Adjustment/change

Sad and hopeful all at once, along with all the in-between feelings.

I accidentally called Bill "Gary," today... Again.

Working hard to get through everything. Holidays don't help.

Those who know, understand; certain seasons, smells, movements, characteristics. So much.

I miss many, but have to believe my moving is a healthy step forward. I've spent numerous nights alone fighting the urge to cut.

Part of me wants to scream. But there's nothing but compliant silence and survival.

I am far, far away from myself... Whoever that is.  

Birthday

Dear daddy,

My birthday is coming up. It's this weekend.

It's the first one in my life that I've dreaded.

Like last Mother's Day I may or may not not receive a text message telling he happy birthday from my children. I don't blame you for that and yet some part of me I do.

This year I don't want to celebrate my birthday.

This year I don't want anyone to celebrate my birthday.

Because I wish I had never been born.

Tears

Tears fall without a sound, but scream so loud.

Today I cry for those who hang their heads. For those who cross the street, when they see people coming. For those whose voices are gone, replaced by what society demands of them.
Today I cry for the silent shame that weighs like an anvil on each shoulder of those who society pretends don't exist; the forgotten, unnamed, unlovable, unwanted. The faceless, the poor who "don't matter" and whose worlds simply do not and have not ever existed beyond the TV screen of 3,000 square foot homes with 84" screens.
Today I cry a deep, aching cry for the fear that is always felt, but never revealed and the anger that cannot be felt, but often comes out at the worst times - usually aimed at oneself.
I cry because I am so scared. So scared.
I cry for those who - like me - feel alone because we create our prisons. We have these prisons that both keep us captive, and keep us and everyone else safe.
I cry because it is a lonely, dark place. But it is our place.
Our only place.
I cry for those who - like me - have medical issues that go unattended because we cannot allow our bodies to be exposed. We'd rather bleed in pain, than be violated again.
Paralyzed by fear, I sit here in this room I've tried to make "home" and I know it is not - nor has it ever been - "home," and I try, with frustration, desperation and utter overwhelm to figure out what it is I am supposed to do now. What do I do next? I wish someone was here.

The Rest

Just sitting here in the bedroom, rocking, looking down and seeing that I made the bed wrong. You can see the top sheet from beneath the comforter. And you cannot see the bed skirt. 

I did miter the corners, but you cannot tell. That is something that daddy would beat us for if it was not properly done. 

And he always checked.

My first thought was to talk to Cindy and tell her, "I made the bed wrong." Some small, child-like part of me wanted to hear someone say, "that's okay."

Like being beaten for using too much toilet paper.

Daddy would watch us and make sure that the toilet paper didn't touch the floor as we unrolled it to wipe, in such private moments. But there were never any private moments. We never knew what to expect or when to expect it. 

This morning I stared at some of the flaws in the wall in my bedroom, and was reminded of the many holes and broken furniture in my childhood. Daddy's strong fists; his big arms and his powerful presence. 

I was reminded of always being afraid.

My door is now shut and I sit here alone, knowing nobody knows the secret agony, and there's really nobody I can tell it to because there really are no words with which to describe it. 

None of the beatings or holes in the walls or abandonments or embarrassments mattered, compared to the rest. 

The rest... The rest. How heavy it is, to feel "the rest" and all other things, threaded through time - torturous and painful - to "the rest."

All tied to a man it seems I surrendered my soul to. 

Daddy. 

Pictures and ghosts

Last night-after I discovered I had the photos I thought I did not have anymore-I collected them all and I put them in an envelope. There are not many photos of me as a child. At least, not that I know of. 

But I could not just leave them in an envelope. I went through them and I stared in complete disbelief and bewilderment. Most of them were pictures from my wedding day; I was 16 years old and daddy was there as well as grandma, pop, and others. 

Some pictures are of me and my younger brother when we were small. However, for me, those children never existed. I stared at the little knobby knees and the black strap shoes with the Easter dress and the blue lace-lined socks. For me this was an image of some other girl. She was wearing a dress and she was innocent and appeared to be at least somewhat happy, even though there was no smile on her face.

Cognitively I understand that this photo is of me and that it is a picture of me after my return from Pensacola, Florida. A time when my father molested my brother and I both, together and separately. It was after the time when he threw big black garbage bags full of his stuff - no explanation just angry words and yelling - as we banged on the front window, begging him not to leave us. I wonder why we begged him not to leave us. He hurt us every day. Still we held an unnatural (or, perhaps natural) adoration of him and he was daddy. 

So rather than put the photos back in the hat box that I have reserved for pictures, I put them on the bed next to me. My purpose was the hope that somehow some notion or some feeling might seep from the images into my subconscious mind as I slept. And maybe, perhaps, I might glean some kind of understanding of why I held this man's hand, I let him hold my child, and most troubling is the photo where we are embracing. 

I don't understand what I'm supposed to feel. Sometimes anger bubbles up but it's a fearful feeling and so I gear it towards something else or aim it at someone else, usually myself. 

Anger is a dangerous emotion. However I know it exists within me like a huge black, ball of tar. But this black bar of tar is explosive, so I avoid it. It tastes terrible; it feels terrible; and I don't want anything to do with it nor do I want anything to do with what makes me feel it or brings me closer to it. 

Cognitively I know this is just avoidance and distraction-the way I have lived my entire life. But now here I am, facing places I am afraid to go; Facing places within myself that I am afraid to see.

I slept with the pictures hoping that somehow some kind of energy, memory, something, anything might seep into my brain, into my dreams and give me some kind of insight.

Instead I awoke with a scattered array of childhood photos of a man I adore and adored my whole life. A man who hurt me more than anyone else could ever have.

Ice Cubes? Really??

Saw my "new" therapist today. This was our second visit. I knew - during our initial phone conversation when we set up our first appointment - that she was not right for me. She became "concerned" when I told her I get afraid and overwhelmed when I meet new people/doctors/social workers/etc. and that I would take a clonazepam before I came.

So you're concerned about me taking an anxiety medication for...anxiety?

Strike one.

When I met her, there just was no chemistry and I knew - by the way she talked and approached certain things - that she was not the caliber of help I need.

I had recently had a meltdown, in the bathroom. I collapsed on the floor, sobbing, angry, flooded, lost, confused, overwhelmd and I reached in the drawer and pulled out a razor and compulsively began slashing at my legs (this was about four weeks ago).

My (new) therapist, upon hearing my telling of this meltdown, suggested the next time I want to cut or self-harm, to try using an ice cube.

Great idea! I'll make sure and store some in the bathroom drawer!

Today she told me I need more intensive treatment than they can offer and she is going to see what she can find for me. Outpatient. I told her I won't do inpatient. I have my reasons, and there are many.

Vomited again this morning while brushing my teeth. Cannot adequately define the grotesqueness of this. She asked me why I think that happens.

!?!?!

Seriously?

Jesus.

I also told her I take offense to the term "Mental Illness." I do not have a "Mental Illness," but a Mental Disorder, with a bunch of sub-disorders (if you will) as a result of complex, repeated childhood trauma. I am not mentally sick (which is what an illness is). I am mentally debilitated at the moment due to circumstances beyond my control and for which my brain has developed coping and survival mechanisms out of sheer need and necessity for survival. I'd hardly classify that as a "mental illness."

Anyway that's just me ranting.

I'm being pulled in so many different directions that I can't find myself. That's what I told her and she understood that.

She told me I should do what I have to do, to take care of me.

That's a tough one.

"Mental Illness"

New therapist. New office. New Building. Fortunately I knew the taxi driver - Jim. An upbeat, dark-skinned, compassionate man who tells the story of his wife's death and his new relationship and how they travel. He's very keen on her. I hope his life is happy. He could retire - he's well over retirement age - but enjoys the interactions with his fares, and - like many, I suppose, would go nuts if he didn't work.

Anyway Jim knows a little of my story. Not hard to tell, when you see the scars on my arms and, now, on my legs. Self-mutilation. I've graduated now to burning, as well. It's quick, easy and done. No hair-pulling since (because of my agoraphobia) my doctor put me on an earth-sized doseage of Vitamin D. My nails and hair are now growing normally. I am grateful for that.

Anyway So...the new therapist, Anne. Bad vibes. Not optimistic.I suppose the first turn-off is that she is part of one of those conglomerates which has always turned me off. However, in this case - because I've called and left tearful, sobbing  messages to not take Judy away - I believe they're going to let me stay with her. So tired of losing people and I have built a rapport with Judy. She gets me more than most do, and she helps.

Oh hell I'm too wrapped up in shit right now to finish this blog.

Point is I don't like or trust her, don't expect much.

burn it down

Just wanna rip everything up. Tear everything apart. Burn it all down. None of it belongs to me. None of it suits me. The gifts. The flowers. The jewelry. The bedding. None of it.

I feel like a ghost and I want to be one. I don't want anyone to know or notice me. I'm not ready for that.

I hate me.

HATE ME.

Peace?

Had another nightmare last night - of him. Woke myself up screaming. God I wish he knew how horribly he hurt me. I wish he could feel the fear - even if just for a moment.

I recently met a woman who told me her father, too, had molested her but that he did 10 years in prison for it and died recently - in December.

"It was the first time in my life I've ever felt peace," she said. "Not that I wished him dead, just it was the first time I ever felt peace."

It made me cry. Her mother had been a staunch supporter of her through it all and I wondered - marveled - at that. Wondered what that would be like.

But then I kind of lost it and I realized I won't ever know when my father dies. How long does that mean I have to wait for peace? And what about the others? I won't know when they're gone. I cried for two hours over this. Sobbed.

Is that when you find peace after all this? When they're all cold in the ground or sitting in an urn on a mantle somewhere?

Knowing there's a rapist around every corner in every walk of life, will there ever be peace?

CT Snobs/friends/reality

Going back home today. I've been crying and crying. Parts of me just paralyzed by fear and trembling with anxiety. So much pain in Connecticut - a place I once revered, now just gray with disgrace.

There have been a handful of people who made me cry, just by being kind, but all-in-all it's a sheltered, unkind place that turns a snooty nose up and a blind eye to the atrocities that happen in REAL life. This was just reinforced for me yesterday when a wealthy family tried to get $20 a week from me to help get Trevor to the summer school program.

It's MAYBE (and I do mean MAYBE) two miles out of their way - their daughter goes there too - and Trevor would meet them on their route. Still this family - with their two nice cars and fancy house - want $20 a week from me? I get $180 a month in food stamps! Seriously!?

Clueless.

Much more to it but, to me, it epitomizes the general morality of this state (sorry to the nice people). Want me gone? Oh trust me, no more than I want to be gone, but treating people like second-rate garbage is inexcusable. Especially people in need and especially CHILDREN in need. But like I told them: if you can do it and you don't, shame on you.

I can't wait to get the hell away from this place.

Everything here was ruined by him.

I get sick to my stomach if I see the river or a boat or a white van or burgundy truck. I know how fake people act because of him. I was duped and it split my heart in two. I can't stand knowing what I know now and still live here. I can't wait to get AWAY!!

Of course, that's my Modus Operand: Run Away.

But like a new, not-really-friend-but-someone-who-is-smart told me: Get rid of the stress. You'll never get over the PTSD if you don't remove the stress from your life. I need that. God I need that. People - people like his brother and their friends and HIM and his friends would say things like, "stop living in the past" or "let go of the past" or "you gotta move on" or wtf ever their choice of words may be but the message is: GET OVER IT!

OMG if only - IF ONLY - I'd had just a spanking here and there and an emotionally suffocating mother and an absentee father. OMG if ONLY my father had just been "absentee" but no he had to be absentee AND a pedophile AND a violent psychopath and sociopath!! Oh Jesus these people (not all, but most - those who proclaimed to be my "friend" for the most part) just don't GET IT!!!!

Oh I'm so angry. God I'm angry. Probably at the wrong people, but for the right reasons.

And he....he wants me to "move on" or "get over it" and he doesn't understand what he DID TO ME! What he did to TREVOR! How he HURT US!

I know he will one day. I believe that, spiritually and I believe it's two-fold: I, too, will know what/how I hurt and/or frightened him but right now, I'm dealing with me and trying so hard to please so many people and do the right thing - always always always trying to do the right thing and why?

To be loved.

That's it.

Just to be loved.

</rant>

Again and again. I believe you.

Today went to River Valley Services. Lovely. I was dreading it. I was actually terrified of going until Cindy said she'd take me. At first she wasn't going to be able to and I am terrified of going to these places anyway, never mind alone. I am afraid to go anywhere alone.

For two hours I talked to Brianna. A pixie of a young black woman with fluffy hair, pulled back from a thin, pretty face. She was kind.


I - again - retold the synopsis of my life. The things that have happened, things I've done, places I've been. Smiled my way through it - cried just a little.

Cindy was there.

I caught her crying a couple times.

It occurs to me that I've told this story before - so, so many times - or at least in bits and pieces.

People say things like:

"Really?"

or

"No shit?!"

or

"Oh my God!"

or

"That's terrible!"

But it occurs to me that I have never heard anyone say, "I believe you."

This won't be the last time I tell this story. I know this. I knew it as we found our parking spot because I won't take part in a conglomerate for long. They're all the same and, trust me: I know. I've been in enough of them to know if you've seen one, you've seen them all.

I'm sure most of them care, but society doesn't so funding is minimal and we - the survivors and sufferers who desperately want to heal - become another file.

Oh that rant I could go on and on about but I won't.

What I will say is this: Michelle - the lying, misleading, untrustworthy therapist I spent almost a year with - made me realize some people don't believe you. She was the first time I ever thought, "Oh my God, she didn't believe me."

And today, I thought: People don't believe you. They don't.

Perhaps they can't.

For whatever reason(s) they can't say, "I believe you, and I love you anyway."

So much, that people don't know. So, so much.

So much.

Escape

Don't even have a clue how to start this blog. So many mixed emotions.

I left and spent the week with Bill in PA last week. Trevor stayed home. I made arrangements for him to have all he needed, plus emergency contacts, plus Cindy stayed with him Wednesday and Thursday night. I was grateful for that, although it makes my heart ache to know he opens up with her - and others - far more than with me. I know this is a natural thing, but I'd always thought Trevor would trust me enough to come to me with his problems.

What I discovered was his five year tenure in the life of Gary and the time he spent in HK Middle school, really traumatized him and hurt him and the whole time - the whole time - I was blind to it. There were times when I thought about leaving Gary and then thought better of it, because I thought the school was so good to Trevor, never realizing how badly he was struggling. Now, he refuses the help he desperately needs and I believe he will be in 10th grade again next year.

And there's nothing I can do about it.

Today - along with the rent - I sent a card to Tony in jail. I don't know how it will be received - his last words were not all that kind. That relationship is complicated, so complex and none of it is his fault, really. It's all me. At least the relationship part.

While in PA, after three days, I finally ventured outside to the pool. Middle of the day, nobody there. Mostly I stayed in the motel room - which was fine. I had work to get done.

But one day I did go out to the pool and sit for a little while. I had to go into the office and ask them to open it up. I had to interact with people. I felt a lot different there, than here. I still had bad dreams, but nothing like what I experience every day, here.

When Thursday rolled around, my anxiety started going up - the opposite of what I usually experience. I knew we had to head home the next day. Then Bill told me they asked him to work Saturday, so it eased just a little, until I spoke with the school's special ed coordinator. She told me Trevor was being argumentative and oppositional and not cooperating. She said they can't force him to do the work (he could - if he chose - to do the make-up work, earn extra credits, and possibly pass) and that "there are consequences in life."

I had to sympathize with her. I agree. But it hurts. I feel like I've failed him and I don't know what to do about it. His new relationship is obsessive. He obsesses over it as if it is all he lives for. And even at home he argues and is disrespectful. I don't know what to do about it. Grounding doesn't work. He just becomes more obstinate. Talking doesn't work. He won't talk. He gives, what I call, "non-answers" - which helps nothing.

I miss PA. Not necessarily PA but the lack of anxiety I felt there.

I met a group of people who work with Bill at the same place. Friday night we all sat out around the BBQ pits and grills and chatted and laughed. I sang. Met a guy named Ron whose gold tooth reminded me of St. Louis and, Lo' and behold, he's from St. Louis. In fact, just around the corner from where I lived.

I described to him where I'd lived, hung out, went to school, etc. and his response was, "Daaaaamn you WAS in the hood!"

In some strange way, it was nice to be validated.

He was familiar with the newspaper that ran the story about my kidnapping, although he didn't know the story. I asked him to please get me a copy of that paper so I can ask them about their archives. I want that article.

I laughed that night but I know it was partly because I was escaping. I drank quite a bit. I was friendly. I had originally sat out there under the trees and cried. Nobody was there - just me - and I cried over what to do.

As we drove home, I realized the more we live and experience, the more we see things that remind us of something else.

For me, seeing the water and boats and marinas turns my stomach. I feel sad because, for me, that is a big loss. I've always been a lover of the sea, but my experience with Gary ruined something beautiful. Trevor still suffers from it, as do I.

Just another monster. I wonder, sometimes, who the greater monster is: Gary or my father and my rapists. I expected to be raped and beaten and put through what I was put through by Daddy and my attackers. I never in my wildest dreams expected to be put through what Gary put us through.

A giant Italian monster who has ruined this place - and so many other things - for me, and for Trevor. As we drove back, Connecticut didn't seem nearly as pretty and colorful and full of life as it once did. When we first came here in 2005, it was colorful and beautiful and fresh. Now it's cluttered and grey and dismal.

Now I go back into isolation.

Thanks G.E.T.





To be happier in a place like Lancaster PA than here, says a lot. I don't like being inland - never have - but God it was nice to get away, even if the real "getaway" lasted just four days before the anxiety over returning kicked in.

Bill left to return back there about an hour ago. A sad time for me. And I'm already overwhelmed, knowing what I need to get done.

This place really drags me down. I wonder what it does to Trevor.

Thanks to all who helped me feel secure and safe leaving Trevor on his own. You're wonderful, beautiful people. He did good and had no problems (plus had plenty of food leftover!).

XOXOXO

Been Awhile

Tonight, I went outside in the dark, after Trevor brushed his teeth (not without playful argument), and sat at a plastic green table, hidden behind our duplex. My apartment is one of two - a big, pale, kind yellow house - converted only God knows when. It is the only building on our street surrounded and secured by tall, old trees and lush, thick foliage. Nobody could see me. 

None but the moon and stars. 

The moon faded in and out like it was playing peekaboo; the clouds, it's heavenly hands. More than once I gazed upon it asking, "what do I do? What am I supposed to do?"

I thought of Hannah immediately, wondering if I had touched her life just enough to make some difference. Wondering if - if I had - that were my only purpose here in this life. 

The past year has been horrendous and the past few weeks have been so painful. My son is in pain. I hear his heart crack and, yet, I know I must stand by and let it, while also being a soldier of a mother who pushes him forward, grasping at his best. Tonight I was momentarily relieved of that pain. 

I have so much to do tomorrow - much of it uncomfortable, some of it downright scary - yet I sat in the night, alone and I thought about my fortune. 

I sat on an old plastic chair and watched the solar butterfly as it changed colors. I noticed it stays red longer than any other color but I didn't wonder why. I just stared at it and then I listened to the crickets and the night sounds. I started deliberately smelling the trees and flowers and buds yet to bloom, the misty, dewy smell of life coming to life and my heart swelled. 

For the first time since I can recall, I felt peace with the moon's fading in and out. I felt peace with the dampness that promises color and fragrance. I felt peace and promise. 

I felt hope. I felt safe. 

I felt home. 

Triggered by his name

Just saw his name mentioned on FB. Another friend I guess I'll have to delete. Tagged him at the Pattaconk - just like old times, I guess.

My whole body jolted. Just seeing his name. Remembering the things he did.

It's been determined that Trevor will need therapy to deal with the years he spent with Gary. Having talked with two separate LCSW's about getting help for Trevor, they've told me it's not something he will talk to me about, beyond his usual "I won't ever let you live [your relationship with Gary] down." They said he's going to need to talk to someone who will listen to him talk about the things Gary put him through.

I feel horribly guilty about this. I knew it was an issue. Gary and I constantly fought over Trevor. Mostly because he believed Trevor should behave like a "normal" kid and do "normal" things. Trevor was a puzzle piece that didn't fit neatly into Gary's picture-perfect image.

The day he said to Trevor that he was going to shove his fist down his throat, I should have left. That day. That instant. In that moment.

Instead, I stuck around and allowed him to theoretically do it to both Trevor and myself and now we are both paying for it. What he put Trevor through - what I allowed him to put Trevor through - is a terrible mistake that I have to live with and learn to heal and move on. My stupidity, hope and blindness kept me from leaving, as well as his repeated promises of change. So now Trevor and I carry this enormous bag, filled with five years of pain and hurt and humiliation and not being good enough.

While he goes out to karaoke at the Pattaconk.

And he has the audacity - the sheer idiotic, unimaginable insolence - to think I'm obsessed and want him involved in my life?

I couldn't be far enough away from him and his lies and his fakeness and perversions and distortions.

So grateful to have people in my life who understand and who know how just driving north on Route 9 causes me enormous anxiety. They know - have seen themselves - the emotional, physical and mental effects of his abuse and neglect. They help me, talk to me and mostly just understand. For that I am grateful. Trevor is a different story, though. He hides his emotions or, at least, cannot identify them. Just speaks of his hatred of the man and those years in Haddam when he was the victim of constant badgering and put-downs.

We have a lot of healing to do.

Mother's Day

Every Sunday, around this time, is a sad time for me. It is not often that I have heard of a best friend like the one I have in Bill whose birthday was today. I awoke him with breakfast in bed after we stayed up til almost three a.m. just being together. Laughing, joking, talking.

I specifically asked that nobody contact me or anything for Mother's Day. I had many reasons. Frankly I found the day to be loathsome so I was grateful it fell on Bill's birthday.

After midnight, he told me something to the affect of, "I know you don't want to hear it, but I'm going to say it anyway: Happy Mother's Day, Cristina." and I started to cry. He apologized.

He got here Friday evening and we had a late dinner. One of his favorites: BBQ ribs with mashed potatoes. The next night - Saturday night - we all (he, Trevor and I) had fun experimenting with making (or attempting to make) the same kind of burrito I always order at Puerta Villarta restaurant. It's my favorite. As well as making (or trying to replicate) their habenero dip. We all cut up HOT STUFF - jalepenos, long red chilli peppers, Trevor cut up the carrots that will make your eyes water if you eat them. I'd warned him to not touch his eyes which he did, of course, at one point. Some of my fingertips are still burning. We had a lot of fun. A lot of playing around. Messy burritos but they were good. Just not as good as Puerta Villarta. I am afraid to go there - afraid I will see Gary and break down. It was the first restaurant he ever took me to on a date and we went there often.

Anyway, Saturday, we (Bill and I) decided to do all our tasks - laundry, groceries, etc. - so that today we would have nothing to do but relax and enjoy our time together. I thought it would be nice for Bill to have a task-free day for his birthday.

But...because he's my best friend and I know him so well and love him so much...

I know his reasons were different.

I know that he knew I would receive perhaps one phone call - from my daughter, Meagan - for Mother's Day and he knew if I heard from Tony at all it would be a simple text message and that Trevor would probably not even mention the day. He knew these things and so Saturday, as we were doing our tasks, he treated me to a day of spoiling.

He bought me some things that made me smile, made me happy and even squeal with delight. Yesterday was wonderful. I spent it with my best friend and then spent the evening with he and my son, making fools of ourselves in the kitchen, completely winging it, to come up with some kind of mexican concoction dinner.

I knew that Saturday was Bill's back-sided way of giving me Mother's Day because he knew the actual day would hurt.

A Buddha that I have always wanted and for which I have the perfect spot. Incidentally, it sits next to a fountain given to me by Tony for Mother's Day about three years ago and to the left, is a plant given to me by Tony about four years ago.

A solar butterfly that illuminates and changes colors to go in the garden we planted together.

Pots and soil and stones I needed to transplant the cacti and succulents we got together to put in my window box. He also got me the seashell on the top left because I needed one more thing to put up there, to balance it out.

This one made me squeal. A "Money Tree" - yes that's what it's really called. I've been wanting one and now finally have one. He bought the soil and pot I would need to transplant it and helped me to do so.

For Mother's Day, my first messages was a kind, loving and thoughtful text from who I refer to as my surrogate daughter, Hannah. As expected, I received a phone call from my daughter and a text from my son. "Happy mothers day mom" and, of course, it was just another day for Trevor and he made no mention of it.

I am unsure of my feelings about all this. I know Bill was being Bill...being kind, loving and (attempting to be) discrete. But I know he was trying to make my Mother's Day special in some way, because he knew my heart would be hurting.

I am so grateful to him and for him. The light he brings into my world and my life is like magic. We plan, one day, to leave this place and go somewhere far away, somewhere peaceful, tranquil and kind. Someplace that suits us.

For now, that is what we work towards because whether or not we ever marry is still to be decided but one thing is for sure: I know who my soul mate is. I know I think of him every minute and worry for and about him constantly. I know I go to sleep thinking of him and awaken with him in my mind. I know he changes my life, my mood, everything simply by being. He makes me laugh and he understands me and he loves me anyway and so I know, there will never be another man in my life.

None but Bill whose kindness, compassion and wisdom cannot be matched.

Obsessive?

After my last post, I felt this nagging, nagging, nagging inside. So much happening in my heart and mind but the one word that stuck out most for me was "obsessiveness" - he accused me of being obsessive.

God.

My ex - with whom  I spent five years of mine and my son's life - was fake. The whole thing was fake, at least on his part.

I don't obsess. I simply hurt. I can't take the week he took, to get over the love I felt for him. He also said, "I wish you no ill or good will" which dug deep because I have tried - I have things that belong to him, rightfully, that I wanted to return to him, but to which he has never responded. Photos of him and his family and his son. Things that are irreplaceable and which I consider important.

When I met him, there were no family photos. Nothing. In fact, there was no semblance of his own life. He simply allowed people to manufacture a life for him, while he "finagled" and wormed his way through this and that.

I cannot fathom loving someone, and not wishing them good will.

He threatened me because of my posting of my experiences with him online. He doesn't want others to know how perverse he can be. And yet, I humiliate myself by posting these very blogs. I do not do it out of malice, but out of introspection, self-examination.

And pain.

According to him, his new relationship began weeks before I left him (a pattern actually because he - by his own admission - did the same thing to his girlfriend before me).

I found this song I'd written about him. I cared. I still care. I just don't know or understand how someone can get so close to you, only to kick you when you are at your lowest.

Why?

I still care. God, I would never want to see him hurt - not that I ever want to be with him again, but I want him to find peace and happiness which, I'm sure, he swears he has, but he doesn't. He doesn't know love, and he doesn't know that he doesn't know love. Not for women, anyway.

I learned a lot through my years with him - some good, some bad - but I learned. I hold onto sentimental things and teach my son (and his new girlfriend) that from every relationship, there comes something valuable, you just have to find it, embrace it and let it enrich you.

But my story is different; it is full of pain and a history of abuse, mostly the kind rarely seen in the sheltered and safe communities of Connecticut (not that Connecticut doesn't have it's 'parts') but nothing, in my opinion, like what I experienced.

Compassion is lacking here because people - like him - wish not to acknowledge that such atrocities happen to children, to people, to women.

And then there are others who dare to listen, who dare to believe. To me, they are heroes because they know, they learn, and they listen and through this, make such a huge difference.

For me, this love I felt - this deep, honest love I felt for him - was, to him, expendable, The same as I have always been and now - because I tell my truth - my experiences, my feelings, my heartache, my confusion and pain - I am the monster.

Though I've yet to truly reveal the true monster. And I won't. Because I have more compassion than that.

I don't write my stories out of vindictiveness or some need to get revenge.

I write my stories because I am afraid to speak and always have been. The stacks of journals going back to 1995 can attest to that. There were more, but they have been lost or taken or thrown away.

I mean no malice and have spoken well of him, as well as poorly of him. I have spoken honestly of him. Of my experiences with him.

And there will be more.

I will never falsify myself again. I will never degrade myself by being something I am not, again. I will continue to be honest, authentic and attempt - through this - to heal.

I am not obsessed with him. I am terrified of all the reasons he gave me to never set foot outside my door. I am afraid to go anywhere, be seen by anyone. I am terrified in my own home. I have nightmares and flashbacks and heart-wrenching memories that make me feel might heart may explode because of the cruelty through which he put me.

I also have fond memories.

All are true.

He didn't always have it easy growing up. He shared, tearfully, with me, things that he endured. Some might compare them to the rapes and beatings and abandonment I endured, but I do not because his tears were real, his pain was real, no matter the degree.

It mattered to me and many nights, I sat stroking his hair, drying his tears, listening intently as he shared with me the pain of growing up the way he did.

The following is a song I wrote for him:

Help Me

He drew 'help me'
in the basement
tiny teching fingers
carving his lament
eternal marks of
his torment
the words 'help me'
on the floor
of the basement

His baby tears filled
the jagged grooves
with every letter
his tiny hands drew
and later when
the fighting was through
he went to his bed
with an empty 'I love you'

It's for his own good
they said....always for him
they'll hit him
beat him, again and again
they'll glare in anger
-make him a man -
with the belt
that papa
holds in his hand

with the critical eye
of a mother who cries
who tells him his wrongs
 never his rights
he'll become a man
afraid to move or try
live or die, afraid
to see or look or feel....

...but he'll become a man...


He never commented on this song I wrote but God how I felt the words as I wrote them, even though it seemed so small. Back in the day, being beaten by a belt was the way it was. For me, it was just...whatever was handy. But I understood and I cared. Truly cared.

And I knew  it was because of a suffocating mother that he would never be a good partner.

Emotions, for him, are black and distant, charred and gone.

Obviously.

More threats

Threatened about my blog again. To stop posting defamatory remarks.

Let ME be clear:

I am writing about MY experiences in MY life as is my right. There is nothing in my blog that is false or untrue and I will not stop writing about my process of growing and healing and hurting and the things I am going through just because of threats made to me.

If you - or your friends - do not wish to read my blog, then don't but there is not one fallacy in it. You argued many times that people shouldn't do things they don't want to have posted on the web. I heard that argument over and over again.

Well, sir, just because of your embarrassment of the things you did and do suddenly this argument doesn't apply to you.

You - and anyone else in my life  - are a part of my story. A story you've known since we first met that I would write.

I'm glad you've moved on  although I am still sickened by many things that you did to me and I am still greatly triggered by many things associated with you but I absolutely will not be bullied by you or controlled by you ever again.

I was simply asking for a couple of things that are of great importance to me... my childhood photos (the only ones I have) and my journal which I must have left behind. The fact that you have felt the need ever since July of last year to exert your control over me - show me who's "boss" - speaks loudly to your character.

But I forgive you.

Regards

P.S. I have absolutely no desire - nor have I ever - to "keep you involved" because of the damage you did not just to me, but to my son as well. I, too, have moved on and am surrounded by people who love and support me through a very difficult time; people who are able to step outside of their own egos and embrace me with compassion and understanding. Also, I would be very careful about your threats. Just a fair warning. (I've resisted the urge to correct your spelling error).

Email:
I've rec'd a number of phone calls from you.. in each you've asked for somethng, or me to
look for something you're missing; photos, journals, etc.

Let me be very clear:

I do not have, nor am I aware of any of these things in my posession.

I am entirely uninclined to look for them in light of your continuing posting of defamatory
writings about myself via your blog and other venues. To believe I would tolerate your
continued publication of obsessive and untrue rants about me and then also be willing to
assist you in finding something from a year ago is ludicrous.

I simply wish to have no further association with you. I wish you no ill or good will either, I
have moved on with my life and I hope you find the mental maturity to move on with yours.

I am further demanding that any writing, blogs, internet postings or the like wherein I am
mentioned in any way be immediately removed. You seem to think there are no
consequences for your actions. Unfortunately that's not the case. If you think it's a way to
keep me somehow involved, it's failed miserably. My recourse will be to simply assign the
problem to an attorney to handle should it continue.

Don't bother replying to this email, I won't get it.

Perhaps YOU should "do the right thing" as you mentioned in the latest
call.

Whores and Martians

After my blog on Forgiveness and Judgment, I received a brilliant email from a friend. It was a very well-thought-out, compassionate and knowledgeable email and there were things said in it, that really set me back, made me think.

I spoke with my APRN about it today - gave her a small paraphrase from the email - to which her response was, "She's exactly right." My APRN is fantastic and has experience working with PTSD and DID.

The paraphrase was something like, "If I insisted you were a martian, you would laugh and think I need my head examined. It's the same with words like 'whore' and you have to dig down and find that wounded part of you that believes you're a whore and help heal that part, hold that part, assure that part that it's safe now and she's not a whore."

She said many other wise things. It hurt in some ways - mostly, though, because that "part" (or those "parts") of me, I avoid. I abhor. I don't want to see them. I don't want to hear or feel them. That makes it a bit difficult to embrace them. I guess it's sad to know some parts of me are crying inside, and if I saw someone else - some other child - crying fiercely over their pain - I would embrace them and comfort them but for me, it just feels so disgraceful, even though I know it's an important part of healing.

I've been working on a story. I'm up to about 30,000 words. I've written it in the third person and that keeps me detached from it. I've also fictionalized 80 percent of the first part of it, but it's my story....or at least, the story of a girl I no longer wish to acknowledge but who seems to control my thoughts, reactions, relationships.

Writing the story, brings up a lot but what's missing is the emotional element. I can't connect, can't understand. I can only imagine what she must have felt, what she must have believed.

Judy (my APRN) says it might be good for me to write about these things - the things it brings up. Truth is, I wish I had someone there, who knew what questions to ask.

"What did you feel when this/that happened?"

"What did he/she look like/"

"What was the environment like?"

"How did you respond? Why?"

Because these elements are missing. It is just as if I am telling someone else's story. Exactly like that. Exactly like it's always been. From a distance, looking through a lens at someone else's life and experiences.

It's a dream of mine, to publish this book. God how many times I have started it and never finished. So many unfinished manuscripts. But this one is different. I have avoided it over the past week. I've shared it with four people - it contains some humiliating facts about myself - so I have only shared with a select few and of them, only portions.

It is hard to write. Hard to remember. Hard to connect. Hard to stay focused.

Thank you, my friend, for your email. And RevAli, for your response. It is nice to hear words of wisdom, of healing, of guidance. Sometimes I feel like I'm hanging by a rope over a chasm and it's about to snap and all I can do is cling on and cry.

My relationships are suffering (except with Bill) because of the distance I've put between myself and the outside world. Most recently I suffered a severe epiphany which brought me great pain. Great, great pain and deep shame and I can't even bring myself to write about it. Perhaps one day I will.

For now, I cry almost nightly because of it. More and more shame, piling on.

Seems too much to share, and too much to bear and sometimes I just have to hang onto moments like this weekend when Bill came and forced me to buy a nightgown and robe. It's the first time in ...I don't know how long, I bought something for myself. Something I really wanted. He helped me plant flowers, and bought me some cacti to make a cactus garden in my dining room window box where the heat is too much for anything else. Somehow I have to hold onto those good moments, according to Judy. Let them in, let them permeate me.

I like that idea.

She told me that I have to learn to do this so when I  get flooded and overwhelmed, I won't shut down so automatically because that's exactly what I do. I get three text messages at once and I  go on auto-pilot. The phone rings and dinner's cooking at the same time, I  go on auto-pilot. I have an appointment and the school calls - autopilot.

She said this is something I learned very young and it is now automatic. So automatic that it happens even when I don't realize it. She is right.

Sometimes I think back on my life when I didn't have it so bad. I mean, the bills were paid and I had my kids and my husband. He was a bit (okay, a lot) controlling so we didn't have any friends and obviously I had little to no family but that was okay with me, because I had my husband and my babies.

I was going to make a life for them, better than the life I had.

I wanted them to become better than I had ever been. I wanted them to know love. Unconditional love.

Forgiveness/Judgment

Just finished watching "Woman Thou Art Loosed: On the 7th Day" and I'm still aching. I wish everyone knew what it felt like. I loved the part where she says she feels like a visitor in her own home. It's the only thing I've ever felt and as soon as she said it, tears began to fall. Oh I know that feeling. In fact, it's the only feeling I've ever known. I don't know what "home" is supposed to feel like.


I don't want to give too much away about the movie but I know - and have lived - that life of trying to leave your past behind. I still live it. Some of the things said in the movie almost pierced me. Forgiveness - when they uttered the word - repulsed me, and still does. That's my anvil to stay chained to. At least for  now.

For now, there is a fine line between "I forgive you" and "there's nothing to forgive." The line is so fine, that I cannot even stand on it. It exists within me somewhere, blurry and intangible, unrecognizable. The disconnect too profound, forgiveness of what? Something that happened to someone else? Forgiveness of things I cannot remember or feel or acknowledge?

Maybe forgiveness is difficult if you blame yourself - if you think everything that happened to you is your fault. Then you have to forgive yourself. But then, what if you don't believe it - cognitively....don't believe it was your fault? What if you're purely intellectual and scientific about it, rather than spiritual/karmic about it?

So many blurry lines and unanswered (and un-answerable) questions but I like that movies like this, make me think, really think. I like that they make me ache - remind me that something inside me is still alive.

Only recently have I discovered so many secrets. God...so many secrets. Secrets kept from me and, thus, kept from every- and anyone in my life.

So everything seems like a lie. Even sacred things. Just all seem like a lie.

But then some things come into clearer focus and they seem true. True with a capital "T."

Someone I once trusted and confided in - told a little about my past - turned on me and called me a whore. The word hurt by itself, but it was - in this instance - said over online chat in big, bright bold letters (as big as the letters could be made): "WHORE."

I've never forgotten that. He said it multiple times but he finished with those big, bold, capital letters: "WHORE" and now it's etched in my mind. I was, and am judged. I don't know how to forgive that.

I wonder how it feels when you forgive. There are things in my recent past that, when they flash in my mind, cause me to flinch and sometimes physically make me sick. I can't get past the nausea or the jolt enough to forgive. So...how does that work?

Addendum:

It is things like this that make me want to cut or give me the compulsion to drive that razor as swiftly as I can across my arm (or legs or whatever). The deep-down, soul-shattering belief that words like "WHORE!" and "FAKE!" define you when all you've ever tried to do is outrun them. Those words. Those horrid, horrid words. Adjectives better assigned to animals, by animals. This was instilled in me - this filth, this agony, this self-image that I am and will forever be a whore and nothing more. Yet... those who you let in, those you dare to trust - even just a little - inject you with the needle of judgment and you are thrown back into this darkness that is the vision of yourself. Your Self. Whatever (and whoever) that may be.

How can I forgive those who belligerently and deliberately throw these daggers? I am expected to. They expect me to forgive and forget.

But I can't.

I'm still trying to figure out the things that give me those labels to begin with.

Meanwhile, I must be punished or at least reminded that I am alive.

He/they doesn't/don't understand. They never, ever will.

Emptiness (Poem) (possible trigger)

How can empty
get any more hollow?
There are no seeds;
no strings to follow
The darkness gets darker
no moon, no stars
you talk to loneliness
show your scars
but none other can see
nor hear the shrieks
from a deadened body
from whence blood leaks
at the whim of despair
the quick slits release
drops of blood
moments of peace
a ghastly reminder
we still survive
crimson droplets
prove we are alive
the reaper grows near
whispers your name
begs your surrender
to the monstrous pain
Consulting with loneliness
you quietly lament
secretly wishing
with honest intent
natural causes
will take you away
a coward to the end...

...so it seems, anyway.

(C) Cristina D. Kuptzin-Johnson, 2013

Sex/Orgasms Survivors

Saw a boat on a movie. Just now.

Trying to distract myself, but then I saw the boat.

It had a fly bridge. Something I would not have known if not for my years with Gary. God we had great times on that boat. At least it seemed. Most memorable for me......

We started delving into sexuality and my sexual dissociation - with the help of his therapist, Dorica - and we started talking about it, openly, honestly.

Truth is, we went to Selden's creek (May be Seldon's creek) and tied up there. That night, I remember was so awkward. We were always so awkward alone. Unable to be together without some kind of cerebral stimulation or some task to do.

There was never quiet. Never motionlessness or simpleness. Always something happening. Being alone, wasn't something we did well.

But that night, on Seldon's Creek (Selden's Creek?), I decided to try - try - to be sexually present, unlike times in the past. You see, Gary had a piercing stare when he made love and it frightened me, as well as the noises he made. Probably part of why I dissociated.

But this night, I decided I would try - try to stay present.

This night, he was different. He was far more gentle than times passed. He had touched my face and talked to me. Talked with me. We sat on the bunk and talked and he kissed me and was tender. There were things he did that were still uncomfortable for me, but I let them go, continued gripping as tightly as I could to that strand of present moment.

We made love on Selden's creek (or however it's spelled) and I remember a vision I had. I've actually drawn it, and I described it to Dorica afterwards.

I drew it and entitled it "Orgasm" because I couldn't describe it. I  could only draw it. Still, talking with Dorica afterwards, she said she was interested in seeing what would come of the drawing.

In the boat that night, as I tried - for the first time ever in my life - to stay present, I experienced something I never had. Darkness. A white, dangling package, surrounded by darkness, held by a tiny string.

The implication - at least in my mind is that even as I felt the physical sensation of orgasm, I was alone. He was not there with me. And for me, what is orgasm anyway? Something I discovered on my own, on the gossip of other girls in a group home, hundreds of miles away, via the shower massage. Something they laughed, joked and teased about. Orgasm is bad, ugly, dirty.

Yet here I was on this boat, tied to a beautiful tree, on this beautiful creek with this man I loved trying so desperately to hold onto that moment. Trying to assign some different meaning to something that brought nothing but filth to my mind.

Enjoy sex? Really? Me? How horrid! Still, it was different, and I had questions bouncing around in my head. "Is this what it is supposed to be? Should I have felt that? Should I feel this?"

Anyway, I tried. I desperately tried to overcome decades of sexual dissociation. Tried to lie to myself. Told myself those awkward or "dirty" moments were all in my head and this man - Gary - truly loved me. He did, after all, touch my face. He did these things.... he did other things that I didn't want him to do, but true to my nature (and training), I allowed him to do because they're things a man needs to do, right? I let those slide out of my psyche, attributing my discomfort to my own issues.

He'd done nothing wrong.

When it was over, we left, went south on the Connecticut River and headed to Sag Harbor. It was a windy night. We spent the night together, again alone. It was nice, but nerve-wracking because we were out on anchor and the wind was unforgiving. I cooked dinner for him - a special dinner: Tuna steaks with all the fixings and we ate in the cockpit of the boat.

A goose came to visit and many pictures were taken.

I wore a summer dress. Strapless. Teal. Comfortable. Nothing underneath.

Nearby, two or three boats floated - also on anchor - and I, still trying to make sense of our night on Seldon's Creek, was torn and confused. Did he love me? His eery glare at the time of his orgasms (and during sex) did not change that night, even if other things did. It was as if my brain was on tumble, in a dryer, and everything was mixing up. I kept seeing that image, that haunting picture and wondering: Is this what it is like?

After dinner, he thought it appropriate to have sex there, in the cockpit, under the lights, clearly visible to nearby boats, should they want to watch. I went along. The sand in the paint of the side decks dug into my naked breasts but I held my breath and took what I had to take. It was making him happy, right?

In those moments, I was nothing more than a street whore, serving the same purpose I always had: Pleasing a man. Doing whatever he wanted. I owed him. He was not tender. He was not loving. He was not gentle. He almost seemed proud that he had a slut like me on his boat who would fuck him right there in front of everyone. A slut with no dignity, no self-control, nothing.

And, I suppose, at that moment I did not. I had none of those things. I was nothing. Nothing but a ragged piece of ass that could cook a good meal and screw afterwards, in front of whoever wanted to watch.

There was no white box that night. No question of whether or not this is the way it's supposed to be.

I knew it wasn't.

Fucking me amid a bunch of other boats and boaters, in the lighted cockpit, me, doing all the things he expected, was not romantic nor healing - which was the purpose of my therapy at the time. Sexual healing. He'd even read small portions of the small steps that had to be taken to reach sexual health yet.....

When it was over, I did as always: Pretended it was great. I loved it. Despite the lack of tenderness. No kisses, no kindness. Just that all-present awkwardness we shared and - thank God - I could not see his penetrating stare.

In 15 minutes, everything from Seldon's creek vanished.

Everything except the drawing.

Today I Cry Again

Today I cry again, partly for thoughts that can never be shared - written or otherwise. Private, secret thoughts and images that a woman should never see or think.

I cry, too, because I am lonely and because I have sought help and because I am afraid and uncertain. I cry, too, because as I write Ekopi (an autobiographical skeleton of what is my umpeenth attempt at trying to tell my story), I experience things I wish to not experience.

I learn things, I wish I didn't know about myself but some part of me is glad to learn. The smart part of me, I suppose, is glad to know it.

Then part of me wishes to just stay ignorant. To carry daydreams of a sheer, white, flowing dress, blowing in the wind amid a field of wildflowers as my lover looks on, protecting me, guarding me, keeping me safe. Carefree and unburdened. Desperately in love and safe.

Safe.

This place does not feel safe to me anymore. It was already unsafe, but now even more so.

And my thoughts - so erratic and irrational - that I find myself hard to live with.

I could never have the audacity to compare myself to him, but my all-time favorite author - Edgar Allan Poe - held such deep sorrow in his heart and despair and it contributed greatly to his creativity and brilliance as an author.

I know, now, what courage that must have taken for him. For him to delve so deeply into his own wounded psyche and dig and dig and dig and find the darkest truths, the most monstrous of our capabilities and the most macabre thoughts that we cannot admit we think.

There are few that I can talk to. Or, at least, few I can tell the truth to.

But lately it seems like the idea of giving up gets easier and easier every day.

I keep seeking help.

There is none.

Not for a girl like me.

Again, I just want to run away. Run away, run away. God I wish I could just fly...just fly away. But the truth is, every time I've run away, I was deluded by the illusion of freedom. I was never free.

I am still not free.

The Photographer and the Doberman

I sent this to the Sidran Institute in the hopes they might use it...pass it on to some of their providers.

There are many "professionals" out there, who do not know and cannot fathom how to handle an "incorrigible teenager" who doesn't fit neatly into their DSM diagnoses and treatments.

I hope it helps someone.

True Scenario from a Real Former ‘Incorrigible Teenager”

I am 13 years old. I have survived on the streets now for about two years, during which time I’ve been beaten, raped, stabbed, shot at, bought and sold. Before that – before I can remember – I was repeatedly sexually assaulted, raped, beaten, humiliated, abandoned and hurt. I have suffered multiple STD’s that have gone untreated because I refuse to be ‘locked up’ so I just keep running away. I do not trust you. I do not trust anyone. Especially the police and especially the system.

What pisses me off the most, is when a caseworker or social worker or psychiatrist comes at me as if they know me. As if there’s some anecdote in their fancy scholarly books that describes exactly what it feels like to be penetrated by a man whose penis feels it may well split your body in two or how it feels to suckle your father’s penis when it is supposed to be a bottle in your mouth.

These people who may very much be well-intended, are too pushy and you are the very ones I will hate. I mean hate. I hate you because you don’t know me. You can’t know me. Yet, you pretend you do and you act as if you have all the answers. You come at me with machine-gun questions and I have developed my survival skills to the point where I can answer every rapid-fire question with the perfect answer. Exactly what you want/need to hear.

Because I am a survivor.

Plus I know, if I don’t say or do whatever it is you expect for me to say or do, you will strap me down, stick a needle in my ass while men stand on watching, without regard for the nothingness that is me. What little dignity there is – if any – is dissolved in that moment. Or you’ll stick me in a group of other “incorrigible teens” who are supposed to share their stories but who, like me, are probably just saying everything you need to hear. Giving you ‘just enough’ so you can write on your notes that so-and-so is being cooperative and appears to be making progress.

And then so-and-so will go into some foster home somewhere and run away again because so-and-so, knows nothing else. There is no home for dirty little girls like us. We foul up everything and everyone we touch. We are cloaked in disgust, semen, disease. Our scarlet letter is “W” – stands for “whore” – because that’s all we have ever been. That’s all we’ve ever been good for. These horrid, wretched, ugly bodies that we hate so much that we cut, starve, stab, burn and otherwise maim because we hate them so badly.

But….

There’s another scenario that I want to share from my own personal experience.

Through dozens and dozens of foster homes and group homes, being a ward of the state, belonging nowhere, having nobody, I chose solitude and trust was something I never knew. Ever.

But there was one group home where I met a woman. She was a counselor there. She was also a photographer.

Unlike the other counselors who tried to tell you your problems or ask invasive questions, this one did not. She asked nothing of me. She didn’t try to get close to me or push me. I will use an analogy.

I am the beaten, dog-fighting Doberman, abandoned for losing a fight. I’ve been trained to hate, to fight, to bite.

This counselor sees me, frothing, angry, bloody, mistrustful, and she says not a word as I stand snarling at her from the corner of the room.

She basically ignores me and goes on to piece together the fancy contraption that is her complex camera. I, being the raging angry dog that I am, see her sit down in a non-threatening manner, and my chemistry changes. I see no threat so I, too, sit down, but my eyes remain fixed. I stay prepared – ready to jump at her throat with one false move.

But she continues on with her task. She lifts her camera to take a photo, and my head pops up with the movement. What is she doing?

She is pointing the camera in the opposite direction, away from me. Not even looking at me. Not even acknowledging my presence. I lay my head back down on my bloody paws, and watch vigilantly.

She takes a few more pictures, and then she starts to speak – almost to herself – “Too fuzzy,” or “Wrong lighting,” or “Wrong lens” or “Damn, that was off-focus.”

She pauses, looks at me and I raise my head again, suspicious.

“You know, I think I need to get a new lens,” she says to me. “This one is starting to get foggy and I think I got some sand in it.”

I cock my head to the side. I don’t know what she is talking about but at least she is not coming near me. I am curious. Why isn’t she?

She does this day after day, every day. Never imposing, always calm, always with her camera. Sometimes she brings me pictures and she asks me my opinion. “Do you think this one is too much?” she asks me.

Eventually, I move closer. Just a little.

And closer.

Just a little.

She takes her camera apart and puts it back together again. She switches the lenses and the flashes. She even takes my picture and then shows it to me.

I move closer. Just a little.

She shows me the picture of myself. She tells me it’s a great shot. She doesn’t patronize me and tell me I’m beautiful or gorgeous or pretty or anything else. Just says, “It’s a great shot.”

She does not know me. She cannot know me. And she makes no pretense to. She is simply calm and consistent. She shows me the buttons on her camera because now I have moved close enough that my nose almost touches her thigh. She does not try to touch me. Just continues to show me her prized possession.

Soon I feel this desire to show her something of my own. To give something of myself to her, even if I am not sure she will take it, nor what she would do with it.

So, one day, she comes and she sits in the doorway and I scoot a little closer. I rest my scarred nose on her thigh. She does not touch me. Instead, she smiles at me, accepting me.

She still asks no questions. “How did you get this scar? What happened here? What about your parents?”

Nothing. She simply sits there, being who she is, and allows me the space to be who I am. She was the first and only person I ever dared trust.

I was taken away from her – moved to a new place – but I won’t ever forget the gentle, non-invasive way she reached me, deep inside. At least, deeper than anyone else ever had. She gave me herself, instead of expecting me to give myself to her.

I will never forget the photographer at Babbler State Park in Missouri.

No Safe Place. Heartless man.

Bill got home earlier than normal last night, after his drive from Coatesville. It was so good to see him. Over the previous 24 hours, I had gone through this sort of emotional awakening that both hurt, and felt  good, reveling to me things I secretly hold inside. I don't care, yet, to share, but it was a profound experience and very emotional.

I wasn't really quite sure how I was going to handle seeing him when he walked through the door; just knew I wanted to look into his green eyes. That's all I wanted.

I felt good. I felt safe. We embraced and I felt something I haven't felt since I last  felt it with him. It was a closeness and a trust. Something I've never shared with anyone. It was confusing and exhilarating at the same time. Part of me felt alive, trustful and adventurous. I felt like I had when I had met him almost 11 years ago. There was someone here who I knew, who knew me, who I trusted.

At my suggestion, we decided to walk down to the Ivoryton Pub and have a couple of drink before dinner. It's been so long - so long - since we went out anywhere. Finances didn't allow it and time just seems to melt away but we were both excited to get outside the walls of this apartment and explore our new neighborhood.

We went to the pub. Previously, we had questioned whether or not we wanted to go there because they proudly have a rebel flag flapping over their door, next to the American flag so it made us wonder about the clientele. Still, we decided to give it a shot.

We went in and I played a game on the Megatouch. We met the bartender - Donna - and each ordered a Corona with lime. Donna was very pleasant and the atmosphere was friendly. Seemed a lot of people knew a lot of people. We met a guy named Marcus who talked to us briefly about his work at the Ivoryton Playhouse. He was nice.

We went out back for a cigarette -Donna asked one of the waitresses to show us the path leading out to the smoking area- and we had a cigarette. We came back in and put $5 in the jukebox. There was a pretty good selection. We were enjoying ourselves. We ordered two more Corona's as we took our seats at the bar. We accommodated a couple who had come in and needed another stool so we moved down so they could sit together. All-in-all, everything was going swimmingly.

Then, we decided to go have another cigarette.

As we walked down the path towards the smoking area, we passed the kitchen. We paused a moment and I saw George Lincoln. He was a casual friend of mine and Gary's. Nothing close, mind you. I mean I don't recall seeing him at any parties or having him on the boat but we met sometimes when we'd go to the Pattaconk and he was bartending. We felt bad for him when he lost his job there. George was slow, but he was nice. He always knew what Gary wanted to drink so really, he was among those who were Gary's friends, and I was just Gary's girlfriend.

So I said hello to him, told him it was good to see him. Asked him how he was doing. Joked around a little with the kitchen staff, asking what the best thing on the menu was. All told, the interaction was about three or four minutes and I told George, again, that it was good to see him.

We went out and had our cigarette. We came back in.

We sat down and we were going to order one more thing (our music was playing) and Donna suddenly came up to us and said she was told she's not to serve us anything more.

There was no explanation. We asked why. Asked what was wrong.

She said she  didn't know, just that the manager had said we weren't to be served anymore.

I knew immediately why.

George.

And Gary.

And his rumors and lies.

I felt so foolish. I had put on make up and dared to venture out, trying to meet new people in the neighborhood, maybe even develop friendships or acquaintances but instead, I was singled out because of vicious lies and rumors by a man who ....oh Don't get me started. I've been very, very kind when it comes to the things I could say and/or do to make his life hell.

But still, the damage he did to my life here - even as I've tried so hard to build something safe and secure for me and Trevor - is irreparable. And he could care less. He thinks it's some big joke. And those who listen, those who believe him, are fools.

He's a cruel, cruel man who did horrible things to me and to my son and like an idiot, I stayed. Some people witnessed it, many did not.

He's very clever.

Up to this point, my fear of going outside, of being seen, of going anywhere, was based on the rumors he told others. Up to this point, it was under my control because if I didn't want to be seen, I didn't have to be. I could lock everyone out, hide. Stay away.

But this one time. God dammit this one time, in my own neighborhood, where I've tried to move on and build a new life and truly heal....

This one time, he brought it into my home. He attacked me through his viciousness and vindictiveness vicariously through his "friends" who believe everything he says.

Well done, Gary. Just remember, I won't ever touch or harm you - I loved you - but karma will, even though you don't believe in it. You believe in nothing, except your own inflated ego and that, too, will destroy you. I needn't do a thing.

We had our two corona's and we left, me crying, sobbing, collapsing, in total disbelief.

Suddenly, this was no longer home.

There's never been home. I've never been home.

I thought I was building a home.

Now I want nothing more than to disappear.

Having my secrets - my past, my issues, my pain - broadcast to every town within 50 miles invades every sense of self I have, which is very little. The work I'm doing to help myself and all the pain I've gone through with every memory and all the things I'm working on for myself, seemed to just be for naught.

Because last night, Gary came back and made sure - vicariously - that I would never belong here. I would never have friends here. I will never belong here.

This will never be home.

Now, more than before, I don't want anyone to see me. I ripped off my necklace and felt so stupid, so stupid. How stupid for me to think I could fit in anywhere. And a rebel-flag-hanging PUB of all places!