suddenly lost. I realized the date. I started getting flooded with overwhelm....when do I have to do what? I am confused. I stood there utterly confused and that made me feel ashamed. "Normal people don't do this. Get over it," I scolded myself. A residual effect, I'm sure, of my son telling me I was throwing a pity party for myself. He was taught that by people who don't know pain and he ran with it. Oh God if he only knew....if he only knew what it's like to stand there in the kitchen, alone, afraid...afraid to do anything...and not even able to keep track of the things you have to do. Like you're missing part of your brain. Like there's something wrong with you! You should be FINE! Get over it! Get over it!
Yeah this is a real fucking picnic, son.
And relationships....
I miss Bill desperately, yet I also know his absence helps me because it forces me to not be distracted from the agony (AGONY) of my ordeal with Gary. Today, yesterday, the day before...I cried...I cry almost daily, realizing things...looking back on things. Not just things Gary did, but things I did as well...but mostly how, in the end, I was just garbage which told me a whole lot, about the entire relationship. I was so blind. I was so stupid. I neglected to protect Trevor and the few times I tried, I was shot down for it. But God forbid I rock the boat, right? (No pun intended). I still wear the ring he gave me. I don't know what to do with it. I also have the pet pillow he bought me - a pink unicorn. "Here. It's the antithesis of everything you've ever believed about yourself," he said to me. I took this as a sign that he was with me, was trying to help me, wanted to go through this with me.....would not leave me.
What do I do with these things? The pictures? I wonder what he did with all the pictures. Oh we had so much fun that day, taking pictures...I have the envelope with what's left of them in it. Plus I have two framed pictures. Two 8x10's. What do I do with them?
I also wear the ring of a man who terrifies me. He's tall, powerful, and frightening. I have had it for years. I took it off for awhile, but put it back on about a year ago. Our relationship went sour....he's my adoptive father. Back then (about five years ago), things got really bad and he became a huge trigger for me. Now he and my adoptive mother are back in my life, although he, not so much. More my adoptive mother, Cindy, who's been like an angel...more than I could ever ask for in a mother.
And Bill....
God.
Nobody who knows us and our relationship would ever say anything BUT that we are soul mates. But I'm so terrified - still so wounded from the brutality of my last relationship - that I don't trust myself. For five years, Bill waited for me. Our relationship was always pure, always loving. He has been with me through everything, done everything. And now he works a thousand miles away, to help me and Trevor (and himself), but mostly me because of his growing understanding of how important stability is to me - something I repeatedly told Gary, but which went entirely ignored. Now I have this wonderful, faithful, loyal, honest man who adores me, helping me, believing in me and encouraging me....learning so he can help me and I am terrified. What if the same thing happens, as what happened with Gary? I didn't expect it from Gary, but it happened. I don't know.... I just don't know. I know that now - tonight - I am lonely and I miss Bill.
I got a lot done the past few weeks. Things have been moving forward with the help of Bill and Cindy yet somehow, tonight, something has a hold on me...like a shadow or a ghost and I just can't shake it.
Tony...My Tony. This is the thirty-thousandth time he's broken my heart.
Probably won't be the last, either.
Hopefully tomorrow will be better.
Latex Gloves
My name is Cristina Johnson.
Had a doctor's appointment today that I'd forgotten about. Thankfully I put it on my phone in my calendar. I'd be lost without my phone.
I'm always nervous when I go to see a doctor. Gary used to say I shrank down as if I were a child - especially when going to see a counselor and especially going to see a pdoc (mental health lingo for psychiatrist). Oh I always feel out of control. Probably because I'm completely at their mercy.
I had a bad night last night...really bad. I had an enormous and painful "fight" with my son, Tony, over texts. He was drunk and saying horrible things about me and about Bill and just being generally nasty and disrespectful. This, after he came to my house, spent the night up in my office, left it in a disgusting state and drank every beer in the fridge.
I woke up this morning hoping he made it to court okay. I was supposed to give him a ride, but I told him to find someone else and not to message me again until he got his facts straight. I'm sure he heard a bunch of bullshit from Leah when he went to get his hair cut by her (yeah, I gave him a ride there, too, despite the fact that I want nothing to do with her).
Anyway, so I get to the doctor's office today just on time (as usual - I'm rather picky about being on time). I sat in the waiting room, my purse bouncing on my lap because my legs were bouncing uncontrollably. Nervous.
When the nurse called me back, we went into a different room than usual which was fine.....
It was small and I started to feel that feeling - the nervous feeling you get just before a panic attack. You know it's coming and you don't know why but all the sudden I was trembling and crying and stuttering. I kept looking around...trying to find what triggered it.
I kept looking at the ugliest 3-D art I've ever seen. "Life is a bowl of cherries" it said, with a hideous rendition of fake cherries in a bowl, protruding from a hot pink frame, dotted with spots of orange. It was distracting me, but not in a good way.
The nurse went about her business, checking my vitals, my weight (lost 20 lbs, btw) and then handed me a tissue.
"The doctor wanted to do a [breathing test] on you, but we're going to wait okay?" she said gently.
I nodded. Wiped my eyes with a trembling hand and a wet, wadded up kleenex.
For a moment I was left alone, waiting for the doctor to come and that's when I realized what the trigger was:
On the wall there was a rack and in the rack, three boxes of gloves. Latex gloves.
The middle box had the blue gloves. The kind that police use and airport security uses and other unpleasant memories.
The two on the side held the white latex gloves.
I was immediately aware that was the trigger because when I looked at them again, I flashed back to being put in juvenile detention and the horrid things they do to you when you're sent there.
There's a required pap smear done, as well as anal and they spray you down with some kind of chemical to make sure to kill anything that might be on you. They make you bend over and order you to pull your buttocks apart....
Never realizing that you're crying inside - sure as hell can't cry outwardly - that you feel so violated, so horrified, so ...like your body is not your body.
My body has never been my body. That was taken long ago. I have trouble even to this day, showering or taking a bath.
This is part of my journey.....reclaiming my body, learning about it, despite my contempt for it as of now. Contempt because if I didn't have this body, maybe I would never have been molested or raped. It's illogical, I know, but it's beyond my mental control.
On another note, talked to Bill last night. He finished reading The Sum of My Parts by Olga Trujillo. It is by far the best book I've read as far as what I've gone through and what I'm experiencing. He asked me some questions about it and he got a much better understanding of what I am going through. I highly recommend this book to anyone who's been diagnosed DID, plus their partners.
It touched me that he read it. I asked Gary to, but he never did. Bill says Gary never wanted to understand PTSD or DID. I cried because he's right. Gary has no comprehension of how far back he set me on this healing journey. No concept, no clue. He would have, if he'd just wanted to know. Instead, he listened to everyone except me and now I'm still having nightmares about him and I can't see a truck or van like his without jolting inside as if firecrackers are going off in my blood cells. God...the powerful trigger he became is mind-blowing.
So good stuff going on, and bad stuff too. No therapy for two weeks is gonna kill me. The doctor didn't want me to leave the office without talking to Michelle (my therapist) but I told him she is not available. Once I figured out what the trigger was, I just let it run its course...let the memories flow...put myself back in the room with the gruesome bowl of cherries and breathed.
Good news is, I suppose, I'm no less healthy physically than last time. :)
Had a doctor's appointment today that I'd forgotten about. Thankfully I put it on my phone in my calendar. I'd be lost without my phone.
I'm always nervous when I go to see a doctor. Gary used to say I shrank down as if I were a child - especially when going to see a counselor and especially going to see a pdoc (mental health lingo for psychiatrist). Oh I always feel out of control. Probably because I'm completely at their mercy.
I had a bad night last night...really bad. I had an enormous and painful "fight" with my son, Tony, over texts. He was drunk and saying horrible things about me and about Bill and just being generally nasty and disrespectful. This, after he came to my house, spent the night up in my office, left it in a disgusting state and drank every beer in the fridge.
I woke up this morning hoping he made it to court okay. I was supposed to give him a ride, but I told him to find someone else and not to message me again until he got his facts straight. I'm sure he heard a bunch of bullshit from Leah when he went to get his hair cut by her (yeah, I gave him a ride there, too, despite the fact that I want nothing to do with her).
Anyway, so I get to the doctor's office today just on time (as usual - I'm rather picky about being on time). I sat in the waiting room, my purse bouncing on my lap because my legs were bouncing uncontrollably. Nervous.
When the nurse called me back, we went into a different room than usual which was fine.....
It was small and I started to feel that feeling - the nervous feeling you get just before a panic attack. You know it's coming and you don't know why but all the sudden I was trembling and crying and stuttering. I kept looking around...trying to find what triggered it.
I kept looking at the ugliest 3-D art I've ever seen. "Life is a bowl of cherries" it said, with a hideous rendition of fake cherries in a bowl, protruding from a hot pink frame, dotted with spots of orange. It was distracting me, but not in a good way.
The nurse went about her business, checking my vitals, my weight (lost 20 lbs, btw) and then handed me a tissue.
"The doctor wanted to do a [breathing test] on you, but we're going to wait okay?" she said gently.
I nodded. Wiped my eyes with a trembling hand and a wet, wadded up kleenex.
For a moment I was left alone, waiting for the doctor to come and that's when I realized what the trigger was:
On the wall there was a rack and in the rack, three boxes of gloves. Latex gloves.
The middle box had the blue gloves. The kind that police use and airport security uses and other unpleasant memories.
The two on the side held the white latex gloves.
I was immediately aware that was the trigger because when I looked at them again, I flashed back to being put in juvenile detention and the horrid things they do to you when you're sent there.
There's a required pap smear done, as well as anal and they spray you down with some kind of chemical to make sure to kill anything that might be on you. They make you bend over and order you to pull your buttocks apart....
Never realizing that you're crying inside - sure as hell can't cry outwardly - that you feel so violated, so horrified, so ...like your body is not your body.
My body has never been my body. That was taken long ago. I have trouble even to this day, showering or taking a bath.
This is part of my journey.....reclaiming my body, learning about it, despite my contempt for it as of now. Contempt because if I didn't have this body, maybe I would never have been molested or raped. It's illogical, I know, but it's beyond my mental control.
On another note, talked to Bill last night. He finished reading The Sum of My Parts by Olga Trujillo. It is by far the best book I've read as far as what I've gone through and what I'm experiencing. He asked me some questions about it and he got a much better understanding of what I am going through. I highly recommend this book to anyone who's been diagnosed DID, plus their partners.
It touched me that he read it. I asked Gary to, but he never did. Bill says Gary never wanted to understand PTSD or DID. I cried because he's right. Gary has no comprehension of how far back he set me on this healing journey. No concept, no clue. He would have, if he'd just wanted to know. Instead, he listened to everyone except me and now I'm still having nightmares about him and I can't see a truck or van like his without jolting inside as if firecrackers are going off in my blood cells. God...the powerful trigger he became is mind-blowing.
So good stuff going on, and bad stuff too. No therapy for two weeks is gonna kill me. The doctor didn't want me to leave the office without talking to Michelle (my therapist) but I told him she is not available. Once I figured out what the trigger was, I just let it run its course...let the memories flow...put myself back in the room with the gruesome bowl of cherries and breathed.
Good news is, I suppose, I'm no less healthy physically than last time. :)
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