Jarda

The first time I met him, he wore a fancy suit. Not like a tuxedo, but one of those top-of-the-line suits that you know are tailored to fit. He was clean and confident.

He came in to speak to me after they did an intake evaluation at the PHP in Middletown. They want to know all about whether or not you drink or do drugs or have appetite problems, constipation, diarrhea, headaches and of course a family history of mental illness. They check you basic vitals: blood pressure, temperature, heart rate, respirations.

I pretty much lied the whole way through. Didn't want to be there. Was scared to death. I hate hospitals. I hate groups.

And I hate psychiatrists.

I tested him - as I test everyone - immediately. He came in with his suit and clipboard and sat down, said my name.

"How are you feeling today?"

"I'm in a fucking PHP. How do you think I feel?"

He laughed. But not a vicious laugh. More like a "touche'" kind of laugh.

He crossed his legs as he sat across from me. Asked me questions. I answered them all.

He asked what work I did. I told him I was a journalist.

"You must be very intelligent then," he said.

"Yes I am," I responded without hesitation. "And I don't like you."

He gave me that same soft laugh.

"I am a nice guy. You will see. I would love to see some of your clippings," he said.

Hah. Test number one.

In the days that followed, it never came up again. He failed. He said he wanted to see but never asked again.

But one day, as I remained closed, distant and removed from this stupid group program, he came and pulled me from the group, as he does with various "patients," throughout the week.

He took me to his office.

From wrist to elbow, my arms were slashed. Healing, but still slashed. I made no attempt to hide them. Everyone had seen them by now.

"How are you doing?" he asked.

"Fine."

"Tell me, Cristina," he said with his beautiful Jamaican accent, "Why did you cut your arms?"

"To show Gary and Tony how hurt I was."

He dug and wouldn't stop. He kept pushing.And for every question he had, I had a quick response.

Until the end when he said:

"So who, really, were you trying to show your pain to?"

I felt myself curl up inside. I can think of those old "firecrackers" they used to make called "the snake." You light them up and they curl and twist into a charred piece of nothing. Ash.

I curled up like that inside. I whispered, "Mom and Daddy."

He told me about the mountain I must climb. He asked me, "What is the easiest part of climbing a mountain?"

"The beginning," I answered.

"True," he said. "What else?"

"The end," I shot back, regaining my composure.

"You have a huge mountain to climb. You are at the bottom. You want to run up it, get it over with."

I sat halfheartedly listening but by this time, had gained some sense of respect for the man who had - through all my belligerence aimed right at him - remained calm, steady and assured.

"What is the hardest part of climbing a mountain?" he asked.

"The middle."

"Ahh," he said with that lulling accent. "You are very intelligent.

He moved from his seat at his desk and sat down at the round table in the room, close to me. His expression changed. His demeanor changed. He softened.

"You are going to get to the middle of your mountain, Cristina, and you are going to want to go back down. You are going to want to give up. What do you do?"

"Stop. Rest."

"Yes. Exactly," he said.

Then he stood and I stood and he said: "You have a very large mountain to climb, filled with pain."

I was rattled inside.

He gestured to my arms and he said, "And that is a lot of pain."

He's the only one ever, ever in my life, who seemed to see into me. He seemed to understand. I had been wrong about him. (I did confess to him, my "test" that I'd put him through. I don't recall his response but it was very viable).

I called him the other day. Begging to speak with him. But I hung up before he came to the phone. I didn't know what to say.

I am afraid.

I am lonely.

I feel so abandoned and confused.

Dr. Carl Jarda.

I wish I could see you.

I don't think she believes me

My name is Cristina D. Johnson.

I  don't know that I have ever experienced someone not believing me and the things I have gone through and am now experiencing.

I feel that way about Michelle, now.

I made an appointment with her because I have to.

But I feel sick about it.

I called her the other night. I left three voice messages (because there's a limit to the amount of time you have to leave a message) so I called her. I don't remember everything I said.

I cut that night.

I got scared. I panicked. I thought someone was in the house. That's the last thing I clearly remember. Everything else is kind of a blur.

Anyway, I don't believe in her and I don't believe she believes me.

What kind of therapeutic relationship is that?

I had another appointment Monday with a different specialist - Judy. She diagnosed me with PTSD (again). She also talked me down from my "DID is bullshit and doesn't exist!" mantra. A little bit, anyway. She wants to do further testing.

I wish I knew the things I left on Michelle's voicemail. I have not heard anything back from her.

When I was a kid, it never occurred to me that nobody would believe me if I told. I just didn't tell because....well, I think because I didn't want to get Daddy in trouble. I don't know. I don't remember any threats except once and that was when I was older. Nothing like, "I'll kill your mother"....did he ever say, "Nobody will believe you!"? I don't know...maybe.

But for whatever reasons, I didn't tell.

And now, I have told Michelle - some of it - and I feel like she doesn't believe me. That hurts.

Fucking white-collar, primrose perfect lives. Cant imagine an 11-yearo old girl in my position. Cant imagine a 9 year old girl in my position. Can't fathom a 2 year old girl in my position.

Whack it around with philosophy and psychology and physiology and biology and yet,.... can't imagine what he (and they) did to me.

Unfathomrable that I'd go through that and feel nothing, right doc?

You're an idiot, A total idiot.

Wanting to cut

My name is Cristina Johnson.

I can't stop rocking. i am surrounded by things...things... things...

The dresser is Broyhill. As is the nightstand. Top-of-the-line, I suppose.

Snowball, the polydactyl cat, sits on my dresser, staring at me Behind her is a mirror and dangling necklaces and bracelets that I never asked for and, which, never suited me.

I am not suited for jewelry.

I've talked to several people tonight, trying to ground myself. I came here - to my writing refuge -hoping to relieve myself of this need for self-punishment, but so far, it hasn't worked.

Howie, Bill, Cindy, Hannah........ well, not Bill, reallyk. He's tired. He works a lot.
I cut myself a lot. I injure myself a lot. But I am careful about it. I protect my youngest son from it.l

He doesn't want to know any more than what he asks and that works for me. In fact, if I try or wanted to explain to him about my past he doesn't want to hear it. Same as my daughter.

Perhaps that is right.

It is unfortunate that my oldest knows so much.

Tonight I want to cut so badly. So badly.

People wonder why. They can't fathom why one would cut themselves, harm themselves, starve or binge themselves.

It serves so many purposes.

To be alive. To see your own blood, means you're alive. To suffer, means you're alive. To hurt yourself, means you are alive.

Even if, inside (or, perhaps because inside) you feel dead.

Proof that you're alive...............

Is DID bullshit?

My name is Cristina Johnson.

Last night was the first good night's sleep I've gotten in weeks.

I have tried guided meditations, hypnotic sleep meditations, binaural waves, and Schumann resonance. I have done everything to avoid taking the Trazadone (50 mg) I was prescribed.

Still nothing has really worked. Anxiety is the problem. It keeps me awake. I wish it were easy to describe. Maybe to a mother. They would understand that irrational jolt of anxiety that goes through you as you imagine the worst case scenarios a thousand times in your mind, within milliseconds.

Laying in bed at night, that's what it's like. Like electricity; A bolt of lightening and you have to, once again, try to focus...focus on the breath...count the breaths....hold your breath and count...and release...

And it works, until the next bolt of lightening.

Oh God I have no money. Oh God I have to leave the house tomorrow. Oh God my rent is due. Oh god I need a spare tire. Oh god the cat has worms. Oh god, what will I do for dinners next week? Oh god what if that  taxi cab driver comes back to my apartment and breaks in and rapes me?

One after another after another, it's like someone hitting you on the base of your skull with a two-by-four; it doesn't knock you out, but stuns you and you have to take several minutes to gather your bearings. (Trust me, I know what it feels like).

So I was grateful for one good night's sleep. I had no dreams that I recall. A blessing.

Probably because yesterday I saw a new "provider" - as they call them in my insurance network - who was supposed to be specifically for medication management but who, surprisingly, was familiar with - and had even worked with - people with DID.

Nothing was barred as I grit my teeth and ground in my heels against the diagnosis. "It's bullshit," I told her. "Can't be. It's bullshit. I just think it's bullshit."

She then gently told me of her first experience  dealing with a DID client. She had been in training at the time. She's had several such clients since.

She told me the typical DID case is the result of repeated, prolonged trauma before age 5.

Well, that suits me.

But still I wanted to kick and scream.

And yet....

I was validated.

"It's clear you have PTSD," she said.

Yeah I have heard that before. My entire life.

But I managed it.

DID....well that's different. It's crazy. It's nuts. It's insane.

Right?

I left feeling achingly validated but still confused.

She wants me to see a specialist who specializes in cases like mine: a history of complex trauma.

I'm open to it, but not holding my breath. My insurance is state insurance and most "specialists" don't take my insurance. I can't even walk outside. God. How could I go to work?

Actually the truth is: I could go to work.

I would work my ass off, make a great impression, be the best person on the job. And it would last - maximum - six months. Such as is my history.

Oh man it seems I don't even know myself.

I don't know.

It's just ....KIND OF nice to be validated. Again. Even though she didn't diagnose me with DID, she said she wanted to do further analyses. I'm okay with that, if skeptical. Over the past few weeks, I have dismissed DID as a diagnosis, despite the multiple times I was diagnosed with it but you must understand it was a psychological "rage" in the 80's and early 90's so I disregarded the first time. The second time I tried keeping an open mind. Still;.... Still... Ugh....

Online, some of the support groups and message boards and discussion groups I joined....the members just seem to jump right in and say, "Hi, My name is <so-and-so> and I have <three-five-ten-20..._> alters. My youngest is "Jimmy" (or Jamie or Annie or whatever) and they like ...ice cream...teddy bears....IDK..... who fucking knows but it's like they just take this horrid, horrid Dx and embrace it and run with it. Like it's an excuse to be crazy. Am I crazy? Are they crazy?

I mean yeah crazy shit happens to me but I'm not a dangerous psychotic.- except perhaps to myself at times - but I can't imagine ever hurting anyone else. Ever.

DID. Crazy shit.

My current therapist - the one who I vaguely remember saying (through a haze) - "You don't have PTSD," is a struggle.

It makes me wonder how much of anything I have ever told her, she believes.

The fear of any child, I suppose, who has been molested. I can't tell because nobody will believe me.

I feel that coming from Michelle. Irrational or not.

Just like I told my latest appointment for med management - Judy.

"I may cognitively know that my reactions are irrational, but something is broken - something broke - and I can't un-break it. I don't know how to not break it."

Her response:

"I would imagine that's always been the case for you. I would imagine you always shut down and shut out."

It was good to be understood, even if I don't understand it myself.

Judy was confident and calm. She seemed to know what she was talking about and dealing with. Even told me about her first encounter with DID. I listened but....still leary.

Sometimes I miss Gary....times like these. Times when someone steps in who understands and who may be able to give him insight. Maybe...maybe then he would have understood. Maybe then he wouldn't have done the things he did. Maybe then, he would still love me.

Then again, maybe he never did.

Maybe he simply can't love.

I don't know.

I saw his name again on Facebook the other day. For three days I was reeling...nearly de-friended the person who posted it. Not because she did anything wrong but because I can't see his name. I can't bear it. I am terrified of seeing him. I saw a white van the other day.... I panicked.

I hurt him.

But oh... Oh he hurt me so badly. Intelligent. God he's so intelligent and yet, so stupid. So foolish. Uneducated and uniformed.

And I love him.

And I love Bill.....

Bill is gone now. He's in PA working. Helping as much as he can.

I asked my adoptive mother the other day, after Bill left to go back to his little motel room, "Why does he do this stuff for me?"

"Because he loves you," she said.

And I just can't wrap my head around "why."

Why?

Why?

I watched a movie the other night called "Gardens Of The Night" and at one point the girl - stolen and sold into sexual trade, trained to believe her parents had abandoned her and were dead - was told her parents were alive and wanted her. She said: "They don't want me...they can't want me...you don't understand...I've done such horrible things..."

I cried...

I know that feeling.

How can anyone love me? Nobody knows all the "dirty."

Nobody.

Perhaps nobody ever will.

So confused.

Blame, Love, Hate

My name is Cristina D. Johnson. Forgive me as I ramble.

Over the last few weeks, I have delved deeply into the dynamics of my relationships - past and present. I have, in earnest, examined my role in these relationships, whether casual or not, and how I - myself - contributed to their demise.

And it was, indeed, a demise.

From jumping out of moving vehicles (a feat which I learned very young and did many times, escaping from the grips of "the system".... back then they didn't have automatic locks) to jumping INTO moving vehicles, I have done many things, to hurt many people.

I have tried to redeem myself, as I have come to recognize some of my transgressions, realizing they - my partners in these relationships - were the victim of me. Imagine. Me. A perpetrator of some sort. Never perverse, mind you. Nothing like my own transgressors but still.... perpetuating hurt on others, without awareness. Not that unawareness is an excuse - it is not, because their pain was (and, perhaps is) real - however, I was unaware of this pain I may have caused.

I knew no other ways.

I suppose people have loved me. I don't know. I don't know. It's hard to say, really. How can I say, when my one, true love - my first love; my father - was so destructive, so evil? That was my first love and I loved through hell. I loved through pain, torment, fear.... I loved him so much. So much, that I would do all I could - anything - to stop his pain. That was my first love.

Shattered, in most regards, yet still here. Haunting and taunting. Only now, now I am aware of this toxic love....this shameless, childlike love, which I cannot drain from my veins, no matter how many times nor how deeply I cut. This love is still there. This idolatry. This idealization. The perfect man... Daddy.

I stand on this fence, balancing clumsily with love on one side, hate on the other. The banister on which I have always stood, is comprised of hate, love, blame, confusion....

Will I ever know love, when I see it?

I know pain when I see it. I have seen it in the eyes of my children; whether of my doing or others'. I know what pain looks like. What does love look like?

And yet...

The dichotomy is this:

I hurt others, yet I withhold myself from others, because others have hurt me.

What a vicious, vicious circle.

When others hurt me, it is reason to submerge. When I hurt others, it is because they have - by my own perceptions which are, admittedly, distorted - hurt me first. Or perhaps they pose the threat of hurting.

Love, I suppose, in any form, any relationship, all relationships poses this threat. This threat of harm.

But isn't it strange that I would fear harm from love, when I have only known this one TRUE love, and never allowed for any other?

The gates are closed; the windows locked. There is no way in. Yet, I protect as if there is.

And I blame.

I believe there is nobody who can love the way I can.

This is because of the profundity of my love of Daddy. I know what it is to love through heaven: the heavenly sound of his music,  his voice, his hair, his arms - so strong - his poetic muse, his verbal prowess and intellectual fortitude. And I know what it is to love through hell: his kicks, punches and blows, his throws and holes in the walls and his tears, his painful, painful tears. His sexual perversions and humiliations. I know - God I know - what it is to love so deeply that no manner of sin or sainthood could shake it.

I carry it now. Still. This infallible love for the first monster to ever take my heart. Crush it. Embrace it. Frighten it. Shatter it. Put it back together again. All through the eyes of a child.

And in no part of me that I recognize today, can I find a place to blame him for my own sicknesses. My own shortcomings. My own transgressions against those who may - or may not - have loved me.

They couldn't have loved me as much as I have loved, for they did not stay. Right?

Yet.... is it not because of me and my own words and actions, that they left? How can I hold others to the standard of a child who adores the man who twists and mangles everything within her, down to her very self?

Love.

I know unconditional love. I am living it. I always have.

For those who wish to leave me,  I feel angry.

But at the same time, I do not blame because love and hate are so closely related.

They say, "You only hurt the ones you love."

This means - to me - that only the ones who love you, can be hurt by you. The rest, could care less what you do or what happens to you.

I wonder, to this day, is he okay? Where is he? Will I ever see him again?

I also wonder, will I ever be free of this dichotomy? Will I ever not see him in my mind? Will I ever feel anything close to the love I felt for him?

Trying to love, trying to give, for me....

It's like trying to fix something without the proper tools.

I let people down. I hurt them. I test and try them and I don't know how not to do this.

So I shut down because I will not be the monster that is Daddy.

Until I learn something new, someone new, some new way or thing, I will simply not be. I would rather be nothing, than be a monster, even though I have seen myself as both many times in my life.

This world is crazy.

Big loss

I remember when I was young, when I would write, I would be glad when a tear fell on the ink and smeared it because that way I knew whoever read it, would know how much pain I was in when I wrote it.

I still have quite a few old letters and poems with tear stains on them.

Times have changed, though, and nobody can see these tears and the keyboard doesn't stain if you cry on it - just stops working.

The past few days have been so hard. I did have a good - if nerve-wracking - time Sunday when my son came over for my youngest son's birthday, and we had guests. I was really nervous, but it went well.

The hardest part has been that I had a falling-out with my therapist. But instead of just ceasing to see her, I thought about it - thought about what she'd said to me that shut me down immediately and truly hurt my trust - and I wondered if it was me....was I just overreacting? Maybe I was sabotaging my relationship with her, the way I have with just about anyone I've ever had a relationship with.

So I owned this and, in an effort to rectify the situation, I sent her an email. It would have had tear stains on it, if it were written.

I told her about why the things she'd said had hurt me so badly and scared me so much. Those closest to me read the email and also knew how distraught I was over the session.

I think a couple of them even contacted her, when she did not respond to my email.

Two days later, I got a very brief, distant, removed and formal kind of "If you'd like to make an appointment, just give me a call," response.

I bawled.

I just kept thinking, "She called me 'honey'".... And "She held my bleeding wrist..." and "she wiped away smeared make up from my face out of kindness..."

How could she be so cold?

I don't understand, now. I got frantic. Now I am sadder than I have been in a very, very long time.

Prior to this happening, I had said some horrible things to two of the most important people in my life. I hurt them deeply. There's no excuse, truly, but I was just completely out of my mind. Too much at once going on and I snapped. I felt like a monster. I felt horrible. I wanted to die. In fact, I wanted to die worse than I remember ever wanting to die.

Then this happened...with my therapist.

Now I don't know what to do. I don't know what I would even say to her. Could I trust her again? I keep thinking it's my fault because I'm too much. I've always been too much. I'm too much. It's my fault.

I learned so much with her. She helped me see so much. I considered her a friend. Maybe that's what was wrong. But I needed that. I needed to feel that kind of connection, but within certain parameters, obviously.

She probably doesn't even think about me. Probably doesn't even know that I think about her incessantly, wishing to God she knew and understood...wishing I believed she knew and understood. But now it just seems like I said or did something wrong and now... now she's gone.

Gotta wipe some tears before the spacebar quits working.

She didn't even answer

The worst rejection yet: your therapist.

Holy shit.

I really am not worth anyone's time, am I?

The Perfect Person

I don't like television, although I'm known to watch movies and true-life stories. Not like "New Jersey Housewives" or "The Bachelor" but true-crime or forensics or stuff like you'd find on Discovery or BBS.

Still, throughout my life, I've plucked little things here and there and I thought to myself, "How wonderful that would be."

Images that flash in my mind and warm my heart, to think they could even exist. People like this. Teachers, healers, helpers, therapists, doctors, parents, neighbors....

My ideal person is similar to the guy in the movie "Nell" in which the female lead - Jodie Foster - is held away in captivity for her whole life. She's even created her own language and the man - Liam Neeson - learns her language.

I think of how he approached her - slowly, so slowly. How gentle he was. How he put himself on the floor, so he wasn't threatening.

I think of other snapshots in my mind's eye.... the image of a white washcloth, tentatively reaching for a tear-stained, grubby face that jerks away in fear. But the gentle hand, holding the washcloth, speaks words of soothing and kindness and eventually, the warm, soft terrycloth reaches the cheeks of the beaten child.

I think of times I've seen - on television - when "tough love" was really love. It was truly love and it was given selflessly to bring out what a child is afraid to see for themselves.

I've seen teachers believe in - and take particular interest in - certain kinds of kids and I wonder, why couldn't I have that? What if I had, had that?

Now, I wish someone would come to my doorway, and sit there on the threshold, cross their legs and tell me about themselves....not ask me questions, but "go first" - like a game.

Show me themselves, maybe move a little closer every once in awhile.

I don't want anyone to wash my face yet. I don't want anyone that close. But I think about it. That tenderness and that authentic caring.

Only I'm not little anymore. Sometimes it's a blessing, sometimes a curse. Sometimes I think maybe if I were young now - nowadays - someone would have saved me.

But they didn't and here I am. Afraid of people. Afraid of touch. Hating to bathe. Hating the mirror. Sometimes fantasizing about violently jerking every piece of jewelry I have hanging on my mirror clean off, as some testament of my hatred for the foulness and fallacy it all seems to represent.

Nothing there is mine. It's all stuff someone gave me to make me who they thought I should be.

It just hangs there.

Like me.

Just hanging here. Just hanging.

Daddy's Little Girl

Today I touched something tender.

Sometimes it's so hard to put things into words. I suppose that's a lot of why I write. Yeah...that's a lot of why I write.

Today I had session with Michelle. This session was following a total breakdown where I was desperately suicidal. I opted, instead, to go to sleep because, really, there was no means available to commit suicide and I wouldn't do something grotesque.

Anyway, we talked about something that hurt...some things that hurt, really. We talked about when I was young and in the system. Why things with her are different. They're different because I am different but when I was younger, I was just a kid and I was in the system and I was insulted by the idiotic underpaid, over-worked social workers, pretending to care and understand who want nothing more than to go have their sauerkraut sandwich and go home.

But, I told Michelle, there were two people who I did get close to.

"What did they do differently?" she asked.

"They didn't ask questions. They didn't act like they knew me."

In fact, they gave themselves to me. I told her about the photographer, a lesbian, who worked at a horrible group home (now shut down) and who shared with me. She wasn't pushy, just let me be curious and I liked her.

But then we talked about something else and it hurt me so deeply...so deeply...

In my mind, I can see it. I can see the huge, huge yard with a slight hill. The corner lot. The carport. I can see the foliage, the hedges. I can feel the dresses I wore.

I loved my daddy so much. God I loved him so, so much. He was everything to me. He was God.

But every day, in that grass, the carport, the dining room, the bedroom, the bathroom....even at school...

Every day I was terrified. I loved this man with every ounce of my being, and I feared him more than death itself. More than the devil or any monster in a closet or under a bed. I feared him more than anything and I loved him just the same.

As I talked about it, I told Michelle, it's like that point is when everything died. I choked when I said "died" because that's how it feels. Like that day,  when Daddy left - my Daddy...my Daddy who I so adored, who did excruciating, horrifying, terrifying things to me and to my little brother every day - left and with him, he took my love, and my ability to love.

Oh I've sought it out. I've sought it out in men. Older men, men my age. I sought that same kind of love. That adoration. That unbreakable bond.

My mother played no role. From such a young age I'd been told such terrible things about her that I didn't miss her much, but I'm sure there were times when I wished I had a mother. But I never trusted her and she never gave me any reason to, ultimately.

But Daddy...

I won't ever have that love, will I?

I mean, I love my kids. I've been close to people but the men - my ex-husband, Gary, even Bill - never could get to that place. Never could touch that soft, tender place that longs to be Daddy's little girl.

I know this now. I never knew it before. I look back on every relationship I've ever had and I see patterns. Oh God how this hurts.

I see that I cannot now or ever be Daddy's little girl.

Rest

Bad things sometimes happen to good people. Sometimes good things happen to bad people.

As for me, I have made mistakes to be sure, but I have desperately tried to rectify them. I have lived with guilt.

Truth is all I want is to feel safe, secure.

I used to call them "granny houses" and Bill and I would sometimes walk - at my insistence - along the sidewalks in Florida and I would point out the homes and say, "That'd be a good granny house."

In my mind, I was envisioning who lived there. What did they do for a living? Did they have children? Happily married?

I also envisioned having my grandkids there....visiting me when I was old.

I would envision where I would put the kiddy pool and swing set. A pond. A bird bath.

I even envisioned what it might look like inside. The colors and textures.

Today I can't think of a single word for how I feel. Helpless? Maybe.

A good person is being hurt and betrayed and abused and I cannot do anything about it.

It just makes me think of how horrible this world is...how horrible people can be. I have even had God-forbidden thoughts of ways I wish this man could be punished for how badly he is treating people.

I know it's wrong but that's how helpless I feel. Just thoughts. And I know thoughts are energy... I know.

God...

I just want to feel safe.

I just want to be able to sit down or lie down and rest. Just once. Just once.

Hardest Parts

My name is Cristina D. Johnson.

All of my life, I have been able to recount numerous attacks - physical, mental, emotional, sexual - but never with any connection to them. Like telling someone else's story. This keeps me from burdening people.

It's occurred to me lately that perhaps the hardest part of all of it, is accepting that it happened to me. These things happened to me. Or, perhaps, the hardest part is accepting that these things affected me.

Maybe it's a two-part hardest part.

I still talk about my experiences from afar. I think maybe I do this because I fear peoples' reactions. I don't know about others, but for me it's always been difficult/uncomfortable to be in the presence of someone who is crying.

Not always, but most  times.

So I spare people. I talk about it as if I am talking about the latest movie I saw.

So what's the fix for this?

How do I break that barrier in my mind that prevents me from accepting these things? How do I break through that wall that keeps the memories away? How do I make sense of the fragments I hold?

How do I begin to feel?

I am not PTSD. I am not DID.

I am Cristina Johnson.

But who is Cristina Johnson?

What will I be, when the walls and barriers are gone and the feelings show up? What will happen?

Who will I be?

Pushing Away (TRIGGER WARNING)

For three days, I have been really beating myself up. I feel bruised inside.

I've reached out to people...people I no longer speak to or otherwise communicate with. See, I have this obsession with not being liked. I can't stand to not be liked. There are two defenses to this: Either act however you have to act, to make them like you or treat them like shit so they have a good, solid reason not to like you.

Anyway, I've thought a lot about my past. It hurt that those I reached out to didn't reciprocate because I wanted to just...redeem myself, I guess. I wanted to apologize, make amends. It didn't happen.

Today, after I went on a three-day bashing splurge wherein I laid into those closest to me for absolutely no reason at all and said things I would never say, I find myself thinking back to my adolescence. Even before that, really.

See I never gave anyone a chance growing up. I never let anyone close to me. I did try, but she betrayed me. Lied to me and sent me back to hell. That was it.

I went to the police and the prosecutor in St. Louis when I was kidnapped and I was treated like the villain. That was it for my trust of authority and the police. No way, no how. Not ever.

I told Michelle during a recent session that the police found me walking down the street one day. It'd been a week or so since I'd been attacked and beaten. My lips were split wide open. It was really ghastly. I couldn't talk or eat for days. As they healed, I had two scabs on my lips from the wounds. The police stopped me and asked me where the drugs were. I had no idea what they were talking about. "We can tell you smoke. You have the burns on your lips."

I was speechless. I didn't tell them what happened. They didn't care.

Just took me in, another juvenile in the system. Another juvenile who wanted nothing to do with anyone. Didn't want to be touched or be near anyone. Didn't belong anywhere.

So I went off on everyone. I fought like a hood rat fights. I even kicked a pregnant girl once in the stomach. She cheated at cards and I called her out on it. Hey...she threw the first blow.

I've always felt bad about that.

One time, when I was on Vandeventer street, I was leaving a store and one of the regular guys who hung outside the door said to me, "Watch out for the Goodson brothers." I looked at him. "They're pimps. Their whole family is in it - mom, dad, sisters, brothers..."

I nodded. Never heard of 'em and didn't give them another thought. I was invincible. I'd been raped before and I'd escaped before.

Sure enough, two days later a man approached me. He was wearing a long beige winter coat and a nice hat. He was dressed nicely. He came up to me and handed me a card. I don't remember the first name but the last name stuck out: "Goodson."

I got away from him quickly.

But they found me.

The man at the store who had warned me was right: The whole Goodson clan was part of this huge prostitution ring.

But first you have to be initiated.

I couldn't tell you a thing about the house except there was a very narrow set of stairs and they were painted white. At the top of the stairs was a white door and it had three deadbolt locks on it. Beyond the door was an end table with drugs on it and a bed.

I was forced up those stairs and somehow it still didn't even occur to me that I might be in danger. Again, it wasn't anything I hadn't experienced before. So they'll take my body. So what? I'll get away.

They took me in the room and they locked the door. They took turns raping me every way they could. They made me perform oral sex. They performed it on me as well. They raped me vaginally and anally and if I cried they hit me. I cried most when they performed oral sex on me because I was terrified of orgasm...plus it hurt. It was very uncomfortable. I was 13 years old. They were training me to be put on the stroll and they were trying to indoctrinate me so that I would accept them as my bosses. Letting me know there was no escape.

They took my clothes so there was only a sheet to cover up with. They made me smoke "whack" (PCP) and marijuana - both of which I abhorred. I never was into drugs much.

Again, I felt nothing. Not emotionally anyway. I was busy plotting an escape. Any escape. When they would leave me alone in the room, I would check the  deadbolts - locked by keys - and I knew I couldn't escape. The room was in the attic so there was no way to get out the window.

Finally - I don't know how much time passed - I begged to go to the bathroom. They would not give me my clothes but, instead, allowed me to wrap up in the dingy, nasty sheet that I had just been violated on repeatedly. I didn't care. Didn't think about it.

I went to the bathroom. I was alarmed at first because I didn't think I could fit out of it. Plus it was on the second floor. It was one hell of a jump.

They were outside the door, waiting for me so I had to open the window quietly.

I made the jump. Barefoot. The pain was excruciating but nothing compared to what I was escaping from. I wonder how long it took for them to realize I was gone.

This is why you don't let people close to you....because you see what people are capable of. Thirteen years old. How could they? Not that it matters - it doesn't matter why they did it. What matters is they did and it hurt me - not just physically but in deeper ways, too.

So the police, whenever they'd pick me up yet again, were the enemy. The psychiatrists were enemies. The therapists, doctors and guards were all enemies. None of them cared and I didn't want them near me. They only hurt me more and God I couldn't wait to get away. I just wanted to have my life - my own life - with nobody in it. If there was anyone I could trust, it was myself. That was it.

What a lonely existence, I am realizing now.

People who are close to me now, I push away and sometimes hurt. There's no excuse and there are no words to describe how it feels inside to be that way.

Right now I am just afraid to say anything. I am afraid to decide anything. I'm afraid to do anything. I'm afraid that 13-year-old girl is going to kick whoever comes close and I don't want to be that. Not anymore.

Bad

I am a monster.

Daddy

My name is Cristina D. Johnson.

It used to be Cristina D. Baugh - after my father.

I was once told that he didn't want an "H" in my name (Christina) because he didn't want "Christ" to be in my name. Who knows if that's true.

Daddy was so handsome and strong. Very powerful. He was so talented and so intelligent. He was frightening, too. Unpredictable. He could be cruel. He could be kind. You just never knew what you would get.

Untitled

My name is Cristina D. Johnson

Today I have cried more than not.

There is a lot I don't understand.

I lashed out - viciously - at two of the most important people in my life. I have no explanation. There was no provocation.

I said hurtful, shameful things.

Today I keep waiting for my punishment. I feel like I deserve it. It kills me when they are kind to me.

I am confused and frustrated and uncertain.

Bill is leaving again. Going to PA to work.

I suppose this is good, although I won't have transportation but we'll figure it out.

I don't know what he wants from me.

I don't know what "H" wants from me.

If I don't know what they want from me, how can I give it?

I have no control. This kills me. If I have no control or understanding of what is going on, I lose control... I am lost. I am enraged. I want to fight.

I hate who I've been these past few days and I just keep sinking into the ugly that I was.

They forgive me.

I cannot forgive myself.

I am so lost.

Reality

I haven't written much lately. Been in a really bad place.

I went to see someone to help me with med management. For those unfamiliar, med management is someone you go to who helps you get your prescriptions and helps you figure out which ones you need. I am very proactive in my treatment and I know what works for me and what doesn't. Problem is, for me, seeing someone new always sends me reeling.

So this last woman we went to see was horrendous. She was horrible. She told me I could die from sudden cessation of clonazepam (klonopin) and I knew that was bullshit. I had stopped taking it weeks before and had no problems. I was just anxious, as usual.

I told her I did not want any psychotropic drugs nor anti-depressants. I am not psychotic nor depressed. The anxiety and insomnia are my killers.

My anxiety gets so bad that it's hard to concentrate on anything and if you give me more than two things at once, I am overwhelmed and shut down and at times will go straight into (a) panic or (b) shut-down. Sometimes both, though not at the same time.

That said, and despite how horrendous this woman was, after two weeks of total hell, I decided to look up the side effects of sudden cessation of klonopin, despite my own experience. I was dumbfounded.

I was taking 1mg up to four times per day, as needed. Sometimes - some days - I didn't need any. Some days I needed more. It's a PRN medication (PRN meaning "as needed"). Same with the trazadone I have been taking for sleep. .5 mg

After about two or three weeks without the clonazepam, my anxiety shot through the roof. Everything became unbearably loud. People talking. Bumps from upstairs (where Trevor plays his games). Doors slamming. Even my own footsteps on the staircase. It was like I was trying desperately to be invisible. I couldn't handle any stimuli. It was too much.

Now I am in a quandary. There is literally nobody else who can help me with my medication management and I find myself again with only a week and a half supply. I can stretch it because, like I said, I don't need it every day as prescribed; sometimes only once a day. Sometimes five times a day - if I am unable to sleep.

The last three weeks have been hell.

I am on the fence as to whether or not I am grateful to have the clonazepam again. I mean yes, it helps me but .....when I wasn't on it, I was experiencing very deep, extremely profound pain and memories and nightmares. I was utterly dysfunctional and unreachable. Is it good to shut that down? Isn't that a part of going through the healing process?

I just don't know.

I've never been a proponent of medications but I have had to admit over the past couple years that it serves a purpose, as long as the purpose it serves, is being served.

For the first time in awhile, I feel uninformed and helpless.