Writing

My name is Cristina Johnson.

I haven't even looked at my blog since last Friday. Last Friday was bad. Really bad.

Started off waking from a nightmare about Gary. These nightmares became every-night things and it was to the point where I couldn't even sleep (although it got worse as the week progressed).

Friday, I was already "off" and I could feel it. On top of it, I had an immovable earworm that wouldn't go away no matter how hard I tried. The song - Me and a Gun by Tori Amos - had been stuck in my head for days and I couldn't stop it. It's a very haunting tune, very chilling.

So I was weighted down just by these two things alone, never mind other regular life issues that were causing me stress. Plus I hadn't been able to see my therapist as I had been - twice a week - because of the holidays and because of transportation. This creates a powerful need to 'hold it together' and not talk too much about what I'm going through because unlike my therapist, the people in my life don't really always know what to say or do when I'm going through my shit.

So Friday - which I don't remember, for the most part - started with the nightmare. I don't even remember typing the words, but I know I did. I got on Facebook and made my status the chorus of the song, posted like this: "...me and a gun and a man on my back. But I haven't seen Barbados, so I must get out of this."

I was asked almost immediately by a FB friend if I was okay and I told her yes, that they are lyrics and that I would probably not be posting on FB if there was a man with a gun on my back.

This spurred a huge affront - in private messages. I'd upset her. I was immediately a child again, immediately terrified. My first instinct was to apologize - which I did, repeatedly. I was then told something to the affect of, "You need to keep in mind that what you post affects people" and I argued, "I don't write to not affect people. I want to affect people. What's the point of writing if you're not going to affect people?"

Still, the damage was done and I went into all out panic. I am petrified of saying/doing the wrong thing and I obsess over people "liking" me. I've never had a 'voice' so to speak so when I was confronted about posting the lyrics and, later, other things, I was flabbergasted and hurt and scared and all the components of panic that cause me to completely shut down. The rest of the day I didn't remember.

I was scared to do anything - especially write - and I didn't get on Facebook at all for days. I felt like I'd been told to shut up - this is all I heard (even though the words weren't actually spoken, this is what I heard):

Shut up. Why do you post/write the shit you do? Get over it. Nobody wants to hear it.

That night, I deliberately got drunk - that I remembered. The next day, Bill helped me a little and we talked about Friday - what'd happened. Did I cook dinner? What did I do? Oh yeah, Bill had scared me - another thing on top of my already panic - when he came up the stairs without his shoes on. I didn't hear him and he scared me to death.

Friday - last Friday - is a lost day.

As the days progressed through the weekend and into this past week, the nightmares continued until finally, Wednesday, I lost it. I sat up in my office, staring at my computer afraid to write or speak or do anything and feeling as if everything was crumbling- I was crumbling. Why couldn't I stop these nightmares? God I'm so f'n tired. I just want to sleep peacefully. I don't want these dreams. God....just one night....please...

I was feeling so desperate that I nearly called a suicide hotline (which I have never done) but I was also carrying this heavy burden of needing to hide my desperation from Bill and, obviously, Trevor, so I just isolated. From them, from everyone. I truly felt like I was losing my mind. I emailed my therapist. Then I emailed her again, asking for her to disregard the previous email (which was just a panicked note the equivelant of chicken scratch).

Fortunately, I was able to get a late appointment with her Thursday evening.

Not "being able" to write was like being in a prison - my own prison - with poisonous gas. I was choking, suffocating on my thoughts. Self-criticizing. Slowly being eaten away inside. It was torture for me since writing is my greatest outlet, whether anyone reads it or not.

When I told Michelle about last Friday and the FB incident, she said it was "crap" that  the other person was admonishing me for what I post on FB.  She put things in perspective for me and agreed with me when I admitted to being obsessive over being 'liked'.

"Yes, I know," she said. "But for someone like you who's been unable to express yourself for your whole life, being told those things is traumatic."

I nearly cried. I was validated.

We also talked about the dreams, about Gary, about the break-up.

She told me to remove the stop watch. To stop expecting myself to be over it.

"That was a big break-up," she said. "It hurt you really bad. It's going to take time - however much time it takes - to get over it."

"I don't want to be a wet blanket," I told her, almost in tears.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't want the people in my life to be subject to me being heartbroken all the time."

"See? There's the stop watch again," she said. "There's no set time. You don't have to be 'over it' within any certain period of time."

I told her about how he (Gary) served as a catalyst in some ways but how I can't uncross the wires. She said she thought it was amazing that I was able to understand how that works.

"Yeah but understanding it, isn't helping me remedy it."

"You will," she said. "But for now, you're still in pain and grieving."

She is right.

I texted "Dee" the other night ....I couldn't help it. I wasn't going to but I heard a few songs from a band that made me think of her son and how brilliant he is with his guitar (he has autism and is phenomenal on the guitar). The first time I heard Gov't Mule I knew this was the kind of music he'd love. I texted her. She later texted me back, in kind. I didn't respond.

Last night I dreamt of her. Dreamt she was going to see Gov't Mule at the place where I was recently attacked by a mob of uninformed, angry people.

Don't know what it means.

The night before, dreamt of the "boater friends" and a wedding.... it makes me choke up as I write this. Seems harmless, but.... the things he did hurt so deeply. The wedding....I was supposed to go and he lied and....just all kinds of stuff. It hurt so bad, like I was sliced down the middle.

All of our boater friends went to the wedding.....

Except me.

A "friend" - who was talking with Gary about me behind my back and never once called to check on me - went in my stead. I only know this because I found out by snooping in his Facebook account. I found out who - among my "friends" - were really friends and was devastated to learn none of them were. Not one.

But they were all happy to be friends with Gary's new girlfriend.

I hadn't even moved out yet. It'd only been a couple weeks.

Anyway......

I'm going to keep writing.

I have to for my own sake, if nothing else.