Tenderness

I suppose you could say I'm kind of writing to write. Sort of stream-of-conscience. But not really.

Through most of my life, a tender touch always made me cry. Always, without question and often to the point of shoving the tenderness away, until my later years. I suppose I calloused myself to it, though I still hold a weakness for certain touches (the face, particularly).

I've always maintained my favorite English word is "whisper."

Today I sit and listen to Rain by Patti Griffith.

Rain is a silent, private tenderness. Delicate. I've never done "delicate" very well. A tough girl. A tomboy. Dresses make me feel like an alien (except during my promiscuous period, during which time the higher the heels and the tighter & shorter the dress/skirt, the better). Still even then I was seeking that tenderness that I almost always rejected. Strange oxymoron, I know.

Whisper....whisper is soft, like the breeze...I always envision it riding on the wind, sailing across the world, over oceans. Whispers of wishes and dreams and broken hearts.

Tears....tender.

So hard to cry...can't stand that tender part of me, that cries from some place of deep wounds and darkness. I can cry angry tears because anger is not tender, but tender tears are.

Tenderness is so hard to take...to accept. To be understood and validated hurts more than anything else because it's so foreign. To be accepted hurts because it's not believable.

To trust......all the years I've spent thinking I was trusting when, in truth, I've never trusted anyone completely. There are still secrets, dark ones where I can't let tenderness invade. Places of my own torment that - ironically, out of tenderness - I don't want others to see or experience.

Tears, rain, whispers, winds. Things that fade, but hurt so much because they touch something I avoid and always have.

That's why tenderness hurts.

Only One

I've had about 30 hours of sleep in the last 36 (thank you Nyquil). The few hours I've been up, I've been lost. I took the Nyquil after deciding last night that I was going to commit suicide but then, using a tactic I've used before, told myself I would wait until tomorrow and if I still felt the same, I would do it then. As I lay down, restless, anxious, angry, hurt....I fantasized about ways to do it. I have a lot of pills I can take. I sometimes hoard them...."just in case." But I know from experience, that overdosing doesn't really work and best scenario you end up with smiley shoes on the fourth floor of some cold, God-forsaken hospital for three days until you say the right things to get out. So I thought of other ways, in addition to the pills. I thought of the order in which I would take the pills. I thought of ways to build a "tent" for carbon monoxide poisoning. Perhaps a bag over my head, too. I would close the bedroom door. Trevor would never know. Nobody would find me until I was gone. Maybe I'd use my old, illegal, beat up car and drive somewhere and hide. But then I thought maybe the cops would see me and pull me over. Then I'd really be screwed. I even tried to figure out ways I could smuggle in my meds in case I did get arrested but that wouldn't work either: The meds would need time to kick in, plus they'd find me before I could die. I fantasized about using a big black sharpie to write "DNR" all over my arms and chest and even my forehead. I figured I'd probably have to do it on paper and then trace it since doing it in the mirror could prove difficult.

Every purpose I had to live, is leaving or dying. My fault for putting purposes on people, instead of myself, most would say.

But most wouldn't know I am no purpose. I have no purpose. I know, I know....and I've heard it all. My existence alone, changes the world. Yada...yada...yada...

Appeasement does not work for me.

All the work I've done on myself has been so honest and intentional.

But for naught.

I still have my pills hidden. (I hid them in case my therapist instructed my friend to hide them from me). I still have not gotten them out. I still haven't entirely changed my mind.

I have therapy tomorrow.

I have almost nothing to say.

I am so numb. So, so numb.

Voiceless, wordless, needless.

Nothing. Obviously.

Never Safe

My name is Cristina D. Johnson

From somewhere deep inside, tonight, I came to a realization: nowhere is or has been ever safe. In my "live blog," Is This Where It Starts?, I sometimes get stuck. I get stuck in my head - where I've spent most of my life, away from the reality of yesterdays and days before yesterdays, in denial of (or absolute unawareness of), sicknesses that riddled my life, my toddlerhood, my childhood; sexual perversions that twisted, tormented and distorted every sense of everything a normal child would have.

Yeah, yeah I get it. This has always been my mantra.

"But me. Well, I'm okay. I don't need fucking therapy," I'm known to say. "You're the one with the fucking problem," I often chastised and argued. "I'll send you back to your psych professor with your highfalutin' tail between your legs," I would challenge.

No...I have no problems. Never have.

Right?

No.....

Not to my knowledge. Or, should I say, not to my awareness. I simply was, who I was and at times in my life - here and there - I was good with that. Comfortable with that. Other times....well....

Mood swings.

I remember talking with Bill when I was living with Gary - the man I loved and intended to spend the rest of my life with. Still, we had our problems and I would lament to my best friend: Bill. He was always kind, considerate, understanding and - most importantly - honest.

He once said to me (paraphrasing), "Well your mood swings definitely kept me on my toes." (Bill and I were together either as friends, roommates, loves and partners or all or one over a period of about five years prior to my relationship with Gary).

Anyway, I'm veering off track here...............

There's an ache in me tonight. I can't vocalize it. Just like last night. We watched the film, Trust and I cried multiple times. Cried over the 'blame the victim' attitude of the unwitting father.

Cried over what I never had.... Cried over never mattering enough. Cried over never being able to say, "I love you daddy," with confidence and without fear. (incidentally, I also cried at the end of The Little Mermaid when she said, "Thank you, Daddy," for the same reason. I never got to say that nor did I ever have any reason to).


Tonight, we watched "Voices Within" which is based on the true story of Truddi Chase and the Troops - after the book, "When Rabbit Howls." This book I've read and if you can get past the first three or four chapters which can be a bit confusing, it's a profoundly informational and insightful book on the life (and inner life) of someone with DID (formerly known as MPD, or Multiple Personality Disorder). This is a must-read for anyone with the diagnosis or anyone who wants to know and understand better, the inner workings of the disorder.

Anyway, watching "Trust" and "Voices Within" last night and tonight, respectively, with each violent/sexual assault scene, Bill would ask, "Do you want to watch something else?" or "are you okay?" and to him I would say, "Oh yes. These are the easiest parts to watch."

This is true.

Rape, violence.... oh those things are just.... things to me. I'm so disconnected from these things that I feel nothing watching them. This sounds brutal and callous, I know, but it's really just another brilliant part of my defense mechanisms, built over a lifetime of abuse, abandonment and dissociation.

So I watch these scenes and it never occurs to me that I'm not feeling anything. I said this to Bill last night, watching Trust.

"Are you okay watching this?" he asks, as the scene goes to a motel room where a 14-year-old girl is being manipulated and sexually assaulted by an online predator who is at least 35 years old.

"Oh yeah," I tell him. "It's the parts after this that will get me."

And they did. The outrage of her parents. The support. The openness she had to counseling. The support. The SUPPORT she had. It literally tore me apart inside.

I watched while one of my favorite male actors - Clive Owen - portraying the father, made mistake after mistake through the eyes of a survivor. No, no no I wanted to scream (and even once said). Blame the victim. Big mistake. Oh God....

Yet that's what I do to myself. What I've always done. What society seems to demand.

Why put myself in the position to be gang raped by 4, 6, 8, 10 men? Why not go home? Why run away? Why did I stay on the streets? I was asking for it, right? So I shouldn't be mad. Right? I shouldn't be hurt or angry or scared or upset. I brought it upon myself. Rather I should just own my mistakes (those of an 11-, 12-, 13-, 14-, 15-year-old CHILD.

A CHILD

Tonight, I listened to a (poorly done but okay enough, I suppose) movie - Voices Within - and I was struck by a couple of things that were said but most striking, to me, was when she talked about how "the stepfather" came out of the darkness and if it wasn't dark, he made it dark.

Somewhere, deep, deep inside, far away, hidden, buried, a part of me felt exposed.

"It didn't matter where I was, he would find me," she said.

And in that instant, I realized - for the first time in my life - that I was never safe. Not inside, not outside, not in St. Louis, Pensacola, North Carolina, Louisiana.... nowhere. Not even with my mother whose husband - my stepfather - saw fit to molest me, too.

Rape and incest and molestation and beatings.... oh  those are norms.

I am so accustomed to it (whether emotional, mental, physical or sexual) that I disconnect and feel nothing.

That is my grooming.

And truly, nowhere is safe.

This is spoken from a far away place. Untapped, young, afraid, easily hidden like the way a turtle jolts into its shell the slightest tap on the head or perception of threat.

These parts of me that feel just disappear and I am left with an ache and a curiosity and a need to know, a desire to heal. A desperation. An internal cry, "Please please come out. Please, please talk to me. Please, please tell me what I don't remember. Please, please....please...."

I don't want to be crazy but the world thinks me so.

I am not.

Yet I cannot show my face, nor go into public, nor literally speak my truth until people know - we are not crazy.

We are survivors, trying so hard to fit in.

Trying so hard to give meaning to atrocities many never see and still others see and never speak of.

Oh my voice.........

Give me my voice.

I want to be safe. I don't want a gun or any weapons. I don't want some man to be responsible for making me feel safe. I want to shed this lifetime skin of constant vigilance; this pervasive awareness of the ugly in the world; this unwitting knowledge of the perversions that exist in reality that so many  choose to be ignorant of.

I want to be safe. I want to be free.

Summer... ever the same?

I should be festive.

I should be happy.

I should be content.

There are so many better things in my life now, than there were just six months ago, a year ago. Five years ago, perhaps.

I've discovered some true friends. Sadly, this discovery led me to the awareness that true friends are rare so it's a double-edged sword. I suppose, for me, it's weird because I don't really know "real friends" - I've never allowed myself to have them, even if they were there.

I've had people - strangers and those I know and people in between - contact me because of my writing and tell me thank you....thank you for sharing your story and your journey. Thank you for giving me the courage to speak out. Thank you for saying what I've never been able to say. They tell me they relate on some levels they relate (which, in my opinion, at least, is them saying yes....I, too, have been sexually assaulted).

I've been encouraged by a number of people - too many to list - to keep writing, keep telling my story.

I have a fantastic therapist who I see (usually) twice a week - although this week was disrupted because of the Newtown shooting and she was recruited to counsel there. Our sessions are a good balance of one heavy, sobbing session, followed by two or three light-hearted, discussions, followed by another snotty, slobbering, bawling session.

I've been more honest with myself than I've ever been in my life. The things I see hurt. The things I feel - or am starting to feel or sometimes feel or whatever - are devastating. Feelings..... Oh man.

Even with someone like Bill - someone who's been there for over a decade. Someone who is more authentic, kind, gentle, patient and honest than anyone you'd ever know... even with Bill I remain guarded.

Which really says a lot about me, to myself. Because I logically know there is no reason to fear him....yet I do. Actually, I don't fear him, I fear feelings.

Feelings like I'm having right now as I listen to Tonight I Wanna Cry by Keith Urban.

During the last several weeks at Gary's house, this song was on repeat because the words fit so well. I was so alone. There were pictures of us everywhere. He was gone. Gone with "our friends" - out partying, talking about me, telling people about my "issues" - "issues" for which I carry such deep, deep shame and guilt. Issues that were private.

I felt so much at that time. So much, that just listening to this song again, brings it back to me, as if I were still sitting there in the basement, alone, afraid, panicking. So alone. So scared. So devastated.

I remember his touch - before everything fell apart. I remember his quirkiness and things he did that made him, him. I remember his kiss. I remember his hands.

Mostly, though, I remember how we just scrambled along together, completely clueless and aimless, unsure - in unfamiliar territory. Neither of us knowing how to feel.

Really feel.

It wasn't until the end that I felt the most profound feelings. The hurt....God. The fear... My God.

There was complete and utter loneliness. Darkness.

He left me. I was dumbfounded.

I understand, in hindsight. I know why, yet it also plays on my own self-loathing. Logically, I understand a man like Gary couldn't have endured this journey, even if my heart wanted him to. But emotionally, I was so vulnerable - too vulnerable, too needy.

He couldn't carry that, and I understand.

But at the time, when I could do nothing but pop another cap off a Corona, escape to the river, listen to music...anything...anything to numb, to escape.... I couldn't stand him being there....couldn't stand him not being there.

Desperate doesn't begin to describe it.

So I wonder, if - as I listen to this song now, and these feelings erupt in my chest like a bomb going off - will Summer ever be the same?

Will August ever be one of my favorite months again? A time to sit in the sun, soak in the rays and the warmth of the sky. Stick my feet in the water.

Will I ever be able to look at a dock or a boat or a jet ski or a 'raft-up' again and not want to break down and cry or crumble completely inside.

There's some part of me inside that looks at those in my life now and I think, yes...yes I can make new memories. I have always told my children that: Make memories. Nobody can take them away from you.

What do I do with the ones that hurt?

Will they ever go away? This kind of hurt, I mean?

We all go through break-ups. I've been through break-ups before.

This one hurt. Really bad. Really, really bad.

I'd chosen, for the first time ever in my life, to stay - to dare to hope and to dare to trust - and it was the wrong person. I know, I know...it's been said a million times by as many people but this is my life and my story and my journey and my pain.

I've wondered, does it mean I still love him? Does knowing, that if I were to see him right now, I would shatter again, mean that I still love him? How is it holding me back?

How do I let go of my fear and let down my guard, when I still choke on my own tears, as I remember those horrible, painful, lonely, terrifying nights alone in the basement?

I wonder if he learned as much from me, as I did from him.

Is it really possible to always love someone, even when they're not in your life? Really?

And, if so, is it possible to love someone else?

How does that work?

How do I do this?

One thing I know is this: Those who saw my suffrage and my agony, are still with me. Gentle, tender, loving, guiding, non-judgmental, giving and compassionate.

So what is wrong with me?

I am on the fence with the whole "feelings" thing. Sometimes - well, every time, really - I feel something, I don't like it. Part of the journey.

He was part of the journey. Still is, in a lot of ways.

I want to cover it up with new memories but I know  that's not the right thing to do. Rather, that's what I've always done.

It takes real conscious effort to sink into that despair and confusion and let it flow. I still don't know how to do it....but I'll figure it out.

And one day, maybe, I'll be able to thank him, instead of all the other feelings I have right now.

But for now, I will turn off this song, enjoy good company and let it sink back down under the surface.... save it for a time when I know what to do with it.

For now, I will try.

Intensity in Love

My name is Cristina D. Johnson.

My session, today, was heavy. I was already shook up when I got there. I got some news and instantly started shaking, crying and got a headache, simultaneously. Funny thing is, it was good news, but it was so damn overwhelming. So I showed up to see Michelle very shaky an disoriented.

"Let's take a minute," she said, "Take a couple deep breaths."

I tried...felt silly. I always feel silly when someone says, "Breathe....take a deep breath..." (I even feel awkward doing it for the doctor, now that I think about it. Weird).

Anyway, as I predicted, she asked what my take was, on the dream I had about my father. I told her I was completely, absolutely lost. I had no idea. This surprised her.

The session kind of went all over the place - she triggered me once....one of those snapshots, like a lightning-fast emotional response to something she said, and then poof it was gone.

"What did you say?" I asked her.

She looked at me confused. I was confused. I started crying. I was reminded of something, but couldn't remember what I had been reminded of. It's so strange how those flashbacks work.

"What did it bring up for you?" she asked.

"I don't remember. What was it you said?"

She said she was talking about making mistakes ....

And I snatched a kleenex from the box on the table, where she'd set it for me. "He was so cruel," I whimpered. "So cruel." I started shaking.

"Punishment...that's what it brought up. There were no mistakes. You couldn't make mistakes," I told her, but without the emotional connection. I shed a few tears and it was gone. All that was left was the memory, devoid of any attachment. "He once punished me for holding the cat wrong."

Then we talked about re-parenting.....Cindy is doing a marvelous job at this. "Ron won't be able to re-parent you," she said. I suspect this is because of the extent of the abuse I went through with my father. Plus Ron also, unfortunately, has some of the same traits as my father....tall, powerful, and he has a way about him that's very much like my birth father. I am trying to work past that....as is Ron, to his credit.

And then...the most painful of all: the dream.

First she said she was very surprised that no therapist had ever spoken to me about sexual dreams about fathers who molest their daughters. "It's very common," she explained.

She also told me it's not uncommon to experience arousal when being molested. It's a physiological experience that the body cannot control. It's clearly more obvious for boys/men because, well, you know...it's obvious if they're aroused. But not so much for girls.

"I don't remember ever feeling aroused," I told her. "The only good feelings I recall are those of knowing that I was doing something right...doing something to make Daddy happy....Never do I recall being aroused."

She said we (women) often pile junk on top of it: how gross and disgusting and despicable it is, how wrong and dirty and we have so much piled up on top of it, that even if we were aroused, we wouldn't know it.

Which brought us to the dream. She said the dream was symbolic and - in her opinion, based on what I told her - had nothing to do with my father, and everything to do with Bill.

For me, the most difficult aspect of that dream, was the strong emotional attachment I was feeling towards my father as I initiated sex. The feeling of this very powerful love, was identical to that which I feel for Bill.

We talked a lot about this, about my authentic fear of this love for Bill.

"What are you afraid of?"

"I don't know. Doing something wrong? Saying something wrong? Being hurt. Being abandoned."

But there's more to it than that, even. Kind of like Cindy is "re-parenting" me, Bill is giving me this love that I've never had before and I am terrified of it...not used to it...

"You know," she said, "It takes a huge amount of courage for you to love him....to let him love you that way."

I cried...this heart-wrenching, desperate cry. Aching inside. So confused. So afraid. Hopeful but terrified.

The only other time I ever felt such intense love, was when I loved my father. Feeling that intensity is blindingly terrifying.

Yet....if I let it happen...if I just let it run it's course, I will (or should) re-learn love. Healthy love, instead of the toxic, abusive, painful love that I hold inside as a norm. This fearful, punishing love that sticks to me like velcro.

I wonder....

I wonder if I left Bill years ago, because of this intensity, in favor of a more superficial relationship, that would spare me from loving so deeply.

Thank you Cindy....Ron...Bill......

Bill.....thank you.

It's Complicated

My name is Cristina D. Johnson

I was talking with Hannah last night via text, as we do almost every night. I was also talking to Bill, simultaneously - also, as every night.

I've cried, I think, every single day since Saturday, when Bill showed up for my birthday. Sometimes it's just a little cry, sometimes it's a sobbing, snotty cry. Sometimes it's just a quiet, keep-to-yourself cry...today it was an all-out, shaking, confused, terrified, time-for-a-klonopin-and-a-beer kind of cry.

My eyes hurt. My nose hurts. My lips hurt. (My lips don't hurt from crying, though....f'n fever blisters!)

Anyway, it was interesting to get validation from my 18-year-old protege' ...so young in her years, yet in many ways, so, so wise.

I was talking to Bill, as I mentioned. I took him to the airport Wednesday. My adoptive mother - Cindy - went with me (Bill asked her because he was concerned about me being alone, once I dropped him off). The ride home was relatively quiet, although we did talk a little bit.

But as soon as she was out of the car and I pulled out of her driveway on my way home, I cried all the way. Snow and rain began to beat the windshield as Winter Storm Athena rolled in. It seemed suitable, given the circumstances.

I must first, I suppose, try as best as I possibly can, to sum up what makes him so spectacular. First of all (and anyone who has ever met him, will attest to this), EVERYBODY loves Bill. Everyone. I've never seen an exception. His energy is calm. He is so laid back, so "chill" and open-minded. So, so calm. Just being around him and breathing him in, is soothing.

While he was here, we:

• Played in the leaves they raked in the yard (he got me good, dumped a whole load on my head)
• Danced in the front yard, to nothing but the wind
• Played cards and chess with Trevor almost every night (a real treat for Trevor - he adores Bill)
• He fixed all my storm windows (I couldn't get most of them closed)
• Put together my new office chair (no way I coulda done it)
• Looked at my car (I am apparently leaking antifreeze...he tightened the hose clamp, for now)
• Went to Aggie's Village Restaurant in Ivoryton - just down the street. Sat at the little bar and had breakfast together. Ordered almost exactly the same things.
• Sat outside on the porch, wrapped in blankets
• Cooked dinner together (twice)
• Went to Oliver's Tavern and restaurant on his last night here - ordered exactly the same thing, except I got bleu cheese and he ordered raspberry vinaigrette. (I have to point out that as we were sitting down, he stood there, and I asked, "what's wrong?" and he said, "I'm trying to decide if I want to sit next to you or across from you." So I moved over and he snuggled in next to me because sitting across from me was too far).
• He helped Trevor to earn money he needed to buy a couple things he wanted
• Cleaned up after me when I threw up (not alcohol-related), washed the clothes (twice) and cleaned out the washing machine.
• Went to the laundromat with me, helped me do the clothes
• Took out the trash
• Cleaned up while I was at my therapy session
• Sat on the couch, with every candle and incense lit, just talking after Trevor went to bed (we did this a lot)
• Went to Yankee Candle and he bought me another candle and himself a tart warmer with some great tarts, plus treated me to some, too.
• Bought Trevor a winter coat

I'm sure there are many more things...many more.

I talked to Bill - told him this - and also told Michelle (my therapist) that there was this moment. This moment when it just hit me "I love you!"  -  it was the moment I saw him standing there in the front yard with roses on my birthday. When I felt every cell in my body explode, when I couldn't control my screaming and my legs couldn't move fast enough and I couldn't wrap my arms around him quickly or tightly enough. When I couldn't even speak, when my legs wanted to collapse...that was that moment, when it hit me, "Oh my God, you love him."

Of course, I've always loved Bill (don't forget we went through a lot over the past 10+ years) and when we dated before, it was just about the same - a few differences, but he was always consistent and loving and attentive.

Throughout my relationship with Gary he was my sounding board and although he never said a bad thing about Gary, he was always there to listen. Of course, now, it's different. Now he admits all along that he knew Gary wasn't right for me, but he waited...he waited for me...

I don't know what to think of that...

So back to the conversation with Hannah....

I told her, as I cried, (paraphrasing), "I feel like I'm bad if I love him. Like I'm being bad."

"Yeah, like you're breaking some rule or something."

"Yes! Exactly!"

It is a child-like feeling. You don't want anyone to know that you love someone....you don't even want to admit to yourself that you might love someone, so much that just a mere memory of his face, brings tears to your eyes that just won't stop falling. I'm afraid to tell anyone....why?

Where does this come from? And what does the fact that Hannah and I are both incest survivors have to do with this 'rule-breaking' thing?

Bill, through the conversation, said, "It's okay. I want you to question it. I want you to be sure about everything. I want you to question everything and be sure it's what you want," because, well, that's how Bill is. But he didn't really understand - probably can't understand - what even I and Hannah fail to understand.

What is this unspoken "rule" we hold ourselves to? Do not love. You cannot love. It's against the rules!

Where does this come from?

Today, I panicked, full-blown....oh God...that fear of that "rule" combined with this desperate need to see him again, have him touch my face the way he does, hold my hands the way he does, make me laugh the way he does, treat Trevor the way he does.... with so much love, appreciation and devotion.

I love him...I am afraid.... I love him....I miss him...I am afraid...

I want him home.

Confused in the Kitchen

My name is Cristina D. Johnson and this is just a run-down of how I'm feeling right now.

I'm feeling exceptionally depressed tonight. Thankfully it's not accompanied by that dastardly suicidal ideation curse.

I feel inept, to help someone who is dear to me. She needs so much support and help and needs to believe that people love her, but I feel like a failure in that regard. All I have are texts and occasional phone calls to comfort her through a situation most people would never know. A situation even  I don't know and cannot comprehend. There is absolutely no consoling her and there's nothing more I can do, although I've sworn to do all I can... is that enough?

My son attacked me last night. Bad. I had to turn off my phone, I was so distraught. I burnt Trevor's dinner but was able to play it off, thankfully, and he ate every bite. It was my special treat to him for being so helpful and understanding while I was sick.The dinner was ruined - for me, at least inside - although I managed to keep a smile on for him. He deserved it. He's a super child and even though he never says it, he loves me.

Relationships are burying me, as well as my schedule. I was standing in my kitchen tonight, just vacuumed the living room, and I was suddenly lost. I realized the date. I started getting flooded with overwhelm....when do I have to do what? I am confused. I stood there utterly confused and that made me feel ashamed. "Normal people don't do this. Get over it," I scolded myself. A residual effect, I'm sure, of my son telling me I was throwing a pity party for myself. He was taught that by people who don't know pain and he ran with it. Oh God if he only knew....if he only knew what it's like to stand there in the kitchen, alone, afraid...afraid to do anything...and not even able to keep track of the things you have to do. Like you're missing part of your brain. Like there's something wrong with you! You should be FINE! Get over it! Get over it!

Yeah this is a real fucking picnic, son.

And relationships....
I miss Bill desperately, yet I also know his absence helps me because it forces me to not be distracted from the agony (AGONY) of my ordeal with Gary. Today, yesterday, the day before...I cried...I cry almost daily, realizing things...looking back on things. Not just things Gary did, but things I did as well...but mostly how, in the end, I was just garbage which told me a whole lot, about the entire relationship. I was so blind. I was so stupid. I neglected to protect Trevor and the few times I tried, I was shot down for it. But God forbid I rock the boat, right? (No pun intended). I still wear the ring he gave me. I don't know what to do with it. I also have the pet pillow he bought me - a pink unicorn. "Here. It's the antithesis of everything you've ever believed about yourself," he said to me. I took this as a sign that he was with me, was trying to help me, wanted to go through this with me.....would not leave me.

What do I do with these things? The pictures? I wonder what he did with all the pictures. Oh we had so much fun that day, taking pictures...I have the envelope with what's left of them in it. Plus I have two framed pictures. Two 8x10's. What do I do with them?

I also wear the ring of a man who terrifies me. He's tall, powerful, and frightening. I have had it for years. I took it off for awhile, but put it back on about a year ago. Our relationship went sour....he's my adoptive father. Back then (about five years ago), things got really bad and he became a huge trigger for me. Now he and my adoptive mother are back in my life, although he, not so much. More my adoptive mother, Cindy, who's been like an angel...more than I  could ever ask for in a mother.

And Bill....
God.
Nobody who knows us and our relationship would ever say anything BUT that we are soul mates. But I'm so terrified - still so wounded from the brutality of my last relationship - that I don't trust myself. For five years, Bill waited for me. Our relationship was always pure, always loving. He has been with me through everything, done everything. And now he works a thousand miles away, to help me and Trevor (and himself), but mostly me because of his growing understanding of how important stability is to me - something I repeatedly told Gary, but which went entirely ignored. Now I have this wonderful, faithful, loyal, honest man who adores me, helping me, believing in me and encouraging me....learning so he can help me and I am terrified. What if the same thing happens, as what happened with Gary? I didn't expect it from Gary, but it happened. I don't know.... I just don't know. I know that now - tonight - I am lonely and I miss Bill.

I got a lot done the past few weeks. Things have been moving forward with the help of Bill and Cindy yet somehow, tonight, something has a hold on me...like a shadow or a ghost and I just can't shake it.

Tony...My Tony. This is the thirty-thousandth time he's broken my heart.

Probably won't be the last, either.

Hopefully tomorrow will be better.

Left to Myself

My Name is Cristina D. Johnson

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

"I'll be okay," I lied.

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

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

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

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

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

She nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which led to the conversation about Carolyn and Gary.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bill is my only friend.

And he is leaving.

And I am afraid.

Still Reeling

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And afraid.

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

But I won't stop.