Anxiety

My name is Cristina D. Johnson.

I heard a term on a t.v. show that I looked up yesterday: Rape Trauma Syndrome.I read something that struck me immediately: "pronounced internal tremor."

I was knocked aback. I have described this before as feeling as if "my bones were shaking" - it was relieving to see there's a name for it, and an apt one, at that.

My anxiety has gone through the roof and has made me, at times, completely dysfunctional. The only option for me, for medications, is to go to the emergency room....which causes me huge anxiety. How ironic.

My therapist says the reason I don't find benzos (benzodiazapines) addictive, is because of the level of my anxiety. Rather than "getting high" from them -as I know some do - it brings my anxiety level to a manageable point so I don't feel any affects, other than that, which is why I am able to take them PRN.

I have always been an opponent of medications and, even therapy.

But my anxiety levels have gotten so bad that I have spent days at a time holed up and terrified. Now, I cannot tolerate touch - I can't even tolerate the touch of a door frame if I walk through a door. I have to be careful not to touch it. Every touch, it feels as if my all my cells are screaming, "DON'T TOUCH ME!"

The anxiety manifests itself in other, more troubling physical ways but I won't go into it because it is embarrassing and I don't understand it. It is frightening.

I have been listening to a guided meditation nightly  for about two or three weeks (I believe). I have to wonder if - because of this meditation - my mind is opening to levels of memory and awareness as I sleep. I like this particular one because - even though it claims to be for abundance - it is really about awareness and moving forward. I like this.

But I wonder if it hasn't opened some windows and doors in my mind because the symptoms I am experiencing have really intensified over the past couple weeks. It's hard to say because it collaborates with the timing of extreme stress and having no anti-anxiety medications.

So perhaps it is a combination. Who knows.

Regardless the cause, the memories and anxiety, sleeplessness and  nightmares, are debilitating.

The meditation works well to help me sleep, although it doesn't help me stay asleep.

Today I awoke (again), feeling as wound as a guitar string. It is difficult to function because such high anxiety causes physical exhaustion, but my mind won't stop spinning or slow down so I can't sleep. Everything is amplified. I am so damn tired.

I have to go out today - it's laundry day. I wish I had a dryer. Then I could do the laundry here. Ugh.

My anxiety shoots up on Sundays, Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays. It's not the typical "oh brother, it's Monday again," kind of thing. It's a dread that I can't even describe. It's a fear; it's a hope that I can make it through another four days of high-anxiety and high-stress. When Thursdays come, I relax more, but it is still very difficult.

I will be glad when I am through this.

Ouch...

My name is Cristina D. Johnson.

Today was a tough, tough day.

I even considered voluntary hospitalization today because I was so afraid and because I literally felt as if I was losing my mind. For those who know me, this would tell them I was in a really bad place today. Hospitalization is an abhorrence of mine. I have been traumatized via hospitalization too many times to count. To consider it voluntarily, is like moving the Lincoln Monument.

Today, I came up here - to my writing room - and I cried. I came up here so nobody would hear me and because there was nowhere else to go. I felt ashamed. Today I came up here and I cried a deep, aching cry. I needed Michelle. I dialed her number several times and hung up. Finally, up here, I dialed it one last time and I heard her voice - her voicemail - and I left a message.

Although I felt such shame for such a heart-wrenching cry, I calmed a little after hearing her voice, even if only a recording.

Yesterday's session left me rattled and shaken. Today, I watched Law and Order, Special Victims Unit, Season 9, Episode 15.

That was it.

I have never, ever had a problem watching violence and rape in movies. I mean, there are some things that are too grotesque for me to watch, but violence and rape, I have always been able to handle. It's never made me emotional.

But this episode, well...it was chock full of triggers.

rape
child of the system
arrested for drugs without actually being involved
abuse of authority
lock up
orange jumpsuits
big, thick, brass keys
woods
machete's
the showers

I can't even describe how many things were there...how true this episode is to the experience.

However, that said, I watched the whole episode untouched, unmoved.

Disconnected.

Until the end. The very end.

The victim - an SVU detective - is asked, directly, "Did he rape you?"

and my soul felt like it was shot out of a canon into and through moments in time...dozens or hundreds of times when I couldn't answer that question.

The assault scene was difficult, but I managed it.

It wasn't until that question was asked: "Did he rape you?" that I was hurled into a blackened, charred history of uncertainty, childishness and terror.

And I felt it.

For the first time in my life, I felt these bizarre feelings. These intense emotions and I was bombarded with the question of "Why?"

Why? Why? Why?

I think about others and I think about children and child abuse and I am astonished by what is done to them but never have I been able to look at myself and feel, "Wow, that hurt. Ouch."

I wish I had written earlier but my mind was shattered. I wish I could have seen Michelle earlier. I wish I could have talked to her. I was riddled with emotions that were pulling me so deep, so deep. Deep into something I have never felt and it frightened me.

Bill and I talked the other night about how frightening out-of-body-experiences (OBE's) are, and it was like that today. Exactly like that. I felt like I was losing myself. Drowning. I couldn't see. I couldn't think. Every bump made me jolt in my seat. I was terrified. I fantasized about going to my neighbor, going anywhere...but then it felt like my body was tied down to an anchor and I couldn't move. I was crushed and crushing...I was immobile and absolutely confused and terrified.

I ran through my mind so many different times in my past. Was that rape? Was this rape? Was it rape if I didn't say no? I didn't say "no" because I knew I couldn't say no, but does that mean yes? Is that rape? If he didn't penetrate me, is that rape? Did I ever fight back that hard?

I bent my brain desperately reaching for memories, trying to recall moments when I fought. There are times when I know I did. Times I remember.

The man who nearly strangled me to death. I remember I must have fought because he wouldn't have strangled me if I hadn't fought, right? I don't remember how I came to be at the place where we were. Was it a motel? An apartment? I don't remember a kitchen. I remember the television and the nightstand and the rotary phone. I am confused. I thought - because I was street smart - that he was one of those that was full of piss and wind and he wouldn't kill me. I could mock and intimidate him. I could beat him at his game and he wouldn't hurt me.

I thought...

But he almost killed me.

In the end, he didn't (obviously) and in the end, I was right: he was malleable. I remember laying there - I was around 13 - and he was limp, flacid. Pre-semen hung like sinew from the head of his dark penis and I knew he was infected. I made fun of him and told him he couldn't rape me because he couldn't even get it up because he was diseased. I knew, somehow, this would work.

And it did.

I remember I tricked him. I convinced him that I cared about him and that I would come back when he had healed himself of his disease. Probably syphilis or gonorrhea. These were rampant in those days.

And...I remember that I fought the men off who attacked me when I slept.

Did I scream? I don't remember.

I know as one sat on my chest, his testicles against my neck and he kept  trying to shove his penis in my mouth, the rest were ripping off my clothes and I was kicking and fighting and I didn't mean to but I kicked on in the nuts and he said to me, "Don't ever kick my nuts you white bitch!" and he slammed me in the mouth with his fist. They threw me out into the snow and I was wearing very little. I was frozen. I was 12 or 13.

I must've fought, right?

There must've been sometime in the past when I fought....

I said "no" to Daddy twice...twice...

The first time, he hurt me sexually. The second time, he smothered and choked me.

Did I learn to not say no?

I am so confused and hurt and bewildered.

The feelings I felt as I sobbed, briefly, today...I should say "allowed myself to sob" today...

These feelings were too much. Too hard.

Too much.

I wished Michelle were here. I wished she could see it so she could tell me what was happening.

I wished I could just do it all right then in that moment. I thought, god please let this be all I need to feel, to heal.

But I knew - and I know - that wasn't it.

There is more.

I shut it down. I am good at that.

This pain...this is worse than anything I have ever known, yet it is the track on which my train travels and I cannot move forward, without the track.

I won't get off track. I may stop or stall, but I will not get off.

It kills me - some part of me felt stolen today - but I will stay on track.

I will do this. God help me, I will.

Where Did the Time Go?

My name is Cristina D. Johnson.

It's been a really tough few weeks. It's actually been a rough two months but the last couple weeks have been particularly hard, despite some help I have received and am grateful for.

Still, I cannot control how my (using the word "my" loosely) mind will respond to these things. At least, so it seems.

Session today. I know I saw Michelle last week.

I couldn't tell you when, if I didn't know our sessions are regularly on Mondays and Thursdays. I don't remember the last time I saw her. Today was an anomaly because of a scheduling conflict she had which happens sometimes. Not often, but sometimes.

I almost cancelled today's appointment because I am completely disconnected from everything which means, nothing is wrong. This sounds contrary to what I mentioned in the opening of this entry, but the thing is I have shut down and nothing is emotionally affecting me so I need no therapy. I told her I almost cancelled because I didn't want to waste her time. I literally had nothing to complain or talk about.

I mean, I had updates and told her things I've done because I needed to see them get done, but Michelle even admittedly had a hard time navigating this session. She didn't know "who" she was talking to. She was trying to determine what was going on and I was at a loss, until she started telling me things.

Apparently last week I had a very emotional session wherein I told Michelle I didn't know if I could continue therapy and dealing with these emotions.

I don't remember this. I only vaguely remember a little bit about a very intense session not long ago, but I don't know when it was. When she said "well, last week we had a pretty tough session," I stared up at the ceiling, stared out the window, very disconnected, tried so hard to remember, and that's when I realized I didn't remember anything. This is truly an earth-rattling thing. So I really wracked my brain, trying...trying... Oh God I can't remember...what happened last week? What do I remember about last week?

This led me to the realization that it wasn't just the sessions last week that I don't recall, but the entire week last week. I don't remember anything. Thinking back, the first thing I remember is Saturday and pieces since then but nothing last week. Not one single moment.

This is where my DID diagnosis makes me angry, makes me hurt. Because I hate it and I deny it because I judge it and I don't want it yet it's there slapping me, laughing at me, daring me to challenge it.

It wasn't observably troubling today as we discussed it in session, really. Not until the end, when I realized I was feeling alarmed because I didn't remember last week.

As the session came to a close, Michelle told me the emotion part of healing is going  to be very difficult for me because of my experiences with emotions. I know this to be true. It makes logical sense. It is cognitive; measurable. I can make logical sense of it so I can intellectually accept it.

Even if I feel nothing.

Which is what I did today, until a tiny little bolt of lightning struck me and I began to feel that fiery sense of alarm. That remembrance that - no matter how much I hold myself or pull myself together - I am still in need of healing, and a lot of it, and I cannot pretend my way through it. I cannot ignore it and make it disappear.

As I was leaving, Michelle suggested to me that I try meditating and mindfulness - both of which I am very familiar with and have studied and/or practiced at length. I talked with her very matter-of-factly about it, told her I was familiar with it, etc. I felt a bit shaken, but very much in control.

But then I watched her drive away and stood waiting for my cab and things started to pile on. My brain went into overdrive. I started thinking, "I don't understand this. How can I not remember? This is crazy. You are crazy!" and then I was thinking about emotions and I was thinking I need to write...

And that led me to thinking, as I stood there staring at a bitterly cold outside through a six-pane window, that I was going to write about emotions. No. No I am going to write about what I think about emotions.

Then I thought, no maybe I should write about what I feel about thinking.

This made sense to me. Logical sense. Intellectual sense. Perhaps, by writing about how I feel about thinking, I can touch emotions somehow.

So...

How do I feel about thinking?

I feel safe, thinking. I feel in control, thinking. I feel secure, thinking. I feel confident, thinking.

Because nobody can mess with my thinking.

This is quite ambiguous, isn't it?

Here's what I suppose I mean:

My intellect and street smarts are hard-earned and concrete. If I do not know it, I can and will learn it (if I need to). I watch everything and everyone closely. I seldom miss much because of what is called "hypervigilance," a label I consider to sound negative but which I embrace as "normal" and even a gift.

I don't know that I would still be breathing if not for my "hypervigilance."

There is control and, thus, security and safety in thinking. There is control in having no emotions. How's that for an oxymoron? Or, do control, security and safety count as emotions?

I am over-thinking, aren't I?

And I, myself - whoever "I, myself" happen to be today - am messing with my thinking and this is not a good thing.

There is nothing concrete or stable in having my thinking disrupted by something as alarming as DID and the analysis of such.

I am going to have a beer.

Get Over It

My name is Cristina D. Johnson.

Some things I have enjoyed my entire life. I can think of two, really: music and writing.

I mean, I have enjoyed doing other things and going places but, as far as things I've always loved consistently, I can think only of these two things.

There are feelings I have enjoyed. I love the feeling of helping someone.

I have an affinity towards minorities and have been known to randomly hug strangers because I felt compelled to do so and, I admit, I actually feel better when I help an Arab or African-American than I do when I help a white person. I don't know why, really. I guess I always seem to go for the underdog. Maybe I'm just a self-righteous narcissist. Who knows?

But I know the feeling of having the opportunity to take advantage of someone, and, instead, making sure the situation is right. I like that feeling. I like the feeling of helping. Of knowing I have done something helpful for someone.

But music and writing have always been there. Always.

I suppose they're similar: Both express, for me, what I can or could never say. My son - my oldest - is the same way, as far as music.

I enjoyed those things and those feelings. I still do.

Why would I choose to be so afraid so much so often of so many things?

Too many people say "get over it" or "stop living in the past" or any manner of such things.

As if I am choosing to be this terrified bundle of nerves every day. As if I enjoy being terrified of being too loud when I open the silverware drawer in my kitchen, or stand in front of a window. As if I prefer or somehow choose to tremble before I even step out my door.

I know what it is to live in my head. To be in in denial. I know what it is to say "Fuck all you crazy psycho-babble idiots. My past doesn't affect me and I don't NEED your fucking help," as I carry on every day as if nothing ever happened. As if I had the perfect cheerios childhood.

Sometimes it feels like you're being admonished for yielding to the agony that complex trauma causes. It hurts. It hurts and it confuses to hear these messages.

You think you're doing the right thing by seeking help - and it is so fucking scary, let me tell you - yet people say things like, "Aren't you allowing yourself to be trapped by your past?"

Well...yes. Yes, and no.

But if I don't get help, I will forever be trapped by my past because my existence will be nothing but a lie. My being will be a fraud. I will never know who I am nor what I can do... I will never know those things that I truly enjoy besides music and writing. I will never know my voice. I will never know a man's good touch. I will never know authentic love. I will never understand what it is to have someone do for you, just for the sake of doing for you. I will never know what it is like to not go a minute without thinking I owe someone sex (or sexual favors) in return for their gifts (whatever they may be).

So, am I stuck in my past?

Yes. I am trying so hard to dig out of this crater that fate handed me.

Please don't judge or chastise me. It is so bloody hard to do. It hurts more than anything I have ever known and opening up, trusting, being vulnerable is the hardest thing I have ever done in my life.

I am just now learning...crawling... reaching and trying.

Get over it?

Dear God I am trying.

Dark as it may be, there is no dark enough place. There is no hole deep or cold enough. Keep waiting for the earth to crumble over me but it doesn't; just leaves me here in this hole. My fingers bloody from trying to crawl out. My knees raw. My feet, freezing. There is good in this life. Thankfully. There are loving, compassionate, understanding and helpful people. Cindy, Hannah, Natasha, Rubi... Most of whom I never imagined would give me a second glance. But they did. Still I am in this hole and I've swallowed my pride ten times over. I have begged for help. There is no light in this hole; just the promise of it above, where I cannot reach. I am surrounded by dichotomies and catch-22's and I am confused, lost and God I am terrified.

Good bye... I hope

My name is Cristina D. Kuptzin-Johnson. When I was pre-verbal, I was sexually, emotionally and mentally abused. When I was 5 and 6 years old, I was sexually and physically abused, and was also forced to perform sexual acts on my younger brother - 13 months younger. During this time I was also beaten and neglected. I received the message - somehow, though I don't know how - to shut up, get over it, and say nothing. But I did. Told my grandmother when I was in 4th grade. After which time she sent me back to my abuser (my father) who subjected me to porn, marijuana, alcohol and sex. He suffocated, strangled and brainwashed me.I was taken away and sent back to a place where I was - at age 11 - kidnapped, raped and beaten at age 11. From then on - age 11 to 15 - I was on the streets and repeatedly gang-raped, assaulted, beaten and sold (blue-eyed blondes are worth a lot of money in North St. Louis). For years, I conformed to societal norms: shut up. Move on. Get over it. Stop living in the past. I have been: a waitress shelf installer (for Blockbuster. It was illegal; I was 17) journalist graphics designer writer editor pest control technician Factory worker Seamstress Upholsterer Property manager Administrative Assistant Marketing Assistant Web Development Assistant Customer Assistant Telemarketer Licensed CNA Phlebotomist and...above all, a writer and mother. I am NOT SUPID. DID and PTSD does not incriminate one's mental capacity. In fact, it is known among the psychological community (at least those who care to research it) that those who develop DID are brilliant children with active imaginations. I cannot begin to describe the escape techniques I used to numb or escape the pain of being sodomized, raped, beaten, humiliated and tormented by my father and others. I can only say that the United States has failed me and millions of others who suffer these same afflictions and repercussions. Unfortunately - if tonight is a success - I will just be another statistic that didn't make it. For those who are interested, my father's name is Daniel John Baugh. His DOB is August 8th. He was 18 when I was born in 1970. My step-father's name is Richard Sargent and although all he did was give me 5 dollars for a hand-job, it was enough. My uncle's name is Daniel Percival. I awoke with him laying on top of me at age 7 or 8. I can still smell his breath. Last I knew he lived in Latham, MO. I abscond my brother for his transgression. He was young and, with some friends, begged me to let him perform oral sex on me when I was 16, O told him absolutely not. However, I awoke naked, in the same room where my baby - Tony - lay sleeping in his crib. I do not know hat happened, but I do know I didn't go to bed naked. But given my brother's abusive past, I forgive him. Fat Cat raped me by gun point. Pulled the pistol out from under his mattress. He later did the same thing when he caught me in the bathroom of a mutual acquaintance. Pulled the pistol out, stuck it in my mouth, first. Told me to open up. I did. Then he put the pistol to my temple and told me to suck it until he came, told me if I didn't swallow he would blow my head off. His big chocolate gut hit my forehead as I did what he ordered. I will never forget how small that bathroom was. Chester took me to the river in MO and literally grabbed my pant legs, pulled them off, raped me and told me it was love-making. He left me there. Robert Lewis - age 32 (I believe, at the time) - kidnapped and took me to an abandoned building in north St. Louis where he repeatedly raped, beat and cut me. I was 11. It was in the paper. He confessed to all of it. The headline was "She makes me hot says bobby" There are countless other incidents. Too many to list. Knives to my throat. Swallow or die. Stabbed in the the head. Molested by Mr. Buck at the Juvenile Detention Center. Kicked into the muddy curb because I fought back in the back seat of an Impala. Too many. Too many. Daddy also thought it was fun to sell me off to his friends. Pose me as a five-year-old. Make me go down on my four-year-old brother. Think it's too much? Oh there's so much more. But so many can't handle it. Neither can I. So............ I cannot finish this blog without mentioning names that have been instrumental in some ways - whether past or present - in no particular order, with the exception of my children; the first three names. Antonio (Tony) Baugh Meagan A. Johnson Trevor C Johnson William (Bill)Goodall Cindy Kuptzin Hannah Shaffer Ron Kuptzin Natasha Lee Michelle Kenefick Gary, Terry Johnnson Anne Kuptzin Samantha (Sammy jo) Natasha Antonio: I treated you poorly. I tried, though. I was so young and stupid but you really picked up the slack. Never hit a woman. Always be honest. Go with your gut. Respect the elderly. Stand up for what is right. You hurt me many times, but I always have seen your beauty. Exploit that. Use it. Make a difference. Meagan: Oh honey. Oh honey. You are so like me, except in this context. You will never give up and you will succeed. Never EVER depend on a man. Go to school Earn your way. Dont "need" anyone in that way. Don't get into any relationships because you need the support. Rather, be your own person. Be smart. Be better than me. Trevor: Oh honey. You've kept me going. If I didn't have you I didn't know what I would have done, so many times. I wanted to keep you safe, secure. I know what it is to feel like an outcast but honey, Autism doesn't make you an outcast; it makes you gifted. You just have to find what your gift is. I love you so much. Bill: Thank you for being there. For trying. Thank you for sleeping on my bloody pillow after a night of wrist-slashing. "it's a part of you," you said. Stand up for yourself. Stop letting people beat you down. Say what you mean and mean what you say. Don't be rash; think about it a bit. There's nothing wrong with saying, "Let me get back to you on that." Be true to you. Be true to what matters most to you. Thank you for loving me. Cindy: You are the best mother a person could ever have. Kind, loving, considerate, consistent, understanding, loving. You are a magnificent person, when you are who you are. I am so lucky that I had your love in my life. Hannah: Oh God, honey this may be the hardest of all: Don't give up. Give people like me, hope. Give us hope and peace and understanding and compassion. You can do this because you are learning how to do it, and in the right way. Please don't give up. You can and will make a difference. You told me you would be my voice. BE MY VOICE. Be the voice of all survivors who are afraid to speak. Please,....please... I love you. Ron: I know how hard you try and I am thankful. Sometimes trying too hard, can cause more harm than good. You are an intelligent man. Don't let that override your emotions. Connect. Feel. Understand. You are a good man. Talk less, listen more. Ask questions, understand. I am grateful to you for all you've tried to do. Gary: I love you so much. I never lied. I always loved you. I still do. I miss you. I needed you. I was so hurt by you that it cannot be measured. I'm sure you were confused. The complex trauma I went through (and hid from you) probably threw you for a loop but I trusted you and I needed you. Oh I needed you. I needed to feel safe and I needed you to trust me. Ultimately, you proved me right: "them" cannot be trusted. But I still love and miss you and wish you happiness. Terry: My first love. I am sorry. We were both young and stupid. Please take care of Trevor. Don't force him the way you did Meagan and Tony. Let him pave the way. He is very intelligent. Trust him. Anne: you're the best grandmother ever!!! Thank you for welcoming and loving me. Sam: There's so much you don't know. I promised I would never tell but I suspect you already know. I am so proud of you for the work you are doing. Please advocate. Please help people. I am so proud of you. Natasha: When I thought there was nowhere else to go, and nobody to ask for help, you were there. I trembled and you held me. You listened. You helped more than anyone. People say things and I learned - because of your actions - that what people say is not true. You are a saint. I am so grateful to you. Oh, and Carolyn: stop counting on others (including your sons) for your happiness. Get some help and start being real instead of depending on, oh, I dont know, GARY, to buy you VODKA. Couple more things: Sue Rasie (Racie? Racey?) of East Lyme Pyschological Associates is a quack who pushed me absolutely over the edge. My mother - Cindy (cynthia) Greenman-Kuptzin was there and witnessed the unethical and absolutely unprofessional behavior of this APRN. Additionally, the state of Connecticut would not provide me with anyone who would provide me with medication management for extreme anxiety and HUSKY (which I have) was completely outdated and unhelpful. There is nowhere for me to go. I have nowhere to go. I will NOT have my son sent to foster care. You people - if you have JUST HELPED ME - everything would have been okay. NO HELP. CONNECTICUT WANTS TO LOCK YOU UP JUST BECAUSE YOU HAVE ANXIETY OR THEY WANT TO PAY EXORBITANT HEALTH CARE COSTS BECAUSE PEOPLE LIKE ME ARE FORCED TO GO TO THE EMERGENCY ROOM EVERY TWO WEEKS FOR ANXIETY MEDICATIONS!!! I can't stand in front of the window of my home because I am so afraid, without anti-anxiety medications. I have a therapist - Michelle Kenefick - who has been fantastic but because there is no medication management available unless you are under the umbrella of a psychiatric conglomerate, you have two choices: See a psychiatrist and LSCW/MSW/CSW under the same umbrella, or do without meds. FIX IT BEFORE OTHERS DO WHAT I DO. One thing about it Ms. Sue Rasie (Racey? Rasey? Whatever) You won't have to worry about me ROCKING anymore because I have ENORMOUS anxiety. Sorry I made you uncomfortable you psycho!! I can't live all this down. I can't work. I am afraid of everyone and everything - except my therapist. I can't work and there are so many people in this country who point angry fingers and say, "YOU JUST WANT A GOVERNMENT HAND-OUT!" I don't want a government hand-out. I want to HEAL. In fact, I want to heal to the point that I can help OTHERS heel. Have YOU ever been sodomized? Have YOU ever been forced to swallow syphilis-infected semen? Have YOU ever had a Pelvic Inflammatory Disease to the point where not only could you not walk, but your entire reproductive system was compromised because there is nowhere for a teenage rape-victim runaway to go? NO probably now, I do. I know these things. I wanted to help. I DESPERATELY wanted to help but you know I am a firm believer that you cannot help anyone, any more than you have helped/healed yourself. Those aren't great odds for me at this point in time. So while I TRY to get help so I can HELP OTHERS, I am constantly shut down by the bureaucracies of our decrepit health and mental health system. So thanks to those who've tried to help. Thank you even more to those who will continue to help and make a difference. Just remember this: Just because he/she has a pretty face and a good dialogue and dresses great, doesn't mean she's not a victim of sexual trauma. The statistics are staggering; http://www.rainn.org/statistics PAY ATTENTION!

Stress

My name is Cristina D. Johnson

Cut again tonight. Nothing major, comparatively speaking. Enough that I felt the perverse satisfaction of knowing I am alive.

Paradoxical, yyou wish just this little bit were it. You wish this was all it took.

The paper towels didn't hold enough blood to personify the pain.

Oh God.

Oh God.

Please.

Please.

I can't take it anymore. I keep trying. I keep trying.

I feel so alone.

General update

My name is Cristina D. Johnson.

Feeling a bit melancholy tonight but the Winter Storm Nemo isn't helping.

I did have some help the past week, specifically from a friend who I didn't really know was a friend. She helped me more than she could know and I am grateful.

Also help from my adoptive mother who has been incredibly patient and there for me.

Have had a lot happen the past couple weeks and have a lot to think about.

I am reticent to share too much here because - as they'd say in the police department - the investigation is still ongoing. Who knows what the outcome will be.

I am shut down.

But my demons cling to me, pulling at my nerves, daring me to pay attention to them. Still, I can't. I have to focus...focus...focus...

Crises always push me to my height; struggles be damned.

The bitch is I am wound like a violin string. So tight. I could snap anytime.

I miss so much. I truly miss so much.

And I am not lonely, but I feel alone.

Which is okay, if sometimes overwhelming because my thoughts flood me.

I feel like it'd be really nice to have just two weeks straight of a break. Just two weeks without whammies that knock us back. We just want to be caught up.

I just want to feel safe.

Had an appointment with a psychiatric APRN Tuesday. She was horrible. She was a 74-year-old, stuck-in-her-ways whacko.

OMG I have never experienced anything so horrible with a pdoc. She was wrong on so many levels and I knew more about my diagnoses and treatment than she did. Gotta go see her again next week. No idea why. Dreading it. But she's the only person that accepts my insurance so I have no choice.

Just depressed tonight.

Love all my friends and family.

Stay warm and safe.