Had another nightmare last night - of him. Woke myself up screaming. God I wish he knew how horribly he hurt me. I wish he could feel the fear - even if just for a moment.
I recently met a woman who told me her father, too, had molested her but that he did 10 years in prison for it and died recently - in December.
"It was the first time in my life I've ever felt peace," she said. "Not that I wished him dead, just it was the first time I ever felt peace."
It made me cry. Her mother had been a staunch supporter of her through it all and I wondered - marveled - at that. Wondered what that would be like.
But then I kind of lost it and I realized I won't ever know when my father dies. How long does that mean I have to wait for peace? And what about the others? I won't know when they're gone. I cried for two hours over this. Sobbed.
Is that when you find peace after all this? When they're all cold in the ground or sitting in an urn on a mantle somewhere?
Knowing there's a rapist around every corner in every walk of life, will there ever be peace?
Showing posts with label father. Show all posts
Showing posts with label father. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
Sunday, April 21, 2013
Emptiness (Poem) (possible trigger)
How can empty
get any more hollow?
There are no seeds;
no strings to follow
The darkness gets darker
no moon, no stars
you talk to loneliness
show your scars
but none other can see
nor hear the shrieks
from a deadened body
from whence blood leaks
at the whim of despair
the quick slits release
drops of blood
moments of peace
a ghastly reminder
we still survive
crimson droplets
prove we are alive
the reaper grows near
whispers your name
begs your surrender
to the monstrous pain
Consulting with loneliness
you quietly lament
secretly wishing
with honest intent
natural causes
will take you away
a coward to the end...
...so it seems, anyway.
(C) Cristina D. Kuptzin-Johnson, 2013
get any more hollow?
There are no seeds;
no strings to followThe darkness gets darker
no moon, no stars
you talk to loneliness
show your scars
but none other can see
nor hear the shrieks
from a deadened body
from whence blood leaks
at the whim of despair
the quick slits release
drops of blood
moments of peace
a ghastly reminder
we still survive
crimson droplets
prove we are alive
the reaper grows near
whispers your name
begs your surrender
to the monstrous pain
Consulting with loneliness
you quietly lament
secretly wishing
with honest intent
natural causes
will take you away
a coward to the end...
...so it seems, anyway.
(C) Cristina D. Kuptzin-Johnson, 2013
Sunday, March 31, 2013
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.
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.
Sunday, January 27, 2013
Lost in moments
My skin is on fire, just as surely as if lava ran through
every capillary beneath it. Everything is loud; ten times…no, a hundred times
more than normal. My stomach is in my throat, upside down. I want to vomit. I
can’t stop shaking…this bizarre shaking… my hands tremble but it feels as if
every cell trembles, every muscle and bone, everything inside.
What is today?
The time is close.
And it’s so simple, really. Just a compilation of things.
Today I played games online - games from my childhood: Pacman; Donky Kong; Donkey Kong Jr.; Frogger; Space Invaders... so many... I was keen to note the dates they were released. I was trying to find some place in time in history. Some kind of validation or verification of times and ages and dates that are lost in my mind. This need is always there. This need to know, where was I when this happened? Where was I when that happened? What age was I?
Seemed harmless at the time.
But then things started to happen and, one by one, they began to build until the weight crushed my stature.
Memories. Unable to separate past from present, even though my mind consciously knows the difference.
Still, I was swept away to points in time when living was unsafe, unkind...
The kitchen was tiny. So small. No bigger than a prison cell.
In it was a stove and a small two-top table, wedged beneath a window (I think), and next to the stove, something I can't recall. A spice rack, maybe? A tiny little group of shelves? A little bitty pantry? A small microwave stand? I don't recall.
The story is more complex but tonight, I was standing at that stove, my back to the little two-top. I was wiping down what I'd already cleaned, desperately avoiding looking at my step mother who had come to sit at the table behind me.
"I don't know what to do," she said.
I said nothing. I was in fourth grade. For most of my life, I'd believed myself to be 12 at the time but I know now that I was in fourth grade - Bethany school in Summerfield, N.C., so I must've been nine or so. Ricky McGeehee was the most popular boy in school. Tracy was the most popular girl. It must have been around 1979.
I was terrified. I just nodded at the stove, kept wiping.
"He [my little brother] says your father molests him," she said, with her gentle Bostonian accent.
I felt my body freeze, my head spin, my tongue couldn't move. I stopped so briefly ...didn't want her to notice, so I quickly continued wiping. There was nothing to wipe clean.
"I don't know what to do," she said again.
She must have pondered the truth of my brother's statement out loud because I remember looking down at the stove and quietly saying, "He's telling the truth."
I heard her ask, "What?"
I turned, looked at the floor and repeated. "He's telling the truth."
Later that night, Daddy tried to get to me after he punched several holes in the walls. He screamed at me: "Tell her the truth! Tell her you're lying!" and she got between us; saved me from him.
Tonight, I went there - to that moment in time. I thought I could handle it. I shoved it away. Pushed it back.
Went back to cooking.
Began cleaning. Cleaning.... cleaning...
Heard banging, felt the energy shift. The irritation. The frustration. Felt it as if I caused it. Believe I caused it. Felt responsible. Frantically searched for anything I could clean.... Gotta clean.... gotta do something.
My hand burned and I was six.... again....
I was six and I couldn't move my hand because it was so badly burnt but I tried to hide it. I was terrified when they said they were going to call my parents because I couldn't write. It was my left hand - my dominant hand - and I couldn't write in school. I pleaded, "Please, please I'll use my right hand! Please don't call them!"
They assured me it was okay and I wasn't in trouble, but that they needed to call my parents.
They didn't understand.
I was beaten for that.
For a moment, I was there again..... in the classroom, people were looking at me, looking at my hand. I didn't want them to look. I wanted them to leave me alone, to let me try to do my work with my right hand. Please don't call Daddy....
For a moment, I was with Gary again.... he was yelling....he was slamming things, kicking things, throwing things, cursing at the dog, the kids, anyone....
And, in that, for a moment I was with Daddy again; he was kicking things, breaking things, yelling, angry. Then he was kind, benevolent. Then he was angry again.
That's when everything got really loud.
I tried to escape.
I couldn't.
And now I am here
My skin on fire. My stomach in my throat, upside down, choking on memories I am trying to swallow, trying to put into their rightful place.
But my hand - as I burnt it, washing things in the hot water - was no longer my hand. It was the hand of a six-year-old girl. The counter was no longer the one in my apartment. It was the stove I cleaned with my back to a loving and courageous step-mother. The restlessness, irritation, irritability was no longer my friend; it was Gary. And that was ultimately Daddy, yelling in a rampage.
Unpredictable, frightening. So frightening.
So goddamn frightening.
Unable to talk, accused of sulking......
Unable to talk.
What is today?
The time is close.
Saturday, January 19, 2013
Regret
It's chilly up here - but it's clean. There are no cigarette ashes everywhere. It smells of the hazelnut candle I lit an hour ago, and the opium incense - my personal favorite - that I lit about thirty minutes ago. The windows are pathetically "covered" - that is, the plastic I attempted to cover them with for the winter, is now hanging down, loose from the top. The blue painter's tape I used in an effort to save the paint on the window frames, didn't do the job. But it's dark - the lights are off - and I cannot see this eyesore.
It's solitary here. I have the door closed and I hear nothing but my edited version of ATB's "Trinity" on repeat. I made it repeat the woeful center part over a dozen times. I was proud of this, actually. I'm good at editing videos and music and photos. I'm actually better than your average person.
The song suits me right now. I am sad.
Not sad. Sorrowful.
I think there's a difference. At least, it feels like there is. Sad is, I suppose, something you feel when something happens. Sorrowful, for me, is this feeling inside that aches so deeply and causes these tears that aren't blatantly sad. They just fall, each one as if it has a story to tell and - if the story isn't told - then perhaps the next one that falls, will tell it. They keep coming and, with them, flashes of regret, pangs of pain, dulled only by my own self-criticism.
So the tears stop - just for a moment - until the ache pushes them up and out again.
I think....
I think about how afraid I am to go out.
and why
Why?
Why.... because maybe someone will see me. Maybe someone will see me. Maybe they'll see this horrible ugly I hear and see every day.
I've learned over the past few months that I - in my life - have had two choices: I could pretend this horrible ugly didn't exist and I could fight (in any way possible or necessary) anyone who called me out on it (ie "classless cunt" as my ex referred to me [yeah, pretty classy, huh?] or "white trash" or "trailer park trash" or other derogatory comments) or I could hide behind a mask. Either way, I was in denial of these self-loathing whispers, constant in my ear. Constant in my mind. Constant in the mirror.
Thinking...
I can't please anyone.
Nobody.
I don't know how.
I thought I did......
I thought I knew how but now, that's stripped from me in so many ways.
Now I know that sex doesn't get you love, even if my mind tricks me into believing it again and again and again. Being a good cook, doesn't get me love.
But my mind tricks me over and over and over.
Laundry and being a good mom. Cleaning.
Being quiet. Subdued. Unspoken, really.
But not enough to let on, that you really are unspoken and silent.
Just enough.... just enough...
But nobody will ever be ..........what I've always looked for.
I am 42 years old.
What a sad joke that my life is right now. I feel old and tired. Exhausted, really. Too tired to lift anything. Too tired to go anywhere. Too afraid to talk about it. Who do I call? Who do I talk to? Who do I tell all this to?
These secrets.... they're mine.
I know I'm not alone. I know others have exactly these same secrets. Secrets about themselves, about men and relationships, sex, love.... love....
Shame....
Thinly veiled....
I wish.... so much.
wish he knew..... wish he knew.... wish he knew..... and him and her and him and them...
Wish they knew.....
Oh how I wish....
Another tear.
It's full of regret. Full of shame. It hits my stained white t-shirt, that I wear only when I know nobody's coming around and I'm going nowhere. Usually when I clean.
It hits a half inch from where the last one fell. And the one before.
I am afraid to be thankful, so I stand back and stare in awe, without touching. Without tainting. I want it to stay perfect, so I don't go near.
I hide.
Like a coward, I hide. Unlike the tough girl I've always been.
I hide.
But I feel and I've felt.
So deeply that it feels like gouges in my soul, filled only with confusion and disorientation and uncertainty.
Regret.
It feeds that voice that says, "It's your fault. It's all your fault. Nobody can love you."
I did everything wrong. Always. I always do. I push them away. I hurt people.
Yet..... I cannot fathom hurting anyone.
Never. God.....
I never want or wanted to hurt anyone.
And yet, I feel like a monster.
So I cannot be seen. I don't want to be seen.
Let the tears come here - in the attic, amid the scents of hazelnut and opium, behind fallen plastic and haggard painter's tape. Here, up high, where nobody can see.
Tomorrow I will be fine.
Tomorrow I won't cry.
Tomorrow, I won't wear a stained white t-shirt.
It's solitary here. I have the door closed and I hear nothing but my edited version of ATB's "Trinity" on repeat. I made it repeat the woeful center part over a dozen times. I was proud of this, actually. I'm good at editing videos and music and photos. I'm actually better than your average person.
The song suits me right now. I am sad.
Not sad. Sorrowful.
I think there's a difference. At least, it feels like there is. Sad is, I suppose, something you feel when something happens. Sorrowful, for me, is this feeling inside that aches so deeply and causes these tears that aren't blatantly sad. They just fall, each one as if it has a story to tell and - if the story isn't told - then perhaps the next one that falls, will tell it. They keep coming and, with them, flashes of regret, pangs of pain, dulled only by my own self-criticism.
So the tears stop - just for a moment - until the ache pushes them up and out again.
I think....
I think about how afraid I am to go out.
and why
Why?
Why.... because maybe someone will see me. Maybe someone will see me. Maybe they'll see this horrible ugly I hear and see every day.
I've learned over the past few months that I - in my life - have had two choices: I could pretend this horrible ugly didn't exist and I could fight (in any way possible or necessary) anyone who called me out on it (ie "classless cunt" as my ex referred to me [yeah, pretty classy, huh?] or "white trash" or "trailer park trash" or other derogatory comments) or I could hide behind a mask. Either way, I was in denial of these self-loathing whispers, constant in my ear. Constant in my mind. Constant in the mirror.
Thinking...
I can't please anyone.
Nobody.
I don't know how.
I thought I did......
I thought I knew how but now, that's stripped from me in so many ways.
Now I know that sex doesn't get you love, even if my mind tricks me into believing it again and again and again. Being a good cook, doesn't get me love.
But my mind tricks me over and over and over.
Laundry and being a good mom. Cleaning.
Being quiet. Subdued. Unspoken, really.
But not enough to let on, that you really are unspoken and silent.
Just enough.... just enough...
But nobody will ever be ..........what I've always looked for.
I am 42 years old.
What a sad joke that my life is right now. I feel old and tired. Exhausted, really. Too tired to lift anything. Too tired to go anywhere. Too afraid to talk about it. Who do I call? Who do I talk to? Who do I tell all this to?
These secrets.... they're mine.
I know I'm not alone. I know others have exactly these same secrets. Secrets about themselves, about men and relationships, sex, love.... love....
Shame....
Thinly veiled....
I wish.... so much.
wish he knew..... wish he knew.... wish he knew..... and him and her and him and them...
Wish they knew.....
Oh how I wish....
Another tear.
It's full of regret. Full of shame. It hits my stained white t-shirt, that I wear only when I know nobody's coming around and I'm going nowhere. Usually when I clean.
It hits a half inch from where the last one fell. And the one before.
I am afraid to be thankful, so I stand back and stare in awe, without touching. Without tainting. I want it to stay perfect, so I don't go near.
I hide.
Like a coward, I hide. Unlike the tough girl I've always been.
I hide.
But I feel and I've felt.
So deeply that it feels like gouges in my soul, filled only with confusion and disorientation and uncertainty.
Regret.
It feeds that voice that says, "It's your fault. It's all your fault. Nobody can love you."
I did everything wrong. Always. I always do. I push them away. I hurt people.
Yet..... I cannot fathom hurting anyone.
Never. God.....
I never want or wanted to hurt anyone.
And yet, I feel like a monster.
So I cannot be seen. I don't want to be seen.
Let the tears come here - in the attic, amid the scents of hazelnut and opium, behind fallen plastic and haggard painter's tape. Here, up high, where nobody can see.
Tomorrow I will be fine.
Tomorrow I won't cry.
Tomorrow, I won't wear a stained white t-shirt.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Salty Flashback (WARNING: Graphic)
My name is Cristina D. Johnson
Today Michelle and I talked about an article I read about DID. I had sent it to her, to get her opinion. See, I am pretty pissed off about this whole DID thing and for the past two days, have fought the notion. Fuck that. I don't have DID. No way.
But then I read the article... searching, I suppose. Just wanting answers. Something. Anything. I don't know. Some kind of answer or answers for the weird, crazy shit my mind goes through and the stuff that just doesn't make sense.
I asked her what she thought about the article, "besides the typos," I said...
"There were typos?"
"Yeah. Several," I said.
"I didn't notice."
"I did. I didn't like it," I told her.
And, like any good therapist, I suppose, she shot my own question back at me. "What did you think about it?"
I shrugged. I didn't have an answer.
We talked about the reasons why I might have sent it to her, what I was looking for. She asked me what the DID means for me, what's wrong with it?
I told her I am among the victims of The Seven Faces of Eve and Sybil - those who see DID as some malady where you change personalities so overtly that people think you're crazy.
"I don't want to be crazy."
"Do you think you're crazy?"
"Sometimes I want to go crazy."
"Do you?"
"Sometimes."
It felt like I needed to fit too much into the session. Like always, I suppose. In a hurry. I want this over with. I want all these stupid fucking "parts" or "fragments" or what the hell ever it is to go away so I can know who the hell I am because that is what I fear the most and I don't want to fear anything.
Still, my "core self" (whoever that is) lies dormant and hidden.
I felt a surge...a need to tell her what happened last night, despite this feeling I had not to say anything. But this urge took over, this bizzare disconnection happened and there I was, saying it.
"Tell me something," I said to her. "Last night, when I went to bed, I had a flashback," I continued, not waiting for her to speak. She sat quietly and I talked.
"I don't know how old I was. I was on the streets. There was a car - the door was open - and a big black man and he had a gun to my head. He had me on my knees. He made me perform oral sex on him right there, and he held the gun at my temple and said, 'Swallow it or I'll blow your fucking brains out.' So I swallowed it. I remember this very vividly, even though I couldn't tell you how I got there, where we were [except that we were in St. Louis] or anything.
"But then the flashback went from that to Bill and it stopped with Gary. I got this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, envisioning Gary." My father - my first predator - didn't even come to mind, despite my vivid memory of asking him as a child, "Daddy what is that white stuff?" and his response: "I don't know, honey," as he handed me a towel to wipe it off.
I was emotionless. The black man, the gun, the swallowing - how it burned - those things were far removed from me, aside from the visual (and the burning sensation which I can call upon if I choose, but I choose not to). Instead, I was overwhelmed with disgust over the taste of semen.
"I tasted semen. I felt it was flooding my mouth," I told her, speaking of last night. "This has never happened before."
I was laying in bed. Bill was asleep. I hadn't watched or read anything that might have prompted it, but there it was - suddenly - and I was heaving, panting, sitting upright, reminding myself who I was, where I was, that I was safe. And there was an argument in my head and I was trying to ....I don't know, calm it down.
So strange.
"What the hell is that?" I asked her. "I mean, if someone ever did something like that to my daughter, I would consider it traumatic. But me? Who cares?"
She said this centers around this enormous shame I have. I trust her. I believe this, even if I don't understand it.
She said (paraphrasing), "While you think it'd be better if you didn't exist, you have people standing on the other side of the [chasm] saying, 'Come over here. You deserve to be here. You deserve to be safe, loved.'"
"I don't think I'm really doing anyone any favors by existing," I argued, adding: "Except for Trevor."
"I would argue that," she said calmly.
She did tell me one thing:
She told me she's seen me switch and described some of the ways it appears when I do. My posture changes, my countenance changes, my voice changes, my body language changes.
We discussed other things I've experienced that I've never told anyone and am not yet ready to now.
For now, at least.
I'm very confused and I feel lost. But part of me figures, you can't really be found, until you're lost first.
Today Michelle and I talked about an article I read about DID. I had sent it to her, to get her opinion. See, I am pretty pissed off about this whole DID thing and for the past two days, have fought the notion. Fuck that. I don't have DID. No way.
But then I read the article... searching, I suppose. Just wanting answers. Something. Anything. I don't know. Some kind of answer or answers for the weird, crazy shit my mind goes through and the stuff that just doesn't make sense.
I asked her what she thought about the article, "besides the typos," I said...
"There were typos?"
"Yeah. Several," I said.
"I didn't notice."
"I did. I didn't like it," I told her.
And, like any good therapist, I suppose, she shot my own question back at me. "What did you think about it?"
I shrugged. I didn't have an answer.
We talked about the reasons why I might have sent it to her, what I was looking for. She asked me what the DID means for me, what's wrong with it?
I told her I am among the victims of The Seven Faces of Eve and Sybil - those who see DID as some malady where you change personalities so overtly that people think you're crazy.
"I don't want to be crazy."
"Do you think you're crazy?"
"Sometimes I want to go crazy."
"Do you?"
"Sometimes."
It felt like I needed to fit too much into the session. Like always, I suppose. In a hurry. I want this over with. I want all these stupid fucking "parts" or "fragments" or what the hell ever it is to go away so I can know who the hell I am because that is what I fear the most and I don't want to fear anything.
Still, my "core self" (whoever that is) lies dormant and hidden.
I felt a surge...a need to tell her what happened last night, despite this feeling I had not to say anything. But this urge took over, this bizzare disconnection happened and there I was, saying it.
"Tell me something," I said to her. "Last night, when I went to bed, I had a flashback," I continued, not waiting for her to speak. She sat quietly and I talked.
"I don't know how old I was. I was on the streets. There was a car - the door was open - and a big black man and he had a gun to my head. He had me on my knees. He made me perform oral sex on him right there, and he held the gun at my temple and said, 'Swallow it or I'll blow your fucking brains out.' So I swallowed it. I remember this very vividly, even though I couldn't tell you how I got there, where we were [except that we were in St. Louis] or anything.
"But then the flashback went from that to Bill and it stopped with Gary. I got this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, envisioning Gary." My father - my first predator - didn't even come to mind, despite my vivid memory of asking him as a child, "Daddy what is that white stuff?" and his response: "I don't know, honey," as he handed me a towel to wipe it off.
I was emotionless. The black man, the gun, the swallowing - how it burned - those things were far removed from me, aside from the visual (and the burning sensation which I can call upon if I choose, but I choose not to). Instead, I was overwhelmed with disgust over the taste of semen.
"I tasted semen. I felt it was flooding my mouth," I told her, speaking of last night. "This has never happened before."
I was laying in bed. Bill was asleep. I hadn't watched or read anything that might have prompted it, but there it was - suddenly - and I was heaving, panting, sitting upright, reminding myself who I was, where I was, that I was safe. And there was an argument in my head and I was trying to ....I don't know, calm it down.
So strange.
"What the hell is that?" I asked her. "I mean, if someone ever did something like that to my daughter, I would consider it traumatic. But me? Who cares?"
She said this centers around this enormous shame I have. I trust her. I believe this, even if I don't understand it.
She said (paraphrasing), "While you think it'd be better if you didn't exist, you have people standing on the other side of the [chasm] saying, 'Come over here. You deserve to be here. You deserve to be safe, loved.'"
"I don't think I'm really doing anyone any favors by existing," I argued, adding: "Except for Trevor."
"I would argue that," she said calmly.
She did tell me one thing:
She told me she's seen me switch and described some of the ways it appears when I do. My posture changes, my countenance changes, my voice changes, my body language changes.
We discussed other things I've experienced that I've never told anyone and am not yet ready to now.
For now, at least.
I'm very confused and I feel lost. But part of me figures, you can't really be found, until you're lost first.
Monday, January 14, 2013
So Confused
My name is Cristina D. Johnson.
Obviously Dorothy Validus is a pseudonym. I was previously published under the pseudonym Paige C. Storme. I stopped using it, because it became something used against me.
I want you to know that I - Cristina Dyan Kuptzin-Johnson - am a real person struggling with the journey through DID and PTSD. Struggling through painful realizations, memories, flashbacks, challenges, reprogramming...
Learning curves that nearly topple me, and sometimes do.
I should apologize to those I've pushed away (and to those who I keep at arm's length). It's always out of fear. Always.
To protect you from the ugly I see myself as.
Right now, particularly, I am chewing on a jagged pill. It was through a cumulative association between the movies Trust and Voices Within (based on When Rabbit Howls) and my own live blog, "Is This Where It Starts?" - that I was struck like lightning with the notion that possibly I was never safe.
Now, up to this time - up until yesterday - I scoffed at this idea. Bullshit. I put myself in positions to be raped or beaten. I conceded to my father, my step-father... I agreed and it was, therefore my fault, regardless if I was 2 or 20 or anywhere in between.
Today, in therapy, I tried explaining this to my therapist who is a beautiful, wonderful soul - a fantastic ally and wonderful therapist but who has no experience with Dissociative Identity Disorder.
She - like me - is winging this.
So I told her about my revelation.
This painful idea that I was never safe. Ever. Anywhere. This may seem trivial or small or like a "duh" kind of thing or even self-pitying but the truth is, it never occurred to me. And what happens is, you uncover this little gold nugget of truth - of reality - and it leads to another and another and another to the point where cognitive dissonance takes over and the only thing you know to do is to stomp the gold nuggets back into the dirty, mushy muck where they've been laying, dormant, my entire life because I can't handle all that truth right now. Not emotionally, anyway. Mentally, oh I get it. I know.
Intellectually, sure, it all makes sense but.......
To FEEL it... to believe it or even entertain believing it, well... that is a harrowing experience.
She suggested it was, perhaps, unhealthy to be saturated. She suggested - with all good intentions - that perhaps I was saturating myself by watching these movies.
"But we also watched Thor," I argued. But I was thinking, "Oh God....I fucked up. Now she hates me."
It wasn't quite that extreme but when you need acceptance as badly as I do and always have, to be even remotely admonished for something that you've always known (for me, that would be learning intellectually and putting together the pieces), well, that's a failure and a let-down. I'm a failure and a let-down. I fucked up. I'm doing it wrong.
I let her down.
Truth is, I was completely lost. I thought I'd done something right; uncovered something important. Revealed something to myself that, though painful, was a step at least towards healing.
"So what do I do?" I asked. So desperate. So fucking desperate. I am in this apartment. I have no transportation and even if I did, I have nowhere to go. I don't want to be seen. I don't want anyone to notice me. So what do I do? I can't sit around every day, all day, waiting for my next therapy appointment. Waiting for my therapist to solve my problems. I'm far too strong-headed; far too intellectual for that. I refuse to be controlled by any means - even if those means are of my own making, unbeknownst to me.
Oh I play games. I play Cafeland on FB and words with friends and scramble with friends. I am active online, even though I tend to be tempered because I'm easily shut down so I try not to offend anyone. I consider this both considerate and cowardly. Whatever.
My session today was hard. I couldn't speak. The words were wrong.
I tried talking, but it felt as if my tongue was three times it's normal size and it seemed everything that came out was jarbled and it seemed the words that were said, weren't mine. I didn't want to say this. I didn't want to say that.
But you can't say "I didn't want to say this or that"
You just have sit there and let it be what it is and let your therapist do their job.
Which isn't really doing my therapist any favors.
Right now, I am very confused. For two days, I have been so confused, but today even more. Goddammit. I thought I did something right. I fucked up.
I don't know what I am supposed to do and I feel like I am surrounded so the only thing to do is sink within myself.
Alone.
Where it's safe.
She said to me words I've heard before.
They [your parents] were sick, twisted individuals.
I told her I can accept this about my mother and I know it about my father.
My father was - and is - a very sick man.
The thing is, if I gave into him what does that make me?
And if neither of them loved me, who can?
How can I love me?
And if I can't love me, then nobody can.
So how do you do that?
How do you love yourself when you hate everything that makes up who you believe you are?
I'm trying so hard...
It's so hard.
This pain is more than I ever imagined.
Yet I know it's necessary.
I know I won't heal until I walk through the pain and separate the fact from the fiction.
I also know, I have to be real.
And that is what I am being.
No make up. No dresses or scarfs. No hiding. No more fake shit. Just jeans and a t-shirt. Socks. Shoes from Marshall's.
This is me.
This is your neighbor.
This is your cousin, your student, your sister or brother.
This is your daughter, your neice or nephew.
No matter their age.
This is incest. This is rape.
Every. Single. Day.
This is the suffering that comes from putting the shattered pieces of yourself back together again.
What do I do?
Side note:
To Bill, Hannah, Cindy, Ron and my children
The weight you carry is so heavy. I'm so sorry. I never, ever, ever imagined being ...this.
I've always been strong.
I've always been the naysayer.
I've always said, "Fuck that. I can take it!"
Now................ now...........
now i am afraid.
And for this I am sorry.
Bill......... oh Bill
If I were truly your friend, I would ask you what the hell you're doing. I would tell you to walk away. I would tell you to stop, let go, she's broken.
And yet the dichotomy is that I can't imagine my life without you in it. I can't imagine Trevor's life, without you in it.
I'm sorry to you all. I'm trying so hard. I'm trying. I promise.
Obviously Dorothy Validus is a pseudonym. I was previously published under the pseudonym Paige C. Storme. I stopped using it, because it became something used against me.
I want you to know that I - Cristina Dyan Kuptzin-Johnson - am a real person struggling with the journey through DID and PTSD. Struggling through painful realizations, memories, flashbacks, challenges, reprogramming...
Learning curves that nearly topple me, and sometimes do.
I should apologize to those I've pushed away (and to those who I keep at arm's length). It's always out of fear. Always.
To protect you from the ugly I see myself as.
Right now, particularly, I am chewing on a jagged pill. It was through a cumulative association between the movies Trust and Voices Within (based on When Rabbit Howls) and my own live blog, "Is This Where It Starts?" - that I was struck like lightning with the notion that possibly I was never safe.
Now, up to this time - up until yesterday - I scoffed at this idea. Bullshit. I put myself in positions to be raped or beaten. I conceded to my father, my step-father... I agreed and it was, therefore my fault, regardless if I was 2 or 20 or anywhere in between.
Today, in therapy, I tried explaining this to my therapist who is a beautiful, wonderful soul - a fantastic ally and wonderful therapist but who has no experience with Dissociative Identity Disorder.
She - like me - is winging this.
So I told her about my revelation.
This painful idea that I was never safe. Ever. Anywhere. This may seem trivial or small or like a "duh" kind of thing or even self-pitying but the truth is, it never occurred to me. And what happens is, you uncover this little gold nugget of truth - of reality - and it leads to another and another and another to the point where cognitive dissonance takes over and the only thing you know to do is to stomp the gold nuggets back into the dirty, mushy muck where they've been laying, dormant, my entire life because I can't handle all that truth right now. Not emotionally, anyway. Mentally, oh I get it. I know.
Intellectually, sure, it all makes sense but.......
To FEEL it... to believe it or even entertain believing it, well... that is a harrowing experience.
She suggested it was, perhaps, unhealthy to be saturated. She suggested - with all good intentions - that perhaps I was saturating myself by watching these movies.
"But we also watched Thor," I argued. But I was thinking, "Oh God....I fucked up. Now she hates me."
It wasn't quite that extreme but when you need acceptance as badly as I do and always have, to be even remotely admonished for something that you've always known (for me, that would be learning intellectually and putting together the pieces), well, that's a failure and a let-down. I'm a failure and a let-down. I fucked up. I'm doing it wrong.
I let her down.
Truth is, I was completely lost. I thought I'd done something right; uncovered something important. Revealed something to myself that, though painful, was a step at least towards healing.
"So what do I do?" I asked. So desperate. So fucking desperate. I am in this apartment. I have no transportation and even if I did, I have nowhere to go. I don't want to be seen. I don't want anyone to notice me. So what do I do? I can't sit around every day, all day, waiting for my next therapy appointment. Waiting for my therapist to solve my problems. I'm far too strong-headed; far too intellectual for that. I refuse to be controlled by any means - even if those means are of my own making, unbeknownst to me.
Oh I play games. I play Cafeland on FB and words with friends and scramble with friends. I am active online, even though I tend to be tempered because I'm easily shut down so I try not to offend anyone. I consider this both considerate and cowardly. Whatever.
My session today was hard. I couldn't speak. The words were wrong.
I tried talking, but it felt as if my tongue was three times it's normal size and it seemed everything that came out was jarbled and it seemed the words that were said, weren't mine. I didn't want to say this. I didn't want to say that.
But you can't say "I didn't want to say this or that"
You just have sit there and let it be what it is and let your therapist do their job.
Which isn't really doing my therapist any favors.
Right now, I am very confused. For two days, I have been so confused, but today even more. Goddammit. I thought I did something right. I fucked up.
I don't know what I am supposed to do and I feel like I am surrounded so the only thing to do is sink within myself.
Alone.
Where it's safe.
She said to me words I've heard before.
They [your parents] were sick, twisted individuals.
I told her I can accept this about my mother and I know it about my father.
My father was - and is - a very sick man.
The thing is, if I gave into him what does that make me?
And if neither of them loved me, who can?
How can I love me?
And if I can't love me, then nobody can.
So how do you do that?
How do you love yourself when you hate everything that makes up who you believe you are?
I'm trying so hard...
It's so hard.
This pain is more than I ever imagined.
Yet I know it's necessary.
I know I won't heal until I walk through the pain and separate the fact from the fiction.
I also know, I have to be real.
And that is what I am being.
No make up. No dresses or scarfs. No hiding. No more fake shit. Just jeans and a t-shirt. Socks. Shoes from Marshall's.
This is me.
This is your neighbor.
This is your cousin, your student, your sister or brother.
This is your daughter, your neice or nephew.
No matter their age.
This is incest. This is rape.
Every. Single. Day.
This is the suffering that comes from putting the shattered pieces of yourself back together again.
What do I do?
Side note:
To Bill, Hannah, Cindy, Ron and my children
The weight you carry is so heavy. I'm so sorry. I never, ever, ever imagined being ...this.
I've always been strong.
I've always been the naysayer.
I've always said, "Fuck that. I can take it!"
Now................ now...........
now i am afraid.
And for this I am sorry.
Bill......... oh Bill
If I were truly your friend, I would ask you what the hell you're doing. I would tell you to walk away. I would tell you to stop, let go, she's broken.
And yet the dichotomy is that I can't imagine my life without you in it. I can't imagine Trevor's life, without you in it.
I'm sorry to you all. I'm trying so hard. I'm trying. I promise.
Friday, January 4, 2013
Inside Out and Backwards
My name is Cristina D. Johnson.
Another nightmare... about Gary.
Times like these I wish there were some way to convey how deeply he hurt me, to him. I know - or I have to believe - that he's not an all-out monster. I want to believe that it would somehow matter, that he would somehow "get it" and.... I don't know.
Easier, I suppose, would be convincing a rock or talking to the cat who would undoubtedly turn abruptly away and shove her backside towards me in an urgent call for massage.
No, he'd never get it and I don't suppose he would ever want to. I suppose if he ever really wanted to "get it," he would have when we were together.
I know a lot of this is transference. He happens to be the poor sap who simulated my father so well in so many ways that my brain has these wires crossed now, and I can't figure out how to uncross them.
Mixed messages. He gave me horribly painful mixed messages and that is why these nightmares won't go away. That, and he verified a truth for me that hurt, even though I know it to be true and always have: there is an "us versus them" in this world. And it's immensely painful.
With the typical interaction, I am safe behind my wall, viewing very cautiously with an Eagle eye, watching every single move, motion, word, action, reaction, expression.... everything. I seek inconsistencies. I look for reasons not to let people in. I do not do this with malice; just self-preservation, like a deer who runs into the woods, so as not to be seen or a bobcat who peers every direction before coming into the open.
I spot inconsistencies like a hungry wolf spots a rabbit and this keeps me safe. It works in two ways:
One, it tells me with pinpoint accuracy who to trust and not trust.
Two, it makes the blows of that person(s) anticipated and, so, they don't hurt as much. I can - for the most part - let their angry, judgmental, uninformed, unkind words/actions roll off my back like water on a duck.
But then there are the less-than-a-handful of people who I allowed "in" and when I say less than a handful, I am not exaggerating. I can think of only four who were so close to me, they were beneath my skin, running in my blood. I saw no wrong in them. I trusted them with my entire being.
The first was my father. Naturally.
Also my ex-husband and my oldest son (long story) and, finally, Gary.
These people managed to come behind the curtain. I embraced them and trusted them.
My father's transgressions were many but my love for him never died. My adoration and need for him survived the pain he caused. Today, there is still a sickening need for his love.
My ex-husband did a number of hurtful things to me. He was (and still is) a very cocky, arrogant man; the kind of man who is unkind to waitresses and poor people. A stereotypical southern man's man. Years of infidelity, abuse, and a host of other toxic elements of our relationship did not sever my love for him. It was not until - just like Gary and my father - I realized he was deliberately hurting me, just to get a reaction, that something inside of me broke. I could almost feel it physically - like the snap of a rubberband that's been stretched too far. Just snapped shut. He knew, that day, it had happened. He knew me so well, that just by the look on my face, my cold countenance and the way I looked at him and said, "You deliberately hurt me," that it was over. Our marriage was over.
My son... as a child bride, I had a painfully inaccurate and askew view of him. He was a protector, rather than my son. I would be remiss if I did not say I know this is wrong and inappropriate and in my conscious mind, he was my child - someone to take care of and teach and guide. But subconsciously, unbeknownst to me, I had developed a dependency on him and through years of turmoil (his and mine), he never failed to be loyal. When he grew to be a young man, things changed and he began to make mistakes that - at least once - garnered my rage at the many pimps, gangsters and rapists I grew up with. This was transference, again. Wreaking havoc in my life. But like the son he always was, he took my heated words and let them scorch him, without saying a word back. When the day came that his loyalty was tested and he left, I was devastated beyond words. This was the same betrayal I felt from my father.
And finally, Gary.
I didn't let him in right away. It wasn't for years, actually. And, in truth, I questioned whether the relationship was viable in the beginning. But my determination won out and I stayed, telling myself - and him - that my past did not affect me any longer.
At the time, it was true.
In the end, when he urged me to seek help through therapy, I was leery, but I was also weary and I agreed. I went to see his therapist. Mistake number one, I suppose.
Ultimately, after months of swearing he loved me and would never leave me, it happened. I was in utter disbelief. But that's not what causes the nightmares.
The nightmares come from the correlation between the way Daddy hurt me, then loved me and the way Gary hurt me, then loved me. I begged him - Gary - not to do these mixed messages. If our relationship was over, fine but please....no mixed messages, no deliberate hurt. Please.
I may as well been begging the sun not to rise.
I can't know what his reasons were but for whatever reason(s), he needed to be in charge, needed the power to hurt me, and needed to use it. I don't know what he gleaned from it except to save his own skin. It went like this:
He would come home, be nice to me, then suddenly kick me (figuratively speaking), walk away and leave me there crying over what'd just happened, then go out and tell others that he didn't know why I was acting the way I was acting.
Over and over again, day in, day out, night after night, this happened until the mere sound of his footsteps caused me so much anxiety that I would gag (which eventually turned into vomiting). I felt like a prisoner. But then he would do something kind - and make sure everyone knew he'd done it - only to turn around and kick me again.
Mixed messages. For someone with PTSD and DID this is horrendous. But for someone with PTSD and DID who dared to let you in and trusted you, this is beyond horrific pain. It's astonishingly unbearable. It was very much like being raped over and over again. Like being locked in that basement when I had nowhere else to go and tormented. How much this resonates with my childhood abuse cannot be overstated.
I tried explaining, but he didn't care.
I didn't understand and I am still in such guttural pain over it that nightmares pervade my sleep.
Disbelief and pain; anger and fear.
Some might ask: What about Bill?
I've never let him in, because of the phenomenal person he is. Paradoxical, I know, but true. Why let someone as wonderful and beautiful as he, in my ugly world of muddy water, gutter snow, biting cold and darkest dark? Why subject him to it?
He's been the best friend I've ever had. Why risk losing him? Why risk showing him?
Everything is backwards. Everything is inside out.
My tears fall inside. Tears over Gary and what he did to me. This wound he ripped open even further and now it hemorrhages and I can't stop the bleeding, no matter how hard I try.
I am not angry at him, though I am angry at myself.
With him, I am hurt and confused. Shocked.
Scared.
When will these nightmares go away or, at least, move aside so the true shadows, ghosts and demons can be released?
Another nightmare... about Gary.
Times like these I wish there were some way to convey how deeply he hurt me, to him. I know - or I have to believe - that he's not an all-out monster. I want to believe that it would somehow matter, that he would somehow "get it" and.... I don't know.
Easier, I suppose, would be convincing a rock or talking to the cat who would undoubtedly turn abruptly away and shove her backside towards me in an urgent call for massage.
No, he'd never get it and I don't suppose he would ever want to. I suppose if he ever really wanted to "get it," he would have when we were together.
I know a lot of this is transference. He happens to be the poor sap who simulated my father so well in so many ways that my brain has these wires crossed now, and I can't figure out how to uncross them.
Mixed messages. He gave me horribly painful mixed messages and that is why these nightmares won't go away. That, and he verified a truth for me that hurt, even though I know it to be true and always have: there is an "us versus them" in this world. And it's immensely painful.
With the typical interaction, I am safe behind my wall, viewing very cautiously with an Eagle eye, watching every single move, motion, word, action, reaction, expression.... everything. I seek inconsistencies. I look for reasons not to let people in. I do not do this with malice; just self-preservation, like a deer who runs into the woods, so as not to be seen or a bobcat who peers every direction before coming into the open.
I spot inconsistencies like a hungry wolf spots a rabbit and this keeps me safe. It works in two ways:
One, it tells me with pinpoint accuracy who to trust and not trust.
Two, it makes the blows of that person(s) anticipated and, so, they don't hurt as much. I can - for the most part - let their angry, judgmental, uninformed, unkind words/actions roll off my back like water on a duck.
But then there are the less-than-a-handful of people who I allowed "in" and when I say less than a handful, I am not exaggerating. I can think of only four who were so close to me, they were beneath my skin, running in my blood. I saw no wrong in them. I trusted them with my entire being.
The first was my father. Naturally.
Also my ex-husband and my oldest son (long story) and, finally, Gary.
These people managed to come behind the curtain. I embraced them and trusted them.
My father's transgressions were many but my love for him never died. My adoration and need for him survived the pain he caused. Today, there is still a sickening need for his love.
My ex-husband did a number of hurtful things to me. He was (and still is) a very cocky, arrogant man; the kind of man who is unkind to waitresses and poor people. A stereotypical southern man's man. Years of infidelity, abuse, and a host of other toxic elements of our relationship did not sever my love for him. It was not until - just like Gary and my father - I realized he was deliberately hurting me, just to get a reaction, that something inside of me broke. I could almost feel it physically - like the snap of a rubberband that's been stretched too far. Just snapped shut. He knew, that day, it had happened. He knew me so well, that just by the look on my face, my cold countenance and the way I looked at him and said, "You deliberately hurt me," that it was over. Our marriage was over.
My son... as a child bride, I had a painfully inaccurate and askew view of him. He was a protector, rather than my son. I would be remiss if I did not say I know this is wrong and inappropriate and in my conscious mind, he was my child - someone to take care of and teach and guide. But subconsciously, unbeknownst to me, I had developed a dependency on him and through years of turmoil (his and mine), he never failed to be loyal. When he grew to be a young man, things changed and he began to make mistakes that - at least once - garnered my rage at the many pimps, gangsters and rapists I grew up with. This was transference, again. Wreaking havoc in my life. But like the son he always was, he took my heated words and let them scorch him, without saying a word back. When the day came that his loyalty was tested and he left, I was devastated beyond words. This was the same betrayal I felt from my father.
And finally, Gary.
I didn't let him in right away. It wasn't for years, actually. And, in truth, I questioned whether the relationship was viable in the beginning. But my determination won out and I stayed, telling myself - and him - that my past did not affect me any longer.
At the time, it was true.
In the end, when he urged me to seek help through therapy, I was leery, but I was also weary and I agreed. I went to see his therapist. Mistake number one, I suppose.
Ultimately, after months of swearing he loved me and would never leave me, it happened. I was in utter disbelief. But that's not what causes the nightmares.
The nightmares come from the correlation between the way Daddy hurt me, then loved me and the way Gary hurt me, then loved me. I begged him - Gary - not to do these mixed messages. If our relationship was over, fine but please....no mixed messages, no deliberate hurt. Please.
I may as well been begging the sun not to rise.
I can't know what his reasons were but for whatever reason(s), he needed to be in charge, needed the power to hurt me, and needed to use it. I don't know what he gleaned from it except to save his own skin. It went like this:
He would come home, be nice to me, then suddenly kick me (figuratively speaking), walk away and leave me there crying over what'd just happened, then go out and tell others that he didn't know why I was acting the way I was acting.
Over and over again, day in, day out, night after night, this happened until the mere sound of his footsteps caused me so much anxiety that I would gag (which eventually turned into vomiting). I felt like a prisoner. But then he would do something kind - and make sure everyone knew he'd done it - only to turn around and kick me again.
Mixed messages. For someone with PTSD and DID this is horrendous. But for someone with PTSD and DID who dared to let you in and trusted you, this is beyond horrific pain. It's astonishingly unbearable. It was very much like being raped over and over again. Like being locked in that basement when I had nowhere else to go and tormented. How much this resonates with my childhood abuse cannot be overstated.
I tried explaining, but he didn't care.
I didn't understand and I am still in such guttural pain over it that nightmares pervade my sleep.
Disbelief and pain; anger and fear.
Some might ask: What about Bill?
I've never let him in, because of the phenomenal person he is. Paradoxical, I know, but true. Why let someone as wonderful and beautiful as he, in my ugly world of muddy water, gutter snow, biting cold and darkest dark? Why subject him to it?
He's been the best friend I've ever had. Why risk losing him? Why risk showing him?
Everything is backwards. Everything is inside out.
My tears fall inside. Tears over Gary and what he did to me. This wound he ripped open even further and now it hemorrhages and I can't stop the bleeding, no matter how hard I try.
I am not angry at him, though I am angry at myself.
With him, I am hurt and confused. Shocked.
Scared.
When will these nightmares go away or, at least, move aside so the true shadows, ghosts and demons can be released?
Thursday, December 6, 2012
Relationships and Reenactment: I Married My Father
My name is Cristina D. Johnson
For decades, I've wanted to write a book. This is not some fantasy. This is a lifelong dream of mine. Having a 7th grade education makes that a bit difficult, though. Still, I worked my way up and landed a job as a journalist. I faked my way through it. I watched like a hawk. I could always write well - intuitively - as a child (I don't say this to boast. Just to merely point out that even as a child, words and sentences; grammar and punctuation; the way these strange characters on a page came together to create something new and remarkable that made sense, was fascinating to me).
At least, it started off as wanting to write "a" book. It's morphed into wanting to write articles, papers and several books. But for now - as I go through this process I never saw myself having to experience; this process of "healing" - I kind of "wish-write."
That is, I write in my head. Often I even say to Bill, "I'm writing in my head."
I've started "a" book, many times - always for a different reason but never with a different foundation: child abuse. I suppose at first it started off as a way to 'get even' or vent, then it gradually began to mature into something healthier going from that angry, bitter young woman who was pissed that Oprah wouldn't listen to her story, to where it is now.
Which leads to the "wish-writing" I've been doing lately. The mind-writing. It goes like this:
"Where does my story start?"
"Where does it end?"
And this is repeated in my mind, but not without silent, cognitive (and even sometimes emotional) responses.
I once told Michelle (my therapist) that I've had two lives. She did a double-take.
"What do you mean, 'two lives'?"
"Daddy, and then the rapes."
"Oh," she nods...I know she doesn't quite get what I mean but I do. I understand it.
Problem is splitting everything up since then: my two marriages; my children; my work; my relationships; my family; my many lives.
So here I am now, it seems, standing on a wire. It could go both ways.
Where does this story - this moment - end and the next story begin?
Was Gary the end of the last story? Is Bill the beginning of the next story?
Some would wisely say, "No, they're all chapters in the same story" but that's not how I view it.
It's segmented. Fractured.
First I must talk a little about reenactment.
When I was 16 and married, my drunk husband of 22 almost killed me by shoving me out of the second-story window. That was when I left him. If his mother had not come up, screaming in her native Puerto Rican language, "Siéntate! Siéntate!" at me, I would not be here today. It wasn't the first time he'd beaten me, but it was the first time he nearly killed me. There were times, as well, when I was terrified he would kill our child. For the first time, I defied my mother-in-law (of whom I was deathly afraid) and said, "No. No mas. No mas." and I cried as I walked out the door. No more.
A child, with a child and that story took a long time to end. That life was several lifetimes ago.
When I was 17, I met my (then married) future-husband. Of course, I did not know he was married. He was strong, cocky, arrogant and sexual. Very sexual. At 17, though, you don't really know (at least, I didn't, because of my past lifetimes), that if they'll cheat with you, they'll cheat on you. So he, too, became an emotionally and mentally abusive partner, controlling, dominant and I feared him. I also feared losing him. For 15 years (and with two of our own kids), I endured the pain of constant belittling, arrogance and infidelity. I felt I deserved it. I felt it was the best I could ever get. I should be grateful.
He, like my first husband, was very much - in many, many ways - like my father but it was so cleverly veiled, so ingeniously disguised, that I never saw it. I wouldn't have seen it if it were a flashing neon sign. I would have kicked the sign out a bitter, angry roundhouse and swore at it, "But he loves me!"
But after 15 years, that lifetime ended. Pretty much.
Then began a different lifetime - one with Bill. That was in 2002. This lifetime was frightening. He was nice to me. He made love with me, instead of acting as if he was doing me a favor by allowing me to do/say/be things I never wanted to do/say/be anyway. In fact, he wouldn't even accept them and even made me uncomfortable doing what I'd always done: Being promiscuous. He didn't take me for granted. He listened to me. He didn't just listen to me but he heard me. At times, back then, sometimes I'd be on the verge of tears and he would hold me and he would say, "It's okay. Let it out," and as soon as he spoke the words, my insides froze and the tears went away. I couldn't possibly cry. I couldn't let him see me unless it was the way I wanted him to see me. I needed control. That way if he changed (and surely he would; certainly he'd at least yell at me, if not hit me, rape me, or cheat on me or something. Anything), at least I had some semblance of control over it. At least I could say I asked for it. I deserved it. I have always deserved it because that's the way all men are.
I left him. He never changed, hit, screamed, yelled, cheated - hell, he never stopped opening my car door for me. Not one single time. He never denied me, always listened to my songs, always read me like a book.
I left him. I didn't believe him. I didn't deserve him and I didn't know how to be with someone like that.
Please get mad at me. Please stop being so open and honest. Please stop being so goddamn perfect for me.
I left him because I couldn't handle being loved. Not truly, authentically loved, despite the many, many tests I applied to the relationship - like all relationships I've ever had. Every one. He passed every test. How? He was consistent. He was always, always consistent. And me, well, I have an Eagle's eye for inconsistencies.
Which leads to the next lifetime.
Gary.
Like my father; my first husband; my second husband (and that one boyfriend I had between my second husband and Bill, Mike): He was emotionally unavailable. Perfect.
Me too.
By now I was in my 30's and I had developed my intellect enough that I knew I could survive on it alone, which was important in this relationship because - like my exes - Gary had a constant tendency to put me down and attempt to make me look stupid. He was constantly condescending and I fought back - hard. Never again would I depend on a man. Ever. Never again, would I open up emotionally. Ever.
What I would do, though (because I know so well how child abuse works), is I would nurture and be a motherly figure for him because of the emotional suffocation he suffered as a child. This, too, worked to my favor. I could keep my emotions in check. I had to because, truly, I did love him, despite our many differences and despite how little attention he paid to me. Really paid. He couldn't tell you my favorite color, gemstone, song(s), movie(s) and the only reason he knew the name of my childhood cat was because it was the answer to one of my banking security questions. He didn't know much about me at all. He was also - like my father and the men before me (Bill excluded) - sexually perverse. He'd been much more so in his past, but there still lingered with every touch, an absenteeism; no warmth, no love, no affection. Just this purpose that needed to be served and I was to serve it.
I was, after all, the woman (and Gary has zero respect for women).
So I played the role. Four years. Played the role - lived Gary's life. Got sucked into his way of living. Friends? Nope. All his. Places? Nope. All his. Whatever we did, whoever we did it with and wherever we went, it centered around Gary and his image, what he wanted, what he needed and what image he wanted to project. Which meant I had to be something I was not.
Which was okay, since my emotions were bundled up tightly inside.
Until that fifth year....When we talked and when I began to grow (going through Life Coach Training which Gary was adamantly opposed to but for which Bill enthusiastically footed the bill) and I realized how unemotional our relationship was - how unemotional I was.
I was encouraged by Gary to pursue therapy and I did, in earnest.
He promised to be there; promised to support me; repeatedly swore that he wasn't going anywhere - even on public forums. Reassured me frequently, even as I began to become more and more immersed in this unfathomable pain and darkness.
Despite his words, I felt alone. I know, now, that this is because he - like always - was incapable of emotional attachment (although I do believe that some part of him did love me).
However, the profundity of what I was experiencing was too much for this man who "loved" me and he, in turn, began abusing me in exactly the same way my father had.
I'm not going to rehash it, except to say that day by day, I got worse. Things got worse. I was inconsolable. I was out of control. I was drained, exhausted, terrified. I was having flashbacks and I was drinking to numb the pain I was going through. I was losing people I loved (my son, specifically, and my granddaughter) on top of the EMDR treatment I was going through in an effort to "heal" with essentially no help.
I had Gary and I had "Dee" (who has asked that I not use her real name): Both of whom did not and probably never will have the fortitude to endure the process I have to experience. This lifetime.
After two suicide attempts, a new lifetime began...
Or, re-began.
Bill came.
He came to see me. He saw me. And in his own words, "had never seen me that bad."
It sickens me now, to think about it. It hurts. It twists my insides. It sets me on fire - my skin literally feels alight.
Rage, anger, pain, torment, torture, uncertainty, fear....fear....fear... oh my God fear.
All of these things that I've never felt towards my father, step-father, brother, uncle, kidnappers, rapists, pimps, gangsters and thugs - all of these things that I have never, ever felt - I feel now, because of Gary. And because of "Dee."
Gary: the father, rapist, womanizer, woman-beater, pimp, wife-beating, abandoning, drug-dealing, ex-convict child molester.
"Dee": The mother, "poor-me" victim, I-don't-care-about-your-story, talk-behind-your-back, drink-myself-stupid (always with a great excuse), poor, live-vicariously-through-some-other-means, nobody loves me, I have no friends or money...
I do not say these things to imply that Gary and "Dee" are these things. I say these things because finally, finally I understand these intense emotional reactions I have to them. I drive by "Dee's" house every day. It's taken me months to not sneer down her driveway and wish harm to her. Wish her to feel the pain she caused me. The truth is, she's a fun person. Intelligent. Witty. Actually, very intelligent. But she, like me for years, has not yet found herself, so she lives whatever she supposes she's supposed to.
And Gary is, I suppose, a good man - though his flaws are many. I still loved him. He's not a child molester or woman-beater (although he did abandon me and he was horribly mentally abusive).
So that lifetime is ...ending?
And now Bill is here - consistent as usual. Same Bill, only this time I'm a different Cristina and I don't know what to do or how to be or how to act because I have my experiences with Gary and "Dee" to look back on and know - without a doubt - that I do not want to be that "fake" person I was required to be. Problem is, what am I now, in this lifetime?
And even though Bill has never been in any way, shape or form, anything like any of my former abusers, what if he does? What if I'm reenacting again, and I don't know it, and it doesn't happen until I get further into this crazy ass psyche of mine? What if ...what if.... What if I let go of control?
Will he let me run into a tree? Fall of a bridge?
I know, somewhere inside, that he won't but he treats me too good and he treats me too right and he's too nice to me and he pays attention to me and he reads me like a book. He shares all my interests and he makes me laugh he's good to my children and he is everything a woman could possibly want. Why would he want me?
And Cindy - my adoptive mother - how do I know she won't hate me? Hurt me? Betray me? Abandon me?
Making new friends. I don't understand. It's like talking Chinese. I don't understand this language or this foreign place, where I am supposed to just be myself (whoever that is), and be accepted and loved for who I am. I don't understand.
Shouldn't I be being abused right now?
One thing I should thank Gary and Dee for is this: making me feel these intense, painful, agonizing emotions that have kept me captive my entire life. It's just the tip of the iceberg, according to Michelle, but it's an important one. So though I hold such deep humiliation, anger, hurt and feelings of betrayal for the wrongs, I suppose being hurt, betrayed and abused (particularly by Gary), was a necessary evil.
It brought me to a new lifetime.
For decades, I've wanted to write a book. This is not some fantasy. This is a lifelong dream of mine. Having a 7th grade education makes that a bit difficult, though. Still, I worked my way up and landed a job as a journalist. I faked my way through it. I watched like a hawk. I could always write well - intuitively - as a child (I don't say this to boast. Just to merely point out that even as a child, words and sentences; grammar and punctuation; the way these strange characters on a page came together to create something new and remarkable that made sense, was fascinating to me).
At least, it started off as wanting to write "a" book. It's morphed into wanting to write articles, papers and several books. But for now - as I go through this process I never saw myself having to experience; this process of "healing" - I kind of "wish-write."
That is, I write in my head. Often I even say to Bill, "I'm writing in my head."
I've started "a" book, many times - always for a different reason but never with a different foundation: child abuse. I suppose at first it started off as a way to 'get even' or vent, then it gradually began to mature into something healthier going from that angry, bitter young woman who was pissed that Oprah wouldn't listen to her story, to where it is now.
Which leads to the "wish-writing" I've been doing lately. The mind-writing. It goes like this:
"Where does my story start?"
"Where does it end?"
And this is repeated in my mind, but not without silent, cognitive (and even sometimes emotional) responses.
I once told Michelle (my therapist) that I've had two lives. She did a double-take.
"What do you mean, 'two lives'?"
"Daddy, and then the rapes."
"Oh," she nods...I know she doesn't quite get what I mean but I do. I understand it.
Problem is splitting everything up since then: my two marriages; my children; my work; my relationships; my family; my many lives.
So here I am now, it seems, standing on a wire. It could go both ways.
Where does this story - this moment - end and the next story begin?
Was Gary the end of the last story? Is Bill the beginning of the next story?
Some would wisely say, "No, they're all chapters in the same story" but that's not how I view it.
It's segmented. Fractured.
First I must talk a little about reenactment.
When I was 16 and married, my drunk husband of 22 almost killed me by shoving me out of the second-story window. That was when I left him. If his mother had not come up, screaming in her native Puerto Rican language, "Siéntate! Siéntate!" at me, I would not be here today. It wasn't the first time he'd beaten me, but it was the first time he nearly killed me. There were times, as well, when I was terrified he would kill our child. For the first time, I defied my mother-in-law (of whom I was deathly afraid) and said, "No. No mas. No mas." and I cried as I walked out the door. No more.
A child, with a child and that story took a long time to end. That life was several lifetimes ago.
When I was 17, I met my (then married) future-husband. Of course, I did not know he was married. He was strong, cocky, arrogant and sexual. Very sexual. At 17, though, you don't really know (at least, I didn't, because of my past lifetimes), that if they'll cheat with you, they'll cheat on you. So he, too, became an emotionally and mentally abusive partner, controlling, dominant and I feared him. I also feared losing him. For 15 years (and with two of our own kids), I endured the pain of constant belittling, arrogance and infidelity. I felt I deserved it. I felt it was the best I could ever get. I should be grateful.
He, like my first husband, was very much - in many, many ways - like my father but it was so cleverly veiled, so ingeniously disguised, that I never saw it. I wouldn't have seen it if it were a flashing neon sign. I would have kicked the sign out a bitter, angry roundhouse and swore at it, "But he loves me!"
But after 15 years, that lifetime ended. Pretty much.
Then began a different lifetime - one with Bill. That was in 2002. This lifetime was frightening. He was nice to me. He made love with me, instead of acting as if he was doing me a favor by allowing me to do/say/be things I never wanted to do/say/be anyway. In fact, he wouldn't even accept them and even made me uncomfortable doing what I'd always done: Being promiscuous. He didn't take me for granted. He listened to me. He didn't just listen to me but he heard me. At times, back then, sometimes I'd be on the verge of tears and he would hold me and he would say, "It's okay. Let it out," and as soon as he spoke the words, my insides froze and the tears went away. I couldn't possibly cry. I couldn't let him see me unless it was the way I wanted him to see me. I needed control. That way if he changed (and surely he would; certainly he'd at least yell at me, if not hit me, rape me, or cheat on me or something. Anything), at least I had some semblance of control over it. At least I could say I asked for it. I deserved it. I have always deserved it because that's the way all men are.
I left him. He never changed, hit, screamed, yelled, cheated - hell, he never stopped opening my car door for me. Not one single time. He never denied me, always listened to my songs, always read me like a book.
I left him. I didn't believe him. I didn't deserve him and I didn't know how to be with someone like that.
Please get mad at me. Please stop being so open and honest. Please stop being so goddamn perfect for me.
I left him because I couldn't handle being loved. Not truly, authentically loved, despite the many, many tests I applied to the relationship - like all relationships I've ever had. Every one. He passed every test. How? He was consistent. He was always, always consistent. And me, well, I have an Eagle's eye for inconsistencies.
Which leads to the next lifetime.
Gary.
Like my father; my first husband; my second husband (and that one boyfriend I had between my second husband and Bill, Mike): He was emotionally unavailable. Perfect.
Me too.
By now I was in my 30's and I had developed my intellect enough that I knew I could survive on it alone, which was important in this relationship because - like my exes - Gary had a constant tendency to put me down and attempt to make me look stupid. He was constantly condescending and I fought back - hard. Never again would I depend on a man. Ever. Never again, would I open up emotionally. Ever.
What I would do, though (because I know so well how child abuse works), is I would nurture and be a motherly figure for him because of the emotional suffocation he suffered as a child. This, too, worked to my favor. I could keep my emotions in check. I had to because, truly, I did love him, despite our many differences and despite how little attention he paid to me. Really paid. He couldn't tell you my favorite color, gemstone, song(s), movie(s) and the only reason he knew the name of my childhood cat was because it was the answer to one of my banking security questions. He didn't know much about me at all. He was also - like my father and the men before me (Bill excluded) - sexually perverse. He'd been much more so in his past, but there still lingered with every touch, an absenteeism; no warmth, no love, no affection. Just this purpose that needed to be served and I was to serve it.
I was, after all, the woman (and Gary has zero respect for women).
So I played the role. Four years. Played the role - lived Gary's life. Got sucked into his way of living. Friends? Nope. All his. Places? Nope. All his. Whatever we did, whoever we did it with and wherever we went, it centered around Gary and his image, what he wanted, what he needed and what image he wanted to project. Which meant I had to be something I was not.
Which was okay, since my emotions were bundled up tightly inside.
Until that fifth year....When we talked and when I began to grow (going through Life Coach Training which Gary was adamantly opposed to but for which Bill enthusiastically footed the bill) and I realized how unemotional our relationship was - how unemotional I was.
I was encouraged by Gary to pursue therapy and I did, in earnest.
He promised to be there; promised to support me; repeatedly swore that he wasn't going anywhere - even on public forums. Reassured me frequently, even as I began to become more and more immersed in this unfathomable pain and darkness.
Despite his words, I felt alone. I know, now, that this is because he - like always - was incapable of emotional attachment (although I do believe that some part of him did love me).
However, the profundity of what I was experiencing was too much for this man who "loved" me and he, in turn, began abusing me in exactly the same way my father had.
I'm not going to rehash it, except to say that day by day, I got worse. Things got worse. I was inconsolable. I was out of control. I was drained, exhausted, terrified. I was having flashbacks and I was drinking to numb the pain I was going through. I was losing people I loved (my son, specifically, and my granddaughter) on top of the EMDR treatment I was going through in an effort to "heal" with essentially no help.
I had Gary and I had "Dee" (who has asked that I not use her real name): Both of whom did not and probably never will have the fortitude to endure the process I have to experience. This lifetime.
After two suicide attempts, a new lifetime began...
Or, re-began.
Bill came.
He came to see me. He saw me. And in his own words, "had never seen me that bad."
It sickens me now, to think about it. It hurts. It twists my insides. It sets me on fire - my skin literally feels alight.
Rage, anger, pain, torment, torture, uncertainty, fear....fear....fear... oh my God fear.
All of these things that I've never felt towards my father, step-father, brother, uncle, kidnappers, rapists, pimps, gangsters and thugs - all of these things that I have never, ever felt - I feel now, because of Gary. And because of "Dee."
Gary: the father, rapist, womanizer, woman-beater, pimp, wife-beating, abandoning, drug-dealing, ex-convict child molester.
"Dee": The mother, "poor-me" victim, I-don't-care-about-your-story, talk-behind-your-back, drink-myself-stupid (always with a great excuse), poor, live-vicariously-through-some-other-means, nobody loves me, I have no friends or money...
I do not say these things to imply that Gary and "Dee" are these things. I say these things because finally, finally I understand these intense emotional reactions I have to them. I drive by "Dee's" house every day. It's taken me months to not sneer down her driveway and wish harm to her. Wish her to feel the pain she caused me. The truth is, she's a fun person. Intelligent. Witty. Actually, very intelligent. But she, like me for years, has not yet found herself, so she lives whatever she supposes she's supposed to.
And Gary is, I suppose, a good man - though his flaws are many. I still loved him. He's not a child molester or woman-beater (although he did abandon me and he was horribly mentally abusive).
So that lifetime is ...ending?
And now Bill is here - consistent as usual. Same Bill, only this time I'm a different Cristina and I don't know what to do or how to be or how to act because I have my experiences with Gary and "Dee" to look back on and know - without a doubt - that I do not want to be that "fake" person I was required to be. Problem is, what am I now, in this lifetime?
And even though Bill has never been in any way, shape or form, anything like any of my former abusers, what if he does? What if I'm reenacting again, and I don't know it, and it doesn't happen until I get further into this crazy ass psyche of mine? What if ...what if.... What if I let go of control?
Will he let me run into a tree? Fall of a bridge?
I know, somewhere inside, that he won't but he treats me too good and he treats me too right and he's too nice to me and he pays attention to me and he reads me like a book. He shares all my interests and he makes me laugh he's good to my children and he is everything a woman could possibly want. Why would he want me?
And Cindy - my adoptive mother - how do I know she won't hate me? Hurt me? Betray me? Abandon me?
Making new friends. I don't understand. It's like talking Chinese. I don't understand this language or this foreign place, where I am supposed to just be myself (whoever that is), and be accepted and loved for who I am. I don't understand.
Shouldn't I be being abused right now?
One thing I should thank Gary and Dee for is this: making me feel these intense, painful, agonizing emotions that have kept me captive my entire life. It's just the tip of the iceberg, according to Michelle, but it's an important one. So though I hold such deep humiliation, anger, hurt and feelings of betrayal for the wrongs, I suppose being hurt, betrayed and abused (particularly by Gary), was a necessary evil.
It brought me to a new lifetime.
Monday, November 19, 2012
Tired
Shame, shame, shame.
It permeates me. The past few days have been those kinds of days where I just wished I didn't exist.
I'm tired.
I'm lost.
I am ashamed.
It's very difficult to accept "I love you" from anyone, when there's not one single redeeming quality you can see about yourself.
My last session was beyond humiliating. So much so, that I almost didn't go today, which Michelle noticed.
"I'm glad you came today," she said, knowing a million parts of me were pulling me away, telling me to run.
Sue William Silverman wrote a number of books and is also a friend of mine on facebook. She's a very brave woman - she put things in her memoir about being molested and abused by her affluent father, and followed it with a sequel about sexual addiction and finally "Fearless Confessions" - a book about how to write about these things. Quite the appropriate title, I think.
How horrible it is, to tell. How frightening. Not just the details and grit, but what's going on inside you. The reality of your every-day breaths. Every thought that stabs you with how indecent you are, unworthy you are, useless you are. It's all this fucking game you play, to make everyone happy...to make everyone love you...even if you don't believe they do, you can at least see what it's like.
I believe Bill... but that's a double-edged sword.
I believe that he loves me, but I don't feel I deserve it. That hurts. I want it, but I am so afraid of it.
Life just sucks these past few days.
I am tired.
It permeates me. The past few days have been those kinds of days where I just wished I didn't exist.
I'm tired.
I'm lost.
I am ashamed.
It's very difficult to accept "I love you" from anyone, when there's not one single redeeming quality you can see about yourself.
My last session was beyond humiliating. So much so, that I almost didn't go today, which Michelle noticed.
"I'm glad you came today," she said, knowing a million parts of me were pulling me away, telling me to run.
Sue William Silverman wrote a number of books and is also a friend of mine on facebook. She's a very brave woman - she put things in her memoir about being molested and abused by her affluent father, and followed it with a sequel about sexual addiction and finally "Fearless Confessions" - a book about how to write about these things. Quite the appropriate title, I think.
How horrible it is, to tell. How frightening. Not just the details and grit, but what's going on inside you. The reality of your every-day breaths. Every thought that stabs you with how indecent you are, unworthy you are, useless you are. It's all this fucking game you play, to make everyone happy...to make everyone love you...even if you don't believe they do, you can at least see what it's like.
I believe Bill... but that's a double-edged sword.
I believe that he loves me, but I don't feel I deserve it. That hurts. I want it, but I am so afraid of it.
Life just sucks these past few days.
I am tired.
Saturday, November 10, 2012
Sex with Daddy, a Dream (TRIGGER WARNING)
I call it a dream, not a nightmare. I described it to Bill as if I were telling him how to bake cookies - no attachment, no feelings. I felt nothing, yet his response was, "Wow that's a nightmare!"
It is? I didn't wake up sweating or shaking or crying.... isn't that what nightmares are?
I have never (or don't remember ever) having a dream or dreams of any nature about my father (or any of my abuse or rapes, for that matter). I have a snapshot of him in my mind - this vision of him from more than 20 years ago, and though I've been told he's now fat and bald, I remember him to be beautiful...so handsome, hair that women would die for...he was a fabulously good-looking man. That is what I see in my mind...
And that is what I saw in my dream.
Begin Trigger
*
*
*
We were in my apartment, only it wasn't this apartment...it was somewhere else. I recall that I initiated sex with him. I was aroused. In my dream, I was the same age I am now. He did not say anything, just smiled as I commenced to performing fellatio on him.
From there, somehow I was able to have intercourse with him while also receiving oral sex from him. Again, I was wanting it. I initiated it.
Next thing in the dream, we are sitting on the floor, and I was leaning against a bed frame. There was no mattress or box spring - just a space where they used to be. Beneath where the bed was supposed to be, were a few pair of shoes - one of which was a pair of little girl's black shoes. I remember thinking, "Wow I haven't seen those in a long time." There were other shoes but those stick out the most in my mind.
*
*
*
End Trigger
I told my father I was going to sweep while I could get to it...
As I began to sweep, I looked over and my father was drinking a glass of wine. I didn't know where he'd gotten it because, in my dream, I had no wine. Furthermore, he was drinking this "wine" from one of the margarita glasses that I left at Gary's house when we split up. I looked at what he was drinking and it wasn't wine; it was juice.
Coincidentally, this is what Gary's father used to do. He once told me, "I like to drink cranberry juice out of a wine glass so I can fit in."
Obviously there are things that stick out - the little girl's shoes....but one thing that troubles me deeply is, in the dream, as I was initiating, I was feeling the same feelings for my father, that I have for Bill. This hopelessly in-love feeling...this complete devotion.
It's worth noting, as well, that my adoptive father recently bought me a bed frame.
When trying to interpret this dream, I struggled. Usually Dreammoods is pretty good, but this left me blank.
It's also worth noting that I recently ran out of anti-depressants and have not been taking them. I have read that anti-depressants will amplify dissociation so I wonder if not taking these medications for a few days now, might have unblocked some things, along with my getting in touch with some intense new feelings that I have had with Bill.
After it all sank in....after I thought about it, I was saturated with shame. I felt like a whore. How could I even possibly dream this?? This is despicable!! *I* am disgusting! Who dreams this shit?!
Is this possibly me, getting in touch with parts of myself that I have never touched, via new, healthy, restorative relationships and feelings with new people?
I've never once given thought to whether or not I wanted to be molested. I didn't. Ever. Yet I willingly participated for a lot of different reasons. Some are obvious, others probably not. Being told by my therapist yesterday that it's okay for me to love....did that open up something?
Will these dreams continue? Will they get worse?
It is? I didn't wake up sweating or shaking or crying.... isn't that what nightmares are?
I have never (or don't remember ever) having a dream or dreams of any nature about my father (or any of my abuse or rapes, for that matter). I have a snapshot of him in my mind - this vision of him from more than 20 years ago, and though I've been told he's now fat and bald, I remember him to be beautiful...so handsome, hair that women would die for...he was a fabulously good-looking man. That is what I see in my mind...
And that is what I saw in my dream.
Begin Trigger
*
*
*
We were in my apartment, only it wasn't this apartment...it was somewhere else. I recall that I initiated sex with him. I was aroused. In my dream, I was the same age I am now. He did not say anything, just smiled as I commenced to performing fellatio on him.
From there, somehow I was able to have intercourse with him while also receiving oral sex from him. Again, I was wanting it. I initiated it.
Next thing in the dream, we are sitting on the floor, and I was leaning against a bed frame. There was no mattress or box spring - just a space where they used to be. Beneath where the bed was supposed to be, were a few pair of shoes - one of which was a pair of little girl's black shoes. I remember thinking, "Wow I haven't seen those in a long time." There were other shoes but those stick out the most in my mind.
*
*
*
End Trigger
I told my father I was going to sweep while I could get to it...
As I began to sweep, I looked over and my father was drinking a glass of wine. I didn't know where he'd gotten it because, in my dream, I had no wine. Furthermore, he was drinking this "wine" from one of the margarita glasses that I left at Gary's house when we split up. I looked at what he was drinking and it wasn't wine; it was juice.
Coincidentally, this is what Gary's father used to do. He once told me, "I like to drink cranberry juice out of a wine glass so I can fit in."
Obviously there are things that stick out - the little girl's shoes....but one thing that troubles me deeply is, in the dream, as I was initiating, I was feeling the same feelings for my father, that I have for Bill. This hopelessly in-love feeling...this complete devotion.
It's worth noting, as well, that my adoptive father recently bought me a bed frame.
When trying to interpret this dream, I struggled. Usually Dreammoods is pretty good, but this left me blank.
It's also worth noting that I recently ran out of anti-depressants and have not been taking them. I have read that anti-depressants will amplify dissociation so I wonder if not taking these medications for a few days now, might have unblocked some things, along with my getting in touch with some intense new feelings that I have had with Bill.
After it all sank in....after I thought about it, I was saturated with shame. I felt like a whore. How could I even possibly dream this?? This is despicable!! *I* am disgusting! Who dreams this shit?!
Is this possibly me, getting in touch with parts of myself that I have never touched, via new, healthy, restorative relationships and feelings with new people?
I've never once given thought to whether or not I wanted to be molested. I didn't. Ever. Yet I willingly participated for a lot of different reasons. Some are obvious, others probably not. Being told by my therapist yesterday that it's okay for me to love....did that open up something?
Will these dreams continue? Will they get worse?
Monday, August 6, 2012
Devil Among Angels
My Name Is Cristina D. Johnson
My therapist has said it to me before, but said it again to me today:
"It's easier to be a devil among angels, than an angel among devils."
She's referring to the past couple of blogs wherein I admit to doing, saying, being anything and everything I can to be accepted and not abandoned.
It's easier for me - for a child - to blame themselves for all the "bad" and all the "dirty" within them, and to try and fit in, than it is to be the person who can just be themselves.
So view myself - and always have - as this ugly stain in the fabric of life; this irreparable, broken, "classless cunt" (as he referred to me) who's worth nobody's time, love, compassion or attention so I keep everything in, do what I can and hope nobody sees the truth - sees how "dirty or ugly or bad" I am.
For me it's a lifelong thing but particularly over the past five years when I stepped out of my comfort zone and became engaged with people who were....let's just say of a different class. As I stepped outside of that comfort zone, I stepped into a whole new world.
Lots of white and crystal and things that a dirty little girl like me didn't fit into...but damn I tried.
He told me that people were coming out of the woodwork saying things about me. He was very cryptic about this, leaving me to believe the absolute worst. Oh my God! They know! They know! and my first instinct is to run away - run away as far as I can. I still feel this way, mostly. There's been very little compassion.
I believe it was my therapist who said people just want the dirt, the grit, the gossip - something to talk about. They don't really want to know how you're suffering...how you're struggling...they just want to know the nitty gritty.
And I think this is true....
.........and pathetic.
In a video my cousin shared with me the other day, Dr. Brene' Brown talks about listening to shame. It was a very, very powerful video but one thing she said that stuck out to me the most was this:
"I feel bad," is guilt.
"I am bad," is shame.
I've spent my whole life believing "I am bad." Believing I didn't deserve someone like "him" - when in hindsight, I gave him everything I possibly could....gave him more of myself than I'd ever given anyone, only to have that white and crystal world explode in my face and leave me even more scarred and feeling that I am bad than before.
Being abandoned by people who called themselves my friends, just reinforces that I am bad. I must be.
After all, I spent particularly the past five years as a devil among angels ...perfect people with perfect lives, perfect hair, perfect clothes, perfect partners, perfect homes and boats, perfect everything and here I was....bad.
At some point, I know I will offload this shame. There are brief moments when I think to myself, "Wow....someone loves you..." but they're fleeting. Still, when they come, they're very powerful and they ache. Mostly, though, I am overcome by this incessant voice in my head that tells me I am bad. I am dirty. I do nothing right. I am not worthy.
The bottom of this mountain is big.
So is my determination. People left me - I knew they would because I haven't shared any "nitty gritty" or gruesome details about my abuse (for the most part) but oh....bet your sweet ass, I will one day. I won't share it for the punishment of my perpetrators nor for the glory or to make myself look good. I will share it with the God-Honest intention, the authentic desire and hopes and prayers that someone in that white crystal world will read it and feel some compassion....someone will learn....
And hopefully, someone else will come out...and someone else will come out...and someone else will come out.... and eventually we - we incest survivors - will stop being devils amongst angels, but the angels we have always been, if misguided.
My therapist has said it to me before, but said it again to me today:
"It's easier to be a devil among angels, than an angel among devils."
She's referring to the past couple of blogs wherein I admit to doing, saying, being anything and everything I can to be accepted and not abandoned.
It's easier for me - for a child - to blame themselves for all the "bad" and all the "dirty" within them, and to try and fit in, than it is to be the person who can just be themselves.
So view myself - and always have - as this ugly stain in the fabric of life; this irreparable, broken, "classless cunt" (as he referred to me) who's worth nobody's time, love, compassion or attention so I keep everything in, do what I can and hope nobody sees the truth - sees how "dirty or ugly or bad" I am.
For me it's a lifelong thing but particularly over the past five years when I stepped out of my comfort zone and became engaged with people who were....let's just say of a different class. As I stepped outside of that comfort zone, I stepped into a whole new world.
Lots of white and crystal and things that a dirty little girl like me didn't fit into...but damn I tried.
He told me that people were coming out of the woodwork saying things about me. He was very cryptic about this, leaving me to believe the absolute worst. Oh my God! They know! They know! and my first instinct is to run away - run away as far as I can. I still feel this way, mostly. There's been very little compassion.
I believe it was my therapist who said people just want the dirt, the grit, the gossip - something to talk about. They don't really want to know how you're suffering...how you're struggling...they just want to know the nitty gritty.
And I think this is true....
.........and pathetic.
In a video my cousin shared with me the other day, Dr. Brene' Brown talks about listening to shame. It was a very, very powerful video but one thing she said that stuck out to me the most was this:
"I feel bad," is guilt.
"I am bad," is shame.
I've spent my whole life believing "I am bad." Believing I didn't deserve someone like "him" - when in hindsight, I gave him everything I possibly could....gave him more of myself than I'd ever given anyone, only to have that white and crystal world explode in my face and leave me even more scarred and feeling that I am bad than before.
Being abandoned by people who called themselves my friends, just reinforces that I am bad. I must be.
After all, I spent particularly the past five years as a devil among angels ...perfect people with perfect lives, perfect hair, perfect clothes, perfect partners, perfect homes and boats, perfect everything and here I was....bad.
At some point, I know I will offload this shame. There are brief moments when I think to myself, "Wow....someone loves you..." but they're fleeting. Still, when they come, they're very powerful and they ache. Mostly, though, I am overcome by this incessant voice in my head that tells me I am bad. I am dirty. I do nothing right. I am not worthy.
The bottom of this mountain is big.
So is my determination. People left me - I knew they would because I haven't shared any "nitty gritty" or gruesome details about my abuse (for the most part) but oh....bet your sweet ass, I will one day. I won't share it for the punishment of my perpetrators nor for the glory or to make myself look good. I will share it with the God-Honest intention, the authentic desire and hopes and prayers that someone in that white crystal world will read it and feel some compassion....someone will learn....
And hopefully, someone else will come out...and someone else will come out...and someone else will come out.... and eventually we - we incest survivors - will stop being devils amongst angels, but the angels we have always been, if misguided.
Saturday, August 4, 2012
Please Don't Leave!
My Name Is Cristina Johnson
When I was five and six years old (the earliest my memories begin), I lived in Pensacola with my father, step-mother, step-sister and step-brother. At the time, my father was molesting me, my younger brother, and me and my brother simultaneously.
He was also very violent - very unpredictable, like huge violent waves crashing on the shore; you never knew what he was going to hit or when, just knew it would be destructive. He also had a very strong, powerful voice - very loud and frightening, especially to children.
But when he was molesting us, he was tender, kind, benevolent. It was the only time he was ever gentle.
Then, one day, without notice or warning or even knowing what was going on, I and my brother sat on our knees in the living room on the couch, staring out the window and I remember crying (can't remember if my brother was) and screaming as if he could hear me through the glass, "Please daddy!! Don't go!! Where are you going?? Please, Daddy! Don't go!!" as he threw one after another of huge black garbage bags into the burgundy Chevy van we had. To this day, I'll never be able to see a van and not think of it. Later that night, without explanation, my brother and I were put on an airplane to go back to St. Louis and live with our grandparents (his parents).
I say all of this because I experienced a severe panic attack this morning, and it brought back that feeling - that horrible abandonment.
Yesterday, a friend came over and brought some beer. We (he, Bill and I) all had a pretty good afternoon, chatting and I cooked a great dinner for everyone. This friend - H - has PTSD and DID like me so we share a lot of commonalities and it's just nice to have someone to talk to who "gets it" - like, truly gets it.
Anyway, long story short, last night I was not myself. After H left, I did some things that weren't my nature and awoke this morning not remembering any of it, although I did remember that Bill promised the night before to go get cigarettes first thing in the morning and I would brew the coffee. So my memory of last night was splotchy with blank, black spots.
As Bill left to go get the cigarettes, memories came flooding back of last night and I freaked out - completely panicked - and began to shake. I was terrified.
And this is where the memory of my father leaving comes in:
It was taking Bill too long to go to the store and the story in my mind was, "You're bad. You're a bad girl!" and that Bill was leaving me...just like Daddy did 35 years ago.
"Please don't leave, Daddy!"
I panicked - ran all around the apartment, looking out the door and the windows, scared like a child. I was a child, but I was the child that Daddy used for sexual pleasure and then just left. The dirty child the unwanted child. The bad child. And Bill was leaving me because of it!
The truth was out and Bill knew it, now, and he was leaving!
"He's taking too long. He shouldn't be taking this long. Where is he? Oh my God he's leaving! It's all my fault!"
Please don't leave, Daddy!
Then I heard the rumble, after far too long, of his old Ford pickup truck pulling into the drive and I was overwhelmed with fear and confusion and shame.
He came in and I tried to tell him, tried to communicate but it wasn't coming out right (I was stuttering again) and he gently said, "Take your time. It's okay."
I explained that I didn't remember anything about last night and I was afraid and then I did remember some things (I was talking a mile a minute) and now I feel ......I couldn't say it.
"It's okay," he assured. "It'll be okay...everything will be okay...." he kept repeating as I sat on the bed rocking and shaking and crying.
"That's not what the story is in my head," I admitted to him cautiously, fearfully.
"What is the story in your head," he asked.
"D-D-Dir..." I couldn't speak it and he just kept stroking my hand and my shoulder and saying, "Take your time."
"Dirty!" I finally blurted out. "DIRTY! DIRTY! DIRTY!" came my rather loud, shameful confession. In my head, it was the voice of a child whose father used his perversions to show her "love" but left.
So there I was, stuck in 1976, staring out the front pane window as my father inexplicably left my brother and I to wonder, "Did we not do enough? Did I do something wrong? I must just be really bad and dirty."
At this point, I got a text from Gary. He had some of my stuff and wanted to bring it by. Oh great. Just what I needed. I was being thrown back to age six and at the same time being expected to handle things like the 41-year-old woman that I am today....which included facing one of the biggest triggers in my life: Gary.
He showed up. I didn't want him in the house. I was not well. I started to feel it in my stomach. I saw him and my skin was aflame almost instantly. The feelings come flooding back and mingle with my already disturbing feelings of being "bad" and "dirty" and here's this man who has proven, again and again, that I am bad and dirty and has told everyone about it! So now everyone knows I'm bad and dirty! Everyone knows! Oh God, get him out of here!
I began to tremble uncontrollably, tried to say "leave - just go" but couldn't get it out....finally managed and he left. Still as I know him - no difference. I know him. And he knows way too much about me. I walked away and didn't even watch him leave, because it was killing me - for the second time this morning.
I went inside and within minutes was vomiting.
Over the course of about three hours, Bill was there trying to comfort me, rubbing my back, holding my hand, telling me it'll all be okay, hugging me when I trembled, telling me to stop apologizing (I was dreadfully embarrassed and always am when I "lose control" like that)...just being a friend. "I won't leave you," he kept telling me, over and over. "I'm never going to leave you," he kept assuring.
So there are people who say to move on, get past it, get over it, stop looking for government handouts, etc. etc....
To those people, I say this is no picnic. My body is exhausted right now, and my mind is swimming in dark thoughts of self-loathing, self-blame and fear of being seen. Oh God how I don't want to live this life - some days it's all I can do to just get out of bed because I can't know if or when I'll be triggered; if or when I'll panic. I have so much to do - so many things to take care of - and it's like looking at life cross-eyed. Everything gets jumbled and mixed up. Even trying to read my bills, my vision blurs and I can't focus on it and I get confused by it.
I am fortunate that I have Bill (and a couple of other people) who understand what I am going through - they know this is torture and torment for me - and they also know how hard I am working to overcome it. I am so grateful.
Since I began posting my blog on my FB page, I have had people come out and share with me and show true compassion (a sorely lacking commodity in these small towns), understanding, empathy and encouragement. People I never expected to care, are showing they do.
I am grateful for this.
When I was five and six years old (the earliest my memories begin), I lived in Pensacola with my father, step-mother, step-sister and step-brother. At the time, my father was molesting me, my younger brother, and me and my brother simultaneously.
He was also very violent - very unpredictable, like huge violent waves crashing on the shore; you never knew what he was going to hit or when, just knew it would be destructive. He also had a very strong, powerful voice - very loud and frightening, especially to children.
But when he was molesting us, he was tender, kind, benevolent. It was the only time he was ever gentle.
Then, one day, without notice or warning or even knowing what was going on, I and my brother sat on our knees in the living room on the couch, staring out the window and I remember crying (can't remember if my brother was) and screaming as if he could hear me through the glass, "Please daddy!! Don't go!! Where are you going?? Please, Daddy! Don't go!!" as he threw one after another of huge black garbage bags into the burgundy Chevy van we had. To this day, I'll never be able to see a van and not think of it. Later that night, without explanation, my brother and I were put on an airplane to go back to St. Louis and live with our grandparents (his parents).
I say all of this because I experienced a severe panic attack this morning, and it brought back that feeling - that horrible abandonment.
Yesterday, a friend came over and brought some beer. We (he, Bill and I) all had a pretty good afternoon, chatting and I cooked a great dinner for everyone. This friend - H - has PTSD and DID like me so we share a lot of commonalities and it's just nice to have someone to talk to who "gets it" - like, truly gets it.
Anyway, long story short, last night I was not myself. After H left, I did some things that weren't my nature and awoke this morning not remembering any of it, although I did remember that Bill promised the night before to go get cigarettes first thing in the morning and I would brew the coffee. So my memory of last night was splotchy with blank, black spots.
As Bill left to go get the cigarettes, memories came flooding back of last night and I freaked out - completely panicked - and began to shake. I was terrified.
And this is where the memory of my father leaving comes in:
It was taking Bill too long to go to the store and the story in my mind was, "You're bad. You're a bad girl!" and that Bill was leaving me...just like Daddy did 35 years ago.
"Please don't leave, Daddy!"
I panicked - ran all around the apartment, looking out the door and the windows, scared like a child. I was a child, but I was the child that Daddy used for sexual pleasure and then just left. The dirty child the unwanted child. The bad child. And Bill was leaving me because of it!
The truth was out and Bill knew it, now, and he was leaving!
"He's taking too long. He shouldn't be taking this long. Where is he? Oh my God he's leaving! It's all my fault!"
Please don't leave, Daddy!
Then I heard the rumble, after far too long, of his old Ford pickup truck pulling into the drive and I was overwhelmed with fear and confusion and shame.
He came in and I tried to tell him, tried to communicate but it wasn't coming out right (I was stuttering again) and he gently said, "Take your time. It's okay."
I explained that I didn't remember anything about last night and I was afraid and then I did remember some things (I was talking a mile a minute) and now I feel ......I couldn't say it.
"It's okay," he assured. "It'll be okay...everything will be okay...." he kept repeating as I sat on the bed rocking and shaking and crying.
"That's not what the story is in my head," I admitted to him cautiously, fearfully.
"What is the story in your head," he asked.
"D-D-Dir..." I couldn't speak it and he just kept stroking my hand and my shoulder and saying, "Take your time."
"Dirty!" I finally blurted out. "DIRTY! DIRTY! DIRTY!" came my rather loud, shameful confession. In my head, it was the voice of a child whose father used his perversions to show her "love" but left.
So there I was, stuck in 1976, staring out the front pane window as my father inexplicably left my brother and I to wonder, "Did we not do enough? Did I do something wrong? I must just be really bad and dirty."
At this point, I got a text from Gary. He had some of my stuff and wanted to bring it by. Oh great. Just what I needed. I was being thrown back to age six and at the same time being expected to handle things like the 41-year-old woman that I am today....which included facing one of the biggest triggers in my life: Gary.
He showed up. I didn't want him in the house. I was not well. I started to feel it in my stomach. I saw him and my skin was aflame almost instantly. The feelings come flooding back and mingle with my already disturbing feelings of being "bad" and "dirty" and here's this man who has proven, again and again, that I am bad and dirty and has told everyone about it! So now everyone knows I'm bad and dirty! Everyone knows! Oh God, get him out of here!
I began to tremble uncontrollably, tried to say "leave - just go" but couldn't get it out....finally managed and he left. Still as I know him - no difference. I know him. And he knows way too much about me. I walked away and didn't even watch him leave, because it was killing me - for the second time this morning.
I went inside and within minutes was vomiting.
Over the course of about three hours, Bill was there trying to comfort me, rubbing my back, holding my hand, telling me it'll all be okay, hugging me when I trembled, telling me to stop apologizing (I was dreadfully embarrassed and always am when I "lose control" like that)...just being a friend. "I won't leave you," he kept telling me, over and over. "I'm never going to leave you," he kept assuring.
So there are people who say to move on, get past it, get over it, stop looking for government handouts, etc. etc....
To those people, I say this is no picnic. My body is exhausted right now, and my mind is swimming in dark thoughts of self-loathing, self-blame and fear of being seen. Oh God how I don't want to live this life - some days it's all I can do to just get out of bed because I can't know if or when I'll be triggered; if or when I'll panic. I have so much to do - so many things to take care of - and it's like looking at life cross-eyed. Everything gets jumbled and mixed up. Even trying to read my bills, my vision blurs and I can't focus on it and I get confused by it.
I am fortunate that I have Bill (and a couple of other people) who understand what I am going through - they know this is torture and torment for me - and they also know how hard I am working to overcome it. I am so grateful.
Since I began posting my blog on my FB page, I have had people come out and share with me and show true compassion (a sorely lacking commodity in these small towns), understanding, empathy and encouragement. People I never expected to care, are showing they do.
I am grateful for this.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Coming Out
Someone once asked me how come I never used my real name when blogging or writing about my past and my experiences. I really thought a lot about this.
I realized it had a lot to do with that dreaded word: Shame.
Especially in this area - not that it's not taboo all over the country. People just don't want to hear about incest and rape. They turn a blind eye to it, which makes the shame of the survivor even bigger.
Anyway, today I'm here to tell you: My name is Cristina Johnson.
I'm tired of hiding, pretending, being the silent victim. I'm tired of playing the roles I'm supposed to play - so tired. It's been like that my whole entire life...all the way from toddler-hood. I've always tried so hard to be and do and say all the "right" things, so I could be loved and accepted.
It's hard when there never was a "before" to your abuse (for me, it began before I remember), so there's no "me" to speak of. So I just watched and listened, observed like an eagle, what everyone else was saying and doing, and tried to find some way to do and say the same things, with my own twist on it.
No more.
For five years, I've listened to people sit around their boats or in their fancy houses and talk trash about people who are just like me - people who are suffering horribly inside. I've listened to them badmouth gay people - which blew me away - and trash-talk others only to turn around and shake their hands.
I witnessed this, and I knew - because of it - there was no way I could be myself. No way I could show who I really was, no way I could tell anyone my story because they would do the same thing to me: Talk trash about me.
"They're compassionate people," he said to me, as he spread so many lies and exaggerations around these towns about me. But I can count on less than one hand who of those "compassionate" people dropped me a message or phone call to ask if I was okay, or how I was doing, and honestly, those who did, I was surprised. The ones who didn't; I was equally surprised.
Not anymore, though.
People in this area - like most places - live in their little fancy lives, seeing only what they want to see, hearing and believing only what they want to believe. They'll sit around their scotch and Merlot and tsk and say "poor dear" and never do a thing to help.
I'm not hiding anymore and I'm not being "nice" anymore. I'm pissed. I was done wrong in so many ways and I've always been honest, even if I didn't disclose my personal information (although that, now, doesn't matter since he took it upon himself to spread it on his own, telling me it was none of my "goddamn business.")
I should've known - the night that he called me a "classless cunt" that he was not the man for me. The countless times I saw him fighting with my son. I should have known. But I was quiet, silent and scared....scared to be myself.
Not anymore, though.
Now, I'm here to tell you my name is Cristina Johnson and I am an incest survivor, kidnapping survivor, multiple gang-rape survivor, as well as individual rapes. I was molested by my father, my brother, my uncle and my step-father. I was abandoned repeatedly as a child and I know how a gun feels to your head and in your mouth. I also know what it feels like to be stabbed and strangled to the point where you almost die.
And as I was going through this healing process - which began with the "classless cunt" comment - it became debilitating and I became terrified.
And I was, once again, abandoned by someone I loved who couldn't accept or handle the pain I was going through and even continued to hurt me more and more and more every day, never considering the effects of PTSD and DID.
He hurt me over and over again, put me down, mocked my disorders and deliberately lied and betrayed me. Of course, also, making sure I knew not only that he was "seeing someone else" but that he had been since before we ever split up. To someone with PTSD and with a history like mine, this was absolutely crushing.
That's not love. That's cowardice.
My name is Cristina Johnson and I will heal from this. I will come through it.
But I will never forget what he did to me, as he went out acting as if he was a savior and victim. I hope he never knows the horror of what he put me through....then again, maybe it'd do him some good. Just like a lot of people who don't know the true definition of compassion. Look it up.
I realized it had a lot to do with that dreaded word: Shame.
Especially in this area - not that it's not taboo all over the country. People just don't want to hear about incest and rape. They turn a blind eye to it, which makes the shame of the survivor even bigger.
Anyway, today I'm here to tell you: My name is Cristina Johnson.
I'm tired of hiding, pretending, being the silent victim. I'm tired of playing the roles I'm supposed to play - so tired. It's been like that my whole entire life...all the way from toddler-hood. I've always tried so hard to be and do and say all the "right" things, so I could be loved and accepted.
It's hard when there never was a "before" to your abuse (for me, it began before I remember), so there's no "me" to speak of. So I just watched and listened, observed like an eagle, what everyone else was saying and doing, and tried to find some way to do and say the same things, with my own twist on it.
No more.
For five years, I've listened to people sit around their boats or in their fancy houses and talk trash about people who are just like me - people who are suffering horribly inside. I've listened to them badmouth gay people - which blew me away - and trash-talk others only to turn around and shake their hands.
I witnessed this, and I knew - because of it - there was no way I could be myself. No way I could show who I really was, no way I could tell anyone my story because they would do the same thing to me: Talk trash about me.
"They're compassionate people," he said to me, as he spread so many lies and exaggerations around these towns about me. But I can count on less than one hand who of those "compassionate" people dropped me a message or phone call to ask if I was okay, or how I was doing, and honestly, those who did, I was surprised. The ones who didn't; I was equally surprised.
Not anymore, though.
People in this area - like most places - live in their little fancy lives, seeing only what they want to see, hearing and believing only what they want to believe. They'll sit around their scotch and Merlot and tsk and say "poor dear" and never do a thing to help.
I'm not hiding anymore and I'm not being "nice" anymore. I'm pissed. I was done wrong in so many ways and I've always been honest, even if I didn't disclose my personal information (although that, now, doesn't matter since he took it upon himself to spread it on his own, telling me it was none of my "goddamn business.")
I should've known - the night that he called me a "classless cunt" that he was not the man for me. The countless times I saw him fighting with my son. I should have known. But I was quiet, silent and scared....scared to be myself.
Not anymore, though.
Now, I'm here to tell you my name is Cristina Johnson and I am an incest survivor, kidnapping survivor, multiple gang-rape survivor, as well as individual rapes. I was molested by my father, my brother, my uncle and my step-father. I was abandoned repeatedly as a child and I know how a gun feels to your head and in your mouth. I also know what it feels like to be stabbed and strangled to the point where you almost die.
And as I was going through this healing process - which began with the "classless cunt" comment - it became debilitating and I became terrified.
And I was, once again, abandoned by someone I loved who couldn't accept or handle the pain I was going through and even continued to hurt me more and more and more every day, never considering the effects of PTSD and DID.
He hurt me over and over again, put me down, mocked my disorders and deliberately lied and betrayed me. Of course, also, making sure I knew not only that he was "seeing someone else" but that he had been since before we ever split up. To someone with PTSD and with a history like mine, this was absolutely crushing.
That's not love. That's cowardice.
My name is Cristina Johnson and I will heal from this. I will come through it.
But I will never forget what he did to me, as he went out acting as if he was a savior and victim. I hope he never knows the horror of what he put me through....then again, maybe it'd do him some good. Just like a lot of people who don't know the true definition of compassion. Look it up.
Monday, July 2, 2012
Reluctant Homework
In the book, Resurrection After Rape, (you can download a free pdf of this book by clicking the link) the author, assigns the following homework:
1) If rape is a form of theft, what did it steal?
2) If rape steals something from you, what parts of you are NOT gone?
So I decided, reluctantly, to write it down.
If rape is a form of theft, what did it steal?
It stole my sense of self
It stole my future, what I could have been
It stole my ability to have relationships
it stole my sexuality
it stole my trust
it stole my place in this world
it stole my sense of security
it stole my freedom
it stole my belief in authentic love
it stole my vulnerability
it stole my innocence
it stole my family and any sense of what "family" is
it stole my ability to feel emotions or share them appropriately
it stole my ability to just be myself
it stole my purity
it stole my tears
it stole my voice
it stole my childhood
it stole my happy memories, all my birthdays and Christmases.
It stole my virginity.
It stole my beauty and any sense of self-worth.
It stole my ability to look at myself in the mirror, to dress myself or to fit in anywhere.
It stole my privacy.
If rape steals something from you, what parts of you are NOT gone?
My incest and rapes did not take away my inner strength or determination.
It all strengthened my intuition.
My tenderness
My compassion.
My awareness and alertness.
Willingness to learn and to change.
Willingness to make the world better, somehow.
I am a good mother.
I have patience.
I love deeply and authentically, when I love.
My loyalty and my thoughts and ideas.
I still write, because nothing can take that away from me.
I am acutely empathic.
I am a good teacher and speaker.
So, with all that said, I know there's more. But it's a tender place to touch.
Today, as I was driving home from running errands, I got enraged. Just out of the blue, rageful - it was all aimed at Gary. Started shaking, almost pulled over to take a klonopin. But then I just started crying and the question that kept running through my mind, really applies to both Gary and my father: "Why?" and from there it went directly to my father. "Why did you do that to me? Why did you do this to me?"
The answer comes back to me in my mind, in Gary's voice: "I didn't do anything to you."
Everything is so mixed up... Everything and I just hurt. So confused. So hurt.
I feel alone because of him. I feel alone because, once again, someone couldn't love me. It's not fair to say nobody loves me because there are people who proclaim they do but when he said he didn't love me anymore, the alone-ness hit me like a brick to my stomach. It was like being raped again. Being told to trust, encouraged to heal, open up, do what you have to do...only to be abandoned when it gets ugly. To be judged for the ugly. Ridiculed publicly. Publicly humiliated. My privacy spread out like a billboard. My shame exposed to the entire world.
So my rage - this god awful rage - is aimed at him and those who believe him, when it should be aimed at the man who caused all of this to happen to me: my father. Daddy. And the many other men who used my body and beat me and threw me away.
I understand. I get it. But how do I do it? I feel so alone.
1) If rape is a form of theft, what did it steal?
2) If rape steals something from you, what parts of you are NOT gone?
So I decided, reluctantly, to write it down.
If rape is a form of theft, what did it steal?
It stole my sense of self
It stole my future, what I could have been
It stole my ability to have relationships
it stole my sexuality
it stole my trust
it stole my place in this world
it stole my sense of security
it stole my freedom
it stole my belief in authentic love
it stole my vulnerability
it stole my innocence
it stole my family and any sense of what "family" is
it stole my ability to feel emotions or share them appropriately
it stole my ability to just be myself
it stole my purity
it stole my tears
it stole my voice
it stole my childhood
it stole my happy memories, all my birthdays and Christmases.
It stole my virginity.
It stole my beauty and any sense of self-worth.
It stole my ability to look at myself in the mirror, to dress myself or to fit in anywhere.
It stole my privacy.
If rape steals something from you, what parts of you are NOT gone?
My incest and rapes did not take away my inner strength or determination.
It all strengthened my intuition.
My tenderness
My compassion.
My awareness and alertness.
Willingness to learn and to change.
Willingness to make the world better, somehow.
I am a good mother.
I have patience.
I love deeply and authentically, when I love.
My loyalty and my thoughts and ideas.
I still write, because nothing can take that away from me.
I am acutely empathic.
I am a good teacher and speaker.
So, with all that said, I know there's more. But it's a tender place to touch.
Today, as I was driving home from running errands, I got enraged. Just out of the blue, rageful - it was all aimed at Gary. Started shaking, almost pulled over to take a klonopin. But then I just started crying and the question that kept running through my mind, really applies to both Gary and my father: "Why?" and from there it went directly to my father. "Why did you do that to me? Why did you do this to me?"
The answer comes back to me in my mind, in Gary's voice: "I didn't do anything to you."
Everything is so mixed up... Everything and I just hurt. So confused. So hurt.
I feel alone because of him. I feel alone because, once again, someone couldn't love me. It's not fair to say nobody loves me because there are people who proclaim they do but when he said he didn't love me anymore, the alone-ness hit me like a brick to my stomach. It was like being raped again. Being told to trust, encouraged to heal, open up, do what you have to do...only to be abandoned when it gets ugly. To be judged for the ugly. Ridiculed publicly. Publicly humiliated. My privacy spread out like a billboard. My shame exposed to the entire world.
So my rage - this god awful rage - is aimed at him and those who believe him, when it should be aimed at the man who caused all of this to happen to me: my father. Daddy. And the many other men who used my body and beat me and threw me away.
I understand. I get it. But how do I do it? I feel so alone.
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