I've had about 30 hours of sleep in the last 36 (thank you Nyquil). The few hours I've been up, I've been lost. I took the Nyquil after deciding last night that I was going to commit suicide but then, using a tactic I've used before, told myself I would wait until tomorrow and if I still felt the same, I would do it then. As I lay down, restless, anxious, angry, hurt....I fantasized about ways to do it. I have a lot of pills I can take. I sometimes hoard them...."just in case." But I know from experience, that overdosing doesn't really work and best scenario you end up with smiley shoes on the fourth floor of some cold, God-forsaken hospital for three days until you say the right things to get out. So I thought of other ways, in addition to the pills. I thought of the order in which I would take the pills. I thought of ways to build a "tent" for carbon monoxide poisoning. Perhaps a bag over my head, too. I would close the bedroom door. Trevor would never know. Nobody would find me until I was gone. Maybe I'd use my old, illegal, beat up car and drive somewhere and hide. But then I thought maybe the cops would see me and pull me over. Then I'd really be screwed. I even tried to figure out ways I could smuggle in my meds in case I did get arrested but that wouldn't work either: The meds would need time to kick in, plus they'd find me before I could die. I fantasized about using a big black sharpie to write "DNR" all over my arms and chest and even my forehead. I figured I'd probably have to do it on paper and then trace it since doing it in the mirror could prove difficult.
Every purpose I had to live, is leaving or dying. My fault for putting purposes on people, instead of myself, most would say.
But most wouldn't know I am no purpose. I have no purpose. I know, I know....and I've heard it all. My existence alone, changes the world. Yada...yada...yada...
Appeasement does not work for me.
All the work I've done on myself has been so honest and intentional.
But for naught.
I still have my pills hidden. (I hid them in case my therapist instructed my friend to hide them from me). I still have not gotten them out. I still haven't entirely changed my mind.
I have therapy tomorrow.
I have almost nothing to say.
I am so numb. So, so numb.
Voiceless, wordless, needless.
Nothing. Obviously.
Showing posts with label DID. Show all posts
Showing posts with label DID. Show all posts
Monday, December 15, 2014
Tuesday, August 20, 2013
Ice Cubes? Really??
Saw my "new" therapist today. This was our second visit. I knew - during our initial phone conversation when we set up our first appointment - that she was not right for me. She became "concerned" when I told her I get afraid and overwhelmed when I meet new people/doctors/social workers/etc. and that I would take a clonazepam before I came.
So you're concerned about me taking an anxiety medication for...anxiety?
Strike one.
When I met her, there just was no chemistry and I knew - by the way she talked and approached certain things - that she was not the caliber of help I need.
I had recently had a meltdown, in the bathroom. I collapsed on the floor, sobbing, angry, flooded, lost, confused, overwhelmd and I reached in the drawer and pulled out a razor and compulsively began slashing at my legs (this was about four weeks ago).
My (new) therapist, upon hearing my telling of this meltdown, suggested the next time I want to cut or self-harm, to try using an ice cube.
Great idea! I'll make sure and store some in the bathroom drawer!
Today she told me I need more intensive treatment than they can offer and she is going to see what she can find for me. Outpatient. I told her I won't do inpatient. I have my reasons, and there are many.
Vomited again this morning while brushing my teeth. Cannot adequately define the grotesqueness of this. She asked me why I think that happens.
!?!?!
Seriously?
Jesus.
I also told her I take offense to the term "Mental Illness." I do not have a "Mental Illness," but a Mental Disorder, with a bunch of sub-disorders (if you will) as a result of complex, repeated childhood trauma. I am not mentally sick (which is what an illness is). I am mentally debilitated at the moment due to circumstances beyond my control and for which my brain has developed coping and survival mechanisms out of sheer need and necessity for survival. I'd hardly classify that as a "mental illness."
Anyway that's just me ranting.
I'm being pulled in so many different directions that I can't find myself. That's what I told her and she understood that.
She told me I should do what I have to do, to take care of me.
That's a tough one.
So you're concerned about me taking an anxiety medication for...anxiety?
Strike one.
When I met her, there just was no chemistry and I knew - by the way she talked and approached certain things - that she was not the caliber of help I need.
I had recently had a meltdown, in the bathroom. I collapsed on the floor, sobbing, angry, flooded, lost, confused, overwhelmd and I reached in the drawer and pulled out a razor and compulsively began slashing at my legs (this was about four weeks ago).
My (new) therapist, upon hearing my telling of this meltdown, suggested the next time I want to cut or self-harm, to try using an ice cube.
Great idea! I'll make sure and store some in the bathroom drawer!
Today she told me I need more intensive treatment than they can offer and she is going to see what she can find for me. Outpatient. I told her I won't do inpatient. I have my reasons, and there are many.
Vomited again this morning while brushing my teeth. Cannot adequately define the grotesqueness of this. She asked me why I think that happens.
!?!?!
Seriously?
Jesus.
I also told her I take offense to the term "Mental Illness." I do not have a "Mental Illness," but a Mental Disorder, with a bunch of sub-disorders (if you will) as a result of complex, repeated childhood trauma. I am not mentally sick (which is what an illness is). I am mentally debilitated at the moment due to circumstances beyond my control and for which my brain has developed coping and survival mechanisms out of sheer need and necessity for survival. I'd hardly classify that as a "mental illness."
Anyway that's just me ranting.
I'm being pulled in so many different directions that I can't find myself. That's what I told her and she understood that.
She told me I should do what I have to do, to take care of me.
That's a tough one.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Whores and Martians
After my blog on Forgiveness and Judgment, I received a brilliant email from a friend. It was a very well-thought-out, compassionate and knowledgeable email and there were things said in it, that really set me back, made me think.
I spoke with my APRN about it today - gave her a small paraphrase from the email - to which her response was, "She's exactly right." My APRN is fantastic and has experience working with PTSD and DID.
The paraphrase was something like, "If I insisted you were a martian, you would laugh and think I need my head examined. It's the same with words like 'whore' and you have to dig down and find that wounded part of you that believes you're a whore and help heal that part, hold that part, assure that part that it's safe now and she's not a whore."
She said many other wise things. It hurt in some ways - mostly, though, because that "part" (or those "parts") of me, I avoid. I abhor. I don't want to see them. I don't want to hear or feel them. That makes it a bit difficult to embrace them. I guess it's sad to know some parts of me are crying inside, and if I saw someone else - some other child - crying fiercely over their pain - I would embrace them and comfort them but for me, it just feels so disgraceful, even though I know it's an important part of healing.
I've been working on a story. I'm up to about 30,000 words. I've written it in the third person and that keeps me detached from it. I've also fictionalized 80 percent of the first part of it, but it's my story....or at least, the story of a girl I no longer wish to acknowledge but who seems to control my thoughts, reactions, relationships.
Writing the story, brings up a lot but what's missing is the emotional element. I can't connect, can't understand. I can only imagine what she must have felt, what she must have believed.
Judy (my APRN) says it might be good for me to write about these things - the things it brings up. Truth is, I wish I had someone there, who knew what questions to ask.
"What did you feel when this/that happened?"
"What did he/she look like/"
"What was the environment like?"
"How did you respond? Why?"
Because these elements are missing. It is just as if I am telling someone else's story. Exactly like that. Exactly like it's always been. From a distance, looking through a lens at someone else's life and experiences.
It's a dream of mine, to publish this book. God how many times I have started it and never finished. So many unfinished manuscripts. But this one is different. I have avoided it over the past week. I've shared it with four people - it contains some humiliating facts about myself - so I have only shared with a select few and of them, only portions.
It is hard to write. Hard to remember. Hard to connect. Hard to stay focused.
Thank you, my friend, for your email. And RevAli, for your response. It is nice to hear words of wisdom, of healing, of guidance. Sometimes I feel like I'm hanging by a rope over a chasm and it's about to snap and all I can do is cling on and cry.
My relationships are suffering (except with Bill) because of the distance I've put between myself and the outside world. Most recently I suffered a severe epiphany which brought me great pain. Great, great pain and deep shame and I can't even bring myself to write about it. Perhaps one day I will.
For now, I cry almost nightly because of it. More and more shame, piling on.
Seems too much to share, and too much to bear and sometimes I just have to hang onto moments like this weekend when Bill came and forced me to buy a nightgown and robe. It's the first time in ...I don't know how long, I bought something for myself. Something I really wanted. He helped me plant flowers, and bought me some cacti to make a cactus garden in my dining room window box where the heat is too much for anything else. Somehow I have to hold onto those good moments, according to Judy. Let them in, let them permeate me.
I like that idea.
She told me that I have to learn to do this so when I get flooded and overwhelmed, I won't shut down so automatically because that's exactly what I do. I get three text messages at once and I go on auto-pilot. The phone rings and dinner's cooking at the same time, I go on auto-pilot. I have an appointment and the school calls - autopilot.
She said this is something I learned very young and it is now automatic. So automatic that it happens even when I don't realize it. She is right.
I spoke with my APRN about it today - gave her a small paraphrase from the email - to which her response was, "She's exactly right." My APRN is fantastic and has experience working with PTSD and DID.
The paraphrase was something like, "If I insisted you were a martian, you would laugh and think I need my head examined. It's the same with words like 'whore' and you have to dig down and find that wounded part of you that believes you're a whore and help heal that part, hold that part, assure that part that it's safe now and she's not a whore."
She said many other wise things. It hurt in some ways - mostly, though, because that "part" (or those "parts") of me, I avoid. I abhor. I don't want to see them. I don't want to hear or feel them. That makes it a bit difficult to embrace them. I guess it's sad to know some parts of me are crying inside, and if I saw someone else - some other child - crying fiercely over their pain - I would embrace them and comfort them but for me, it just feels so disgraceful, even though I know it's an important part of healing.
I've been working on a story. I'm up to about 30,000 words. I've written it in the third person and that keeps me detached from it. I've also fictionalized 80 percent of the first part of it, but it's my story....or at least, the story of a girl I no longer wish to acknowledge but who seems to control my thoughts, reactions, relationships.
Writing the story, brings up a lot but what's missing is the emotional element. I can't connect, can't understand. I can only imagine what she must have felt, what she must have believed.
Judy (my APRN) says it might be good for me to write about these things - the things it brings up. Truth is, I wish I had someone there, who knew what questions to ask.
"What did you feel when this/that happened?"
"What did he/she look like/"
"What was the environment like?"
"How did you respond? Why?"
Because these elements are missing. It is just as if I am telling someone else's story. Exactly like that. Exactly like it's always been. From a distance, looking through a lens at someone else's life and experiences.
It's a dream of mine, to publish this book. God how many times I have started it and never finished. So many unfinished manuscripts. But this one is different. I have avoided it over the past week. I've shared it with four people - it contains some humiliating facts about myself - so I have only shared with a select few and of them, only portions.
It is hard to write. Hard to remember. Hard to connect. Hard to stay focused.
Thank you, my friend, for your email. And RevAli, for your response. It is nice to hear words of wisdom, of healing, of guidance. Sometimes I feel like I'm hanging by a rope over a chasm and it's about to snap and all I can do is cling on and cry.
My relationships are suffering (except with Bill) because of the distance I've put between myself and the outside world. Most recently I suffered a severe epiphany which brought me great pain. Great, great pain and deep shame and I can't even bring myself to write about it. Perhaps one day I will.
For now, I cry almost nightly because of it. More and more shame, piling on.
Seems too much to share, and too much to bear and sometimes I just have to hang onto moments like this weekend when Bill came and forced me to buy a nightgown and robe. It's the first time in ...I don't know how long, I bought something for myself. Something I really wanted. He helped me plant flowers, and bought me some cacti to make a cactus garden in my dining room window box where the heat is too much for anything else. Somehow I have to hold onto those good moments, according to Judy. Let them in, let them permeate me.
I like that idea.
She told me that I have to learn to do this so when I get flooded and overwhelmed, I won't shut down so automatically because that's exactly what I do. I get three text messages at once and I go on auto-pilot. The phone rings and dinner's cooking at the same time, I go on auto-pilot. I have an appointment and the school calls - autopilot.
She said this is something I learned very young and it is now automatic. So automatic that it happens even when I don't realize it. She is right.
Sunday, April 14, 2013
No Safe Place. Heartless man.
Bill got home earlier than normal last night, after his drive from Coatesville. It was so good to see him. Over the previous 24 hours, I had gone through this sort of emotional awakening that both hurt, and felt good, reveling to me things I secretly hold inside. I don't care, yet, to share, but it was a profound experience and very emotional.
I wasn't really quite sure how I was going to handle seeing him when he walked through the door; just knew I wanted to look into his green eyes. That's all I wanted.
I felt good. I felt safe. We embraced and I felt something I haven't felt since I last felt it with him. It was a closeness and a trust. Something I've never shared with anyone. It was confusing and exhilarating at the same time. Part of me felt alive, trustful and adventurous. I felt like I had when I had met him almost 11 years ago. There was someone here who I knew, who knew me, who I trusted.
At my suggestion, we decided to walk down to the Ivoryton Pub and have a couple of drink before dinner. It's been so long - so long - since we went out anywhere. Finances didn't allow it and time just seems to melt away but we were both excited to get outside the walls of this apartment and explore our new neighborhood.
We went to the pub. Previously, we had questioned whether or not we wanted to go there because they proudly have a rebel flag flapping over their door, next to the American flag so it made us wonder about the clientele. Still, we decided to give it a shot.
We went in and I played a game on the Megatouch. We met the bartender - Donna - and each ordered a Corona with lime. Donna was very pleasant and the atmosphere was friendly. Seemed a lot of people knew a lot of people. We met a guy named Marcus who talked to us briefly about his work at the Ivoryton Playhouse. He was nice.
We went out back for a cigarette -Donna asked one of the waitresses to show us the path leading out to the smoking area- and we had a cigarette. We came back in and put $5 in the jukebox. There was a pretty good selection. We were enjoying ourselves. We ordered two more Corona's as we took our seats at the bar. We accommodated a couple who had come in and needed another stool so we moved down so they could sit together. All-in-all, everything was going swimmingly.
Then, we decided to go have another cigarette.
As we walked down the path towards the smoking area, we passed the kitchen. We paused a moment and I saw George Lincoln. He was a casual friend of mine and Gary's. Nothing close, mind you. I mean I don't recall seeing him at any parties or having him on the boat but we met sometimes when we'd go to the Pattaconk and he was bartending. We felt bad for him when he lost his job there. George was slow, but he was nice. He always knew what Gary wanted to drink so really, he was among those who were Gary's friends, and I was just Gary's girlfriend.
So I said hello to him, told him it was good to see him. Asked him how he was doing. Joked around a little with the kitchen staff, asking what the best thing on the menu was. All told, the interaction was about three or four minutes and I told George, again, that it was good to see him.
We went out and had our cigarette. We came back in.
We sat down and we were going to order one more thing (our music was playing) and Donna suddenly came up to us and said she was told she's not to serve us anything more.
There was no explanation. We asked why. Asked what was wrong.
She said she didn't know, just that the manager had said we weren't to be served anymore.
I knew immediately why.
George.
And Gary.
And his rumors and lies.
I felt so foolish. I had put on make up and dared to venture out, trying to meet new people in the neighborhood, maybe even develop friendships or acquaintances but instead, I was singled out because of vicious lies and rumors by a man who ....oh Don't get me started. I've been very, very kind when it comes to the things I could say and/or do to make his life hell.
But still, the damage he did to my life here - even as I've tried so hard to build something safe and secure for me and Trevor - is irreparable. And he could care less. He thinks it's some big joke. And those who listen, those who believe him, are fools.
He's a cruel, cruel man who did horrible things to me and to my son and like an idiot, I stayed. Some people witnessed it, many did not.
He's very clever.
Up to this point, my fear of going outside, of being seen, of going anywhere, was based on the rumors he told others. Up to this point, it was under my control because if I didn't want to be seen, I didn't have to be. I could lock everyone out, hide. Stay away.
But this one time. God dammit this one time, in my own neighborhood, where I've tried to move on and build a new life and truly heal....
This one time, he brought it into my home. He attacked me through his viciousness and vindictiveness vicariously through his "friends" who believe everything he says.
Well done, Gary. Just remember, I won't ever touch or harm you - I loved you - but karma will, even though you don't believe in it. You believe in nothing, except your own inflated ego and that, too, will destroy you. I needn't do a thing.
We had our two corona's and we left, me crying, sobbing, collapsing, in total disbelief.
Suddenly, this was no longer home.
There's never been home. I've never been home.
I thought I was building a home.
Now I want nothing more than to disappear.
Having my secrets - my past, my issues, my pain - broadcast to every town within 50 miles invades every sense of self I have, which is very little. The work I'm doing to help myself and all the pain I've gone through with every memory and all the things I'm working on for myself, seemed to just be for naught.
Because last night, Gary came back and made sure - vicariously - that I would never belong here. I would never have friends here. I will never belong here.
This will never be home.
Now, more than before, I don't want anyone to see me. I ripped off my necklace and felt so stupid, so stupid. How stupid for me to think I could fit in anywhere. And a rebel-flag-hanging PUB of all places!
I wasn't really quite sure how I was going to handle seeing him when he walked through the door; just knew I wanted to look into his green eyes. That's all I wanted.
I felt good. I felt safe. We embraced and I felt something I haven't felt since I last felt it with him. It was a closeness and a trust. Something I've never shared with anyone. It was confusing and exhilarating at the same time. Part of me felt alive, trustful and adventurous. I felt like I had when I had met him almost 11 years ago. There was someone here who I knew, who knew me, who I trusted.
At my suggestion, we decided to walk down to the Ivoryton Pub and have a couple of drink before dinner. It's been so long - so long - since we went out anywhere. Finances didn't allow it and time just seems to melt away but we were both excited to get outside the walls of this apartment and explore our new neighborhood.
We went to the pub. Previously, we had questioned whether or not we wanted to go there because they proudly have a rebel flag flapping over their door, next to the American flag so it made us wonder about the clientele. Still, we decided to give it a shot.
We went in and I played a game on the Megatouch. We met the bartender - Donna - and each ordered a Corona with lime. Donna was very pleasant and the atmosphere was friendly. Seemed a lot of people knew a lot of people. We met a guy named Marcus who talked to us briefly about his work at the Ivoryton Playhouse. He was nice.
We went out back for a cigarette -Donna asked one of the waitresses to show us the path leading out to the smoking area- and we had a cigarette. We came back in and put $5 in the jukebox. There was a pretty good selection. We were enjoying ourselves. We ordered two more Corona's as we took our seats at the bar. We accommodated a couple who had come in and needed another stool so we moved down so they could sit together. All-in-all, everything was going swimmingly.
Then, we decided to go have another cigarette.
As we walked down the path towards the smoking area, we passed the kitchen. We paused a moment and I saw George Lincoln. He was a casual friend of mine and Gary's. Nothing close, mind you. I mean I don't recall seeing him at any parties or having him on the boat but we met sometimes when we'd go to the Pattaconk and he was bartending. We felt bad for him when he lost his job there. George was slow, but he was nice. He always knew what Gary wanted to drink so really, he was among those who were Gary's friends, and I was just Gary's girlfriend.
So I said hello to him, told him it was good to see him. Asked him how he was doing. Joked around a little with the kitchen staff, asking what the best thing on the menu was. All told, the interaction was about three or four minutes and I told George, again, that it was good to see him.
We went out and had our cigarette. We came back in.
We sat down and we were going to order one more thing (our music was playing) and Donna suddenly came up to us and said she was told she's not to serve us anything more.
There was no explanation. We asked why. Asked what was wrong.
She said she didn't know, just that the manager had said we weren't to be served anymore.
I knew immediately why.
George.
And Gary.
And his rumors and lies.
I felt so foolish. I had put on make up and dared to venture out, trying to meet new people in the neighborhood, maybe even develop friendships or acquaintances but instead, I was singled out because of vicious lies and rumors by a man who ....oh Don't get me started. I've been very, very kind when it comes to the things I could say and/or do to make his life hell.
But still, the damage he did to my life here - even as I've tried so hard to build something safe and secure for me and Trevor - is irreparable. And he could care less. He thinks it's some big joke. And those who listen, those who believe him, are fools.
He's a cruel, cruel man who did horrible things to me and to my son and like an idiot, I stayed. Some people witnessed it, many did not.
He's very clever.
Up to this point, my fear of going outside, of being seen, of going anywhere, was based on the rumors he told others. Up to this point, it was under my control because if I didn't want to be seen, I didn't have to be. I could lock everyone out, hide. Stay away.
But this one time. God dammit this one time, in my own neighborhood, where I've tried to move on and build a new life and truly heal....
This one time, he brought it into my home. He attacked me through his viciousness and vindictiveness vicariously through his "friends" who believe everything he says.
Well done, Gary. Just remember, I won't ever touch or harm you - I loved you - but karma will, even though you don't believe in it. You believe in nothing, except your own inflated ego and that, too, will destroy you. I needn't do a thing.
We had our two corona's and we left, me crying, sobbing, collapsing, in total disbelief.
Suddenly, this was no longer home.
There's never been home. I've never been home.
I thought I was building a home.
Now I want nothing more than to disappear.
Having my secrets - my past, my issues, my pain - broadcast to every town within 50 miles invades every sense of self I have, which is very little. The work I'm doing to help myself and all the pain I've gone through with every memory and all the things I'm working on for myself, seemed to just be for naught.
Because last night, Gary came back and made sure - vicariously - that I would never belong here. I would never have friends here. I will never belong here.
This will never be home.
Now, more than before, I don't want anyone to see me. I ripped off my necklace and felt so stupid, so stupid. How stupid for me to think I could fit in anywhere. And a rebel-flag-hanging PUB of all places!
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
Wanting to cut
My name is Cristina Johnson.
I can't stop rocking. i am surrounded by things...things... things...
The dresser is Broyhill. As is the nightstand. Top-of-the-line, I suppose.
Snowball, the polydactyl cat, sits on my dresser, staring at me Behind her is a mirror and dangling necklaces and bracelets that I never asked for and, which, never suited me.
I am not suited for jewelry.
I've talked to several people tonight, trying to ground myself. I came here - to my writing refuge -hoping to relieve myself of this need for self-punishment, but so far, it hasn't worked.
Howie, Bill, Cindy, Hannah........ well, not Bill, reallyk. He's tired. He works a lot.
I cut myself a lot. I injure myself a lot. But I am careful about it. I protect my youngest son from it.l
He doesn't want to know any more than what he asks and that works for me. In fact, if I try or wanted to explain to him about my past he doesn't want to hear it. Same as my daughter.
Perhaps that is right.
It is unfortunate that my oldest knows so much.
Tonight I want to cut so badly. So badly.
People wonder why. They can't fathom why one would cut themselves, harm themselves, starve or binge themselves.
It serves so many purposes.
To be alive. To see your own blood, means you're alive. To suffer, means you're alive. To hurt yourself, means you are alive.
Even if, inside (or, perhaps because inside) you feel dead.
Proof that you're alive...............
I can't stop rocking. i am surrounded by things...things... things...
The dresser is Broyhill. As is the nightstand. Top-of-the-line, I suppose.
Snowball, the polydactyl cat, sits on my dresser, staring at me Behind her is a mirror and dangling necklaces and bracelets that I never asked for and, which, never suited me.
I am not suited for jewelry.
I've talked to several people tonight, trying to ground myself. I came here - to my writing refuge -hoping to relieve myself of this need for self-punishment, but so far, it hasn't worked.
Howie, Bill, Cindy, Hannah........ well, not Bill, reallyk. He's tired. He works a lot.
I cut myself a lot. I injure myself a lot. But I am careful about it. I protect my youngest son from it.l
He doesn't want to know any more than what he asks and that works for me. In fact, if I try or wanted to explain to him about my past he doesn't want to hear it. Same as my daughter.
Perhaps that is right.
It is unfortunate that my oldest knows so much.
Tonight I want to cut so badly. So badly.
People wonder why. They can't fathom why one would cut themselves, harm themselves, starve or binge themselves.
It serves so many purposes.
To be alive. To see your own blood, means you're alive. To suffer, means you're alive. To hurt yourself, means you are alive.
Even if, inside (or, perhaps because inside) you feel dead.
Proof that you're alive...............
Is DID bullshit?
My name is Cristina Johnson.
Last night was the first good night's sleep I've gotten in weeks.
I have tried guided meditations, hypnotic sleep meditations, binaural waves, and Schumann resonance. I have done everything to avoid taking the Trazadone (50 mg) I was prescribed.
Still nothing has really worked. Anxiety is the problem. It keeps me awake. I wish it were easy to describe. Maybe to a mother. They would understand that irrational jolt of anxiety that goes through you as you imagine the worst case scenarios a thousand times in your mind, within milliseconds.
Laying in bed at night, that's what it's like. Like electricity; A bolt of lightening and you have to, once again, try to focus...focus on the breath...count the breaths....hold your breath and count...and release...
And it works, until the next bolt of lightening.
Oh God I have no money. Oh God I have to leave the house tomorrow. Oh God my rent is due. Oh god I need a spare tire. Oh god the cat has worms. Oh god, what will I do for dinners next week? Oh god what if that taxi cab driver comes back to my apartment and breaks in and rapes me?
One after another after another, it's like someone hitting you on the base of your skull with a two-by-four; it doesn't knock you out, but stuns you and you have to take several minutes to gather your bearings. (Trust me, I know what it feels like).
So I was grateful for one good night's sleep. I had no dreams that I recall. A blessing.
Probably because yesterday I saw a new "provider" - as they call them in my insurance network - who was supposed to be specifically for medication management but who, surprisingly, was familiar with - and had even worked with - people with DID.
Nothing was barred as I grit my teeth and ground in my heels against the diagnosis. "It's bullshit," I told her. "Can't be. It's bullshit. I just think it's bullshit."
She then gently told me of her first experience dealing with a DID client. She had been in training at the time. She's had several such clients since.
She told me the typical DID case is the result of repeated, prolonged trauma before age 5.
Well, that suits me.
But still I wanted to kick and scream.
And yet....
I was validated.
"It's clear you have PTSD," she said.
Yeah I have heard that before. My entire life.
But I managed it.
DID....well that's different. It's crazy. It's nuts. It's insane.
Right?
I left feeling achingly validated but still confused.
She wants me to see a specialist who specializes in cases like mine: a history of complex trauma.
I'm open to it, but not holding my breath. My insurance is state insurance and most "specialists" don't take my insurance. I can't even walk outside. God. How could I go to work?
Actually the truth is: I could go to work.
I would work my ass off, make a great impression, be the best person on the job. And it would last - maximum - six months. Such as is my history.
Oh man it seems I don't even know myself.
I don't know.
It's just ....KIND OF nice to be validated. Again. Even though she didn't diagnose me with DID, she said she wanted to do further analyses. I'm okay with that, if skeptical. Over the past few weeks, I have dismissed DID as a diagnosis, despite the multiple times I was diagnosed with it but you must understand it was a psychological "rage" in the 80's and early 90's so I disregarded the first time. The second time I tried keeping an open mind. Still;.... Still... Ugh....
Online, some of the support groups and message boards and discussion groups I joined....the members just seem to jump right in and say, "Hi, My name is <so-and-so> and I have <three-five-ten-20..._> alters. My youngest is "Jimmy" (or Jamie or Annie or whatever) and they like ...ice cream...teddy bears....IDK..... who fucking knows but it's like they just take this horrid, horrid Dx and embrace it and run with it. Like it's an excuse to be crazy. Am I crazy? Are they crazy?
I mean yeah crazy shit happens to me but I'm not a dangerous psychotic.- except perhaps to myself at times - but I can't imagine ever hurting anyone else. Ever.
DID. Crazy shit.
My current therapist - the one who I vaguely remember saying (through a haze) - "You don't have PTSD," is a struggle.
It makes me wonder how much of anything I have ever told her, she believes.
The fear of any child, I suppose, who has been molested. I can't tell because nobody will believe me.
I feel that coming from Michelle. Irrational or not.
Just like I told my latest appointment for med management - Judy.
"I may cognitively know that my reactions are irrational, but something is broken - something broke - and I can't un-break it. I don't know how to not break it."
Her response:
"I would imagine that's always been the case for you. I would imagine you always shut down and shut out."
It was good to be understood, even if I don't understand it myself.
Judy was confident and calm. She seemed to know what she was talking about and dealing with. Even told me about her first encounter with DID. I listened but....still leary.
Sometimes I miss Gary....times like these. Times when someone steps in who understands and who may be able to give him insight. Maybe...maybe then he would have understood. Maybe then he wouldn't have done the things he did. Maybe then, he would still love me.
Then again, maybe he never did.
Maybe he simply can't love.
I don't know.
I saw his name again on Facebook the other day. For three days I was reeling...nearly de-friended the person who posted it. Not because she did anything wrong but because I can't see his name. I can't bear it. I am terrified of seeing him. I saw a white van the other day.... I panicked.
I hurt him.
But oh... Oh he hurt me so badly. Intelligent. God he's so intelligent and yet, so stupid. So foolish. Uneducated and uniformed.
And I love him.
And I love Bill.....
Bill is gone now. He's in PA working. Helping as much as he can.
I asked my adoptive mother the other day, after Bill left to go back to his little motel room, "Why does he do this stuff for me?"
"Because he loves you," she said.
And I just can't wrap my head around "why."
Why?
Why?
I watched a movie the other night called "Gardens Of The Night" and at one point the girl - stolen and sold into sexual trade, trained to believe her parents had abandoned her and were dead - was told her parents were alive and wanted her. She said: "They don't want me...they can't want me...you don't understand...I've done such horrible things..."
I cried...
I know that feeling.
How can anyone love me? Nobody knows all the "dirty."
Nobody.
Perhaps nobody ever will.
So confused.
Last night was the first good night's sleep I've gotten in weeks.
I have tried guided meditations, hypnotic sleep meditations, binaural waves, and Schumann resonance. I have done everything to avoid taking the Trazadone (50 mg) I was prescribed.
Still nothing has really worked. Anxiety is the problem. It keeps me awake. I wish it were easy to describe. Maybe to a mother. They would understand that irrational jolt of anxiety that goes through you as you imagine the worst case scenarios a thousand times in your mind, within milliseconds.
Laying in bed at night, that's what it's like. Like electricity; A bolt of lightening and you have to, once again, try to focus...focus on the breath...count the breaths....hold your breath and count...and release...
And it works, until the next bolt of lightening.
Oh God I have no money. Oh God I have to leave the house tomorrow. Oh God my rent is due. Oh god I need a spare tire. Oh god the cat has worms. Oh god, what will I do for dinners next week? Oh god what if that taxi cab driver comes back to my apartment and breaks in and rapes me?
One after another after another, it's like someone hitting you on the base of your skull with a two-by-four; it doesn't knock you out, but stuns you and you have to take several minutes to gather your bearings. (Trust me, I know what it feels like).
So I was grateful for one good night's sleep. I had no dreams that I recall. A blessing.
Probably because yesterday I saw a new "provider" - as they call them in my insurance network - who was supposed to be specifically for medication management but who, surprisingly, was familiar with - and had even worked with - people with DID.
Nothing was barred as I grit my teeth and ground in my heels against the diagnosis. "It's bullshit," I told her. "Can't be. It's bullshit. I just think it's bullshit."
She then gently told me of her first experience dealing with a DID client. She had been in training at the time. She's had several such clients since.
She told me the typical DID case is the result of repeated, prolonged trauma before age 5.
Well, that suits me.
But still I wanted to kick and scream.
And yet....
I was validated.
"It's clear you have PTSD," she said.
Yeah I have heard that before. My entire life.
But I managed it.
DID....well that's different. It's crazy. It's nuts. It's insane.
Right?
I left feeling achingly validated but still confused.
She wants me to see a specialist who specializes in cases like mine: a history of complex trauma.
I'm open to it, but not holding my breath. My insurance is state insurance and most "specialists" don't take my insurance. I can't even walk outside. God. How could I go to work?
Actually the truth is: I could go to work.
I would work my ass off, make a great impression, be the best person on the job. And it would last - maximum - six months. Such as is my history.
Oh man it seems I don't even know myself.
I don't know.
It's just ....KIND OF nice to be validated. Again. Even though she didn't diagnose me with DID, she said she wanted to do further analyses. I'm okay with that, if skeptical. Over the past few weeks, I have dismissed DID as a diagnosis, despite the multiple times I was diagnosed with it but you must understand it was a psychological "rage" in the 80's and early 90's so I disregarded the first time. The second time I tried keeping an open mind. Still;.... Still... Ugh....
Online, some of the support groups and message boards and discussion groups I joined....the members just seem to jump right in and say, "Hi, My name is <so-and-so> and I have <three-five-ten-20..._> alters. My youngest is "Jimmy" (or Jamie or Annie or whatever) and they like ...ice cream...teddy bears....IDK..... who fucking knows but it's like they just take this horrid, horrid Dx and embrace it and run with it. Like it's an excuse to be crazy. Am I crazy? Are they crazy?
I mean yeah crazy shit happens to me but I'm not a dangerous psychotic.- except perhaps to myself at times - but I can't imagine ever hurting anyone else. Ever.
DID. Crazy shit.
My current therapist - the one who I vaguely remember saying (through a haze) - "You don't have PTSD," is a struggle.
It makes me wonder how much of anything I have ever told her, she believes.
The fear of any child, I suppose, who has been molested. I can't tell because nobody will believe me.
I feel that coming from Michelle. Irrational or not.
Just like I told my latest appointment for med management - Judy.
"I may cognitively know that my reactions are irrational, but something is broken - something broke - and I can't un-break it. I don't know how to not break it."
Her response:
"I would imagine that's always been the case for you. I would imagine you always shut down and shut out."
It was good to be understood, even if I don't understand it myself.
Judy was confident and calm. She seemed to know what she was talking about and dealing with. Even told me about her first encounter with DID. I listened but....still leary.
Sometimes I miss Gary....times like these. Times when someone steps in who understands and who may be able to give him insight. Maybe...maybe then he would have understood. Maybe then he wouldn't have done the things he did. Maybe then, he would still love me.
Then again, maybe he never did.
Maybe he simply can't love.
I don't know.
I saw his name again on Facebook the other day. For three days I was reeling...nearly de-friended the person who posted it. Not because she did anything wrong but because I can't see his name. I can't bear it. I am terrified of seeing him. I saw a white van the other day.... I panicked.
I hurt him.
But oh... Oh he hurt me so badly. Intelligent. God he's so intelligent and yet, so stupid. So foolish. Uneducated and uniformed.
And I love him.
And I love Bill.....
Bill is gone now. He's in PA working. Helping as much as he can.
I asked my adoptive mother the other day, after Bill left to go back to his little motel room, "Why does he do this stuff for me?"
"Because he loves you," she said.
And I just can't wrap my head around "why."
Why?
Why?
I watched a movie the other night called "Gardens Of The Night" and at one point the girl - stolen and sold into sexual trade, trained to believe her parents had abandoned her and were dead - was told her parents were alive and wanted her. She said: "They don't want me...they can't want me...you don't understand...I've done such horrible things..."
I cried...
I know that feeling.
How can anyone love me? Nobody knows all the "dirty."
Nobody.
Perhaps nobody ever will.
So confused.
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
Reality
I haven't written much lately. Been in a really bad place.
I went to see someone to help me with med management. For those unfamiliar, med management is someone you go to who helps you get your prescriptions and helps you figure out which ones you need. I am very proactive in my treatment and I know what works for me and what doesn't. Problem is, for me, seeing someone new always sends me reeling.
So this last woman we went to see was horrendous. She was horrible. She told me I could die from sudden cessation of clonazepam (klonopin) and I knew that was bullshit. I had stopped taking it weeks before and had no problems. I was just anxious, as usual.
I told her I did not want any psychotropic drugs nor anti-depressants. I am not psychotic nor depressed. The anxiety and insomnia are my killers.
My anxiety gets so bad that it's hard to concentrate on anything and if you give me more than two things at once, I am overwhelmed and shut down and at times will go straight into (a) panic or (b) shut-down. Sometimes both, though not at the same time.
That said, and despite how horrendous this woman was, after two weeks of total hell, I decided to look up the side effects of sudden cessation of klonopin, despite my own experience. I was dumbfounded.
I was taking 1mg up to four times per day, as needed. Sometimes - some days - I didn't need any. Some days I needed more. It's a PRN medication (PRN meaning "as needed"). Same with the trazadone I have been taking for sleep. .5 mg
After about two or three weeks without the clonazepam, my anxiety shot through the roof. Everything became unbearably loud. People talking. Bumps from upstairs (where Trevor plays his games). Doors slamming. Even my own footsteps on the staircase. It was like I was trying desperately to be invisible. I couldn't handle any stimuli. It was too much.
Now I am in a quandary. There is literally nobody else who can help me with my medication management and I find myself again with only a week and a half supply. I can stretch it because, like I said, I don't need it every day as prescribed; sometimes only once a day. Sometimes five times a day - if I am unable to sleep.
The last three weeks have been hell.
I am on the fence as to whether or not I am grateful to have the clonazepam again. I mean yes, it helps me but .....when I wasn't on it, I was experiencing very deep, extremely profound pain and memories and nightmares. I was utterly dysfunctional and unreachable. Is it good to shut that down? Isn't that a part of going through the healing process?
I just don't know.
I've never been a proponent of medications but I have had to admit over the past couple years that it serves a purpose, as long as the purpose it serves, is being served.
For the first time in awhile, I feel uninformed and helpless.
I went to see someone to help me with med management. For those unfamiliar, med management is someone you go to who helps you get your prescriptions and helps you figure out which ones you need. I am very proactive in my treatment and I know what works for me and what doesn't. Problem is, for me, seeing someone new always sends me reeling.
So this last woman we went to see was horrendous. She was horrible. She told me I could die from sudden cessation of clonazepam (klonopin) and I knew that was bullshit. I had stopped taking it weeks before and had no problems. I was just anxious, as usual.
I told her I did not want any psychotropic drugs nor anti-depressants. I am not psychotic nor depressed. The anxiety and insomnia are my killers.
My anxiety gets so bad that it's hard to concentrate on anything and if you give me more than two things at once, I am overwhelmed and shut down and at times will go straight into (a) panic or (b) shut-down. Sometimes both, though not at the same time.
That said, and despite how horrendous this woman was, after two weeks of total hell, I decided to look up the side effects of sudden cessation of klonopin, despite my own experience. I was dumbfounded.
I was taking 1mg up to four times per day, as needed. Sometimes - some days - I didn't need any. Some days I needed more. It's a PRN medication (PRN meaning "as needed"). Same with the trazadone I have been taking for sleep. .5 mg
After about two or three weeks without the clonazepam, my anxiety shot through the roof. Everything became unbearably loud. People talking. Bumps from upstairs (where Trevor plays his games). Doors slamming. Even my own footsteps on the staircase. It was like I was trying desperately to be invisible. I couldn't handle any stimuli. It was too much.
Now I am in a quandary. There is literally nobody else who can help me with my medication management and I find myself again with only a week and a half supply. I can stretch it because, like I said, I don't need it every day as prescribed; sometimes only once a day. Sometimes five times a day - if I am unable to sleep.
The last three weeks have been hell.
I am on the fence as to whether or not I am grateful to have the clonazepam again. I mean yes, it helps me but .....when I wasn't on it, I was experiencing very deep, extremely profound pain and memories and nightmares. I was utterly dysfunctional and unreachable. Is it good to shut that down? Isn't that a part of going through the healing process?
I just don't know.
I've never been a proponent of medications but I have had to admit over the past couple years that it serves a purpose, as long as the purpose it serves, is being served.
For the first time in awhile, I feel uninformed and helpless.
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Anxiety
My name is Cristina D. Johnson.
I heard a term on a t.v. show that I looked up yesterday: Rape Trauma Syndrome.I read something that struck me immediately: "pronounced internal tremor."
I was knocked aback. I have described this before as feeling as if "my bones were shaking" - it was relieving to see there's a name for it, and an apt one, at that.
My anxiety has gone through the roof and has made me, at times, completely dysfunctional. The only option for me, for medications, is to go to the emergency room....which causes me huge anxiety. How ironic.
My therapist says the reason I don't find benzos (benzodiazapines) addictive, is because of the level of my anxiety. Rather than "getting high" from them -as I know some do - it brings my anxiety level to a manageable point so I don't feel any affects, other than that, which is why I am able to take them PRN.
I have always been an opponent of medications and, even therapy.
But my anxiety levels have gotten so bad that I have spent days at a time holed up and terrified. Now, I cannot tolerate touch - I can't even tolerate the touch of a door frame if I walk through a door. I have to be careful not to touch it. Every touch, it feels as if my all my cells are screaming, "DON'T TOUCH ME!"
The anxiety manifests itself in other, more troubling physical ways but I won't go into it because it is embarrassing and I don't understand it. It is frightening.
I have been listening to a guided meditation nightly for about two or three weeks (I believe). I have to wonder if - because of this meditation - my mind is opening to levels of memory and awareness as I sleep. I like this particular one because - even though it claims to be for abundance - it is really about awareness and moving forward. I like this.
But I wonder if it hasn't opened some windows and doors in my mind because the symptoms I am experiencing have really intensified over the past couple weeks. It's hard to say because it collaborates with the timing of extreme stress and having no anti-anxiety medications.
So perhaps it is a combination. Who knows.
Regardless the cause, the memories and anxiety, sleeplessness and nightmares, are debilitating.
The meditation works well to help me sleep, although it doesn't help me stay asleep.
Today I awoke (again), feeling as wound as a guitar string. It is difficult to function because such high anxiety causes physical exhaustion, but my mind won't stop spinning or slow down so I can't sleep. Everything is amplified. I am so damn tired.
I have to go out today - it's laundry day. I wish I had a dryer. Then I could do the laundry here. Ugh.
My anxiety shoots up on Sundays, Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays. It's not the typical "oh brother, it's Monday again," kind of thing. It's a dread that I can't even describe. It's a fear; it's a hope that I can make it through another four days of high-anxiety and high-stress. When Thursdays come, I relax more, but it is still very difficult.
I will be glad when I am through this.
I heard a term on a t.v. show that I looked up yesterday: Rape Trauma Syndrome.I read something that struck me immediately: "pronounced internal tremor."
I was knocked aback. I have described this before as feeling as if "my bones were shaking" - it was relieving to see there's a name for it, and an apt one, at that.
My anxiety has gone through the roof and has made me, at times, completely dysfunctional. The only option for me, for medications, is to go to the emergency room....which causes me huge anxiety. How ironic.
My therapist says the reason I don't find benzos (benzodiazapines) addictive, is because of the level of my anxiety. Rather than "getting high" from them -as I know some do - it brings my anxiety level to a manageable point so I don't feel any affects, other than that, which is why I am able to take them PRN.
I have always been an opponent of medications and, even therapy.
But my anxiety levels have gotten so bad that I have spent days at a time holed up and terrified. Now, I cannot tolerate touch - I can't even tolerate the touch of a door frame if I walk through a door. I have to be careful not to touch it. Every touch, it feels as if my all my cells are screaming, "DON'T TOUCH ME!"
The anxiety manifests itself in other, more troubling physical ways but I won't go into it because it is embarrassing and I don't understand it. It is frightening.
I have been listening to a guided meditation nightly for about two or three weeks (I believe). I have to wonder if - because of this meditation - my mind is opening to levels of memory and awareness as I sleep. I like this particular one because - even though it claims to be for abundance - it is really about awareness and moving forward. I like this.
But I wonder if it hasn't opened some windows and doors in my mind because the symptoms I am experiencing have really intensified over the past couple weeks. It's hard to say because it collaborates with the timing of extreme stress and having no anti-anxiety medications.
So perhaps it is a combination. Who knows.
Regardless the cause, the memories and anxiety, sleeplessness and nightmares, are debilitating.
The meditation works well to help me sleep, although it doesn't help me stay asleep.
Today I awoke (again), feeling as wound as a guitar string. It is difficult to function because such high anxiety causes physical exhaustion, but my mind won't stop spinning or slow down so I can't sleep. Everything is amplified. I am so damn tired.
I have to go out today - it's laundry day. I wish I had a dryer. Then I could do the laundry here. Ugh.
My anxiety shoots up on Sundays, Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays. It's not the typical "oh brother, it's Monday again," kind of thing. It's a dread that I can't even describe. It's a fear; it's a hope that I can make it through another four days of high-anxiety and high-stress. When Thursdays come, I relax more, but it is still very difficult.
I will be glad when I am through this.
Thursday, February 21, 2013
Ouch...
My name is Cristina D. Johnson.
Today was a tough, tough day.
I even considered voluntary hospitalization today because I was so afraid and because I literally felt as if I was losing my mind. For those who know me, this would tell them I was in a really bad place today. Hospitalization is an abhorrence of mine. I have been traumatized via hospitalization too many times to count. To consider it voluntarily, is like moving the Lincoln Monument.
Today, I came up here - to my writing room - and I cried. I came up here so nobody would hear me and because there was nowhere else to go. I felt ashamed. Today I came up here and I cried a deep, aching cry. I needed Michelle. I dialed her number several times and hung up. Finally, up here, I dialed it one last time and I heard her voice - her voicemail - and I left a message.
Although I felt such shame for such a heart-wrenching cry, I calmed a little after hearing her voice, even if only a recording.
Yesterday's session left me rattled and shaken. Today, I watched Law and Order, Special Victims Unit, Season 9, Episode 15.
That was it.
I have never, ever had a problem watching violence and rape in movies. I mean, there are some things that are too grotesque for me to watch, but violence and rape, I have always been able to handle. It's never made me emotional.
But this episode, well...it was chock full of triggers.
rape
child of the system
arrested for drugs without actually being involved
abuse of authority
lock up
orange jumpsuits
big, thick, brass keys
woods
machete's
the showers
I can't even describe how many things were there...how true this episode is to the experience.
However, that said, I watched the whole episode untouched, unmoved.
Disconnected.
Until the end. The very end.
The victim - an SVU detective - is asked, directly, "Did he rape you?"
and my soul felt like it was shot out of a canon into and through moments in time...dozens or hundreds of times when I couldn't answer that question.
The assault scene was difficult, but I managed it.
It wasn't until that question was asked: "Did he rape you?" that I was hurled into a blackened, charred history of uncertainty, childishness and terror.
And I felt it.
For the first time in my life, I felt these bizarre feelings. These intense emotions and I was bombarded with the question of "Why?"
Why? Why? Why?
I think about others and I think about children and child abuse and I am astonished by what is done to them but never have I been able to look at myself and feel, "Wow, that hurt. Ouch."
I wish I had written earlier but my mind was shattered. I wish I could have seen Michelle earlier. I wish I could have talked to her. I was riddled with emotions that were pulling me so deep, so deep. Deep into something I have never felt and it frightened me.
Bill and I talked the other night about how frightening out-of-body-experiences (OBE's) are, and it was like that today. Exactly like that. I felt like I was losing myself. Drowning. I couldn't see. I couldn't think. Every bump made me jolt in my seat. I was terrified. I fantasized about going to my neighbor, going anywhere...but then it felt like my body was tied down to an anchor and I couldn't move. I was crushed and crushing...I was immobile and absolutely confused and terrified.
I ran through my mind so many different times in my past. Was that rape? Was this rape? Was it rape if I didn't say no? I didn't say "no" because I knew I couldn't say no, but does that mean yes? Is that rape? If he didn't penetrate me, is that rape? Did I ever fight back that hard?
I bent my brain desperately reaching for memories, trying to recall moments when I fought. There are times when I know I did. Times I remember.
The man who nearly strangled me to death. I remember I must have fought because he wouldn't have strangled me if I hadn't fought, right? I don't remember how I came to be at the place where we were. Was it a motel? An apartment? I don't remember a kitchen. I remember the television and the nightstand and the rotary phone. I am confused. I thought - because I was street smart - that he was one of those that was full of piss and wind and he wouldn't kill me. I could mock and intimidate him. I could beat him at his game and he wouldn't hurt me.
I thought...
But he almost killed me.
In the end, he didn't (obviously) and in the end, I was right: he was malleable. I remember laying there - I was around 13 - and he was limp, flacid. Pre-semen hung like sinew from the head of his dark penis and I knew he was infected. I made fun of him and told him he couldn't rape me because he couldn't even get it up because he was diseased. I knew, somehow, this would work.
And it did.
I remember I tricked him. I convinced him that I cared about him and that I would come back when he had healed himself of his disease. Probably syphilis or gonorrhea. These were rampant in those days.
And...I remember that I fought the men off who attacked me when I slept.
Did I scream? I don't remember.
I know as one sat on my chest, his testicles against my neck and he kept trying to shove his penis in my mouth, the rest were ripping off my clothes and I was kicking and fighting and I didn't mean to but I kicked on in the nuts and he said to me, "Don't ever kick my nuts you white bitch!" and he slammed me in the mouth with his fist. They threw me out into the snow and I was wearing very little. I was frozen. I was 12 or 13.
I must've fought, right?
There must've been sometime in the past when I fought....
I said "no" to Daddy twice...twice...
The first time, he hurt me sexually. The second time, he smothered and choked me.
Did I learn to not say no?
I am so confused and hurt and bewildered.
The feelings I felt as I sobbed, briefly, today...I should say "allowed myself to sob" today...
These feelings were too much. Too hard.
Too much.
I wished Michelle were here. I wished she could see it so she could tell me what was happening.
I wished I could just do it all right then in that moment. I thought, god please let this be all I need to feel, to heal.
But I knew - and I know - that wasn't it.
There is more.
I shut it down. I am good at that.
This pain...this is worse than anything I have ever known, yet it is the track on which my train travels and I cannot move forward, without the track.
I won't get off track. I may stop or stall, but I will not get off.
It kills me - some part of me felt stolen today - but I will stay on track.
I will do this. God help me, I will.
Today was a tough, tough day.
I even considered voluntary hospitalization today because I was so afraid and because I literally felt as if I was losing my mind. For those who know me, this would tell them I was in a really bad place today. Hospitalization is an abhorrence of mine. I have been traumatized via hospitalization too many times to count. To consider it voluntarily, is like moving the Lincoln Monument.
Today, I came up here - to my writing room - and I cried. I came up here so nobody would hear me and because there was nowhere else to go. I felt ashamed. Today I came up here and I cried a deep, aching cry. I needed Michelle. I dialed her number several times and hung up. Finally, up here, I dialed it one last time and I heard her voice - her voicemail - and I left a message.
Although I felt such shame for such a heart-wrenching cry, I calmed a little after hearing her voice, even if only a recording.
Yesterday's session left me rattled and shaken. Today, I watched Law and Order, Special Victims Unit, Season 9, Episode 15.
That was it.
I have never, ever had a problem watching violence and rape in movies. I mean, there are some things that are too grotesque for me to watch, but violence and rape, I have always been able to handle. It's never made me emotional.
But this episode, well...it was chock full of triggers.
rape
child of the system
arrested for drugs without actually being involved
abuse of authority
lock up
orange jumpsuits
big, thick, brass keys
woods
machete's
the showers
I can't even describe how many things were there...how true this episode is to the experience.
However, that said, I watched the whole episode untouched, unmoved.
Disconnected.
Until the end. The very end.
The victim - an SVU detective - is asked, directly, "Did he rape you?"
and my soul felt like it was shot out of a canon into and through moments in time...dozens or hundreds of times when I couldn't answer that question.
The assault scene was difficult, but I managed it.
It wasn't until that question was asked: "Did he rape you?" that I was hurled into a blackened, charred history of uncertainty, childishness and terror.
And I felt it.
For the first time in my life, I felt these bizarre feelings. These intense emotions and I was bombarded with the question of "Why?"
Why? Why? Why?
I think about others and I think about children and child abuse and I am astonished by what is done to them but never have I been able to look at myself and feel, "Wow, that hurt. Ouch."
I wish I had written earlier but my mind was shattered. I wish I could have seen Michelle earlier. I wish I could have talked to her. I was riddled with emotions that were pulling me so deep, so deep. Deep into something I have never felt and it frightened me.
Bill and I talked the other night about how frightening out-of-body-experiences (OBE's) are, and it was like that today. Exactly like that. I felt like I was losing myself. Drowning. I couldn't see. I couldn't think. Every bump made me jolt in my seat. I was terrified. I fantasized about going to my neighbor, going anywhere...but then it felt like my body was tied down to an anchor and I couldn't move. I was crushed and crushing...I was immobile and absolutely confused and terrified.
I ran through my mind so many different times in my past. Was that rape? Was this rape? Was it rape if I didn't say no? I didn't say "no" because I knew I couldn't say no, but does that mean yes? Is that rape? If he didn't penetrate me, is that rape? Did I ever fight back that hard?
I bent my brain desperately reaching for memories, trying to recall moments when I fought. There are times when I know I did. Times I remember.
The man who nearly strangled me to death. I remember I must have fought because he wouldn't have strangled me if I hadn't fought, right? I don't remember how I came to be at the place where we were. Was it a motel? An apartment? I don't remember a kitchen. I remember the television and the nightstand and the rotary phone. I am confused. I thought - because I was street smart - that he was one of those that was full of piss and wind and he wouldn't kill me. I could mock and intimidate him. I could beat him at his game and he wouldn't hurt me.
I thought...
But he almost killed me.
In the end, he didn't (obviously) and in the end, I was right: he was malleable. I remember laying there - I was around 13 - and he was limp, flacid. Pre-semen hung like sinew from the head of his dark penis and I knew he was infected. I made fun of him and told him he couldn't rape me because he couldn't even get it up because he was diseased. I knew, somehow, this would work.
And it did.
I remember I tricked him. I convinced him that I cared about him and that I would come back when he had healed himself of his disease. Probably syphilis or gonorrhea. These were rampant in those days.
And...I remember that I fought the men off who attacked me when I slept.
Did I scream? I don't remember.
I know as one sat on my chest, his testicles against my neck and he kept trying to shove his penis in my mouth, the rest were ripping off my clothes and I was kicking and fighting and I didn't mean to but I kicked on in the nuts and he said to me, "Don't ever kick my nuts you white bitch!" and he slammed me in the mouth with his fist. They threw me out into the snow and I was wearing very little. I was frozen. I was 12 or 13.
I must've fought, right?
There must've been sometime in the past when I fought....
I said "no" to Daddy twice...twice...
The first time, he hurt me sexually. The second time, he smothered and choked me.
Did I learn to not say no?
I am so confused and hurt and bewildered.
The feelings I felt as I sobbed, briefly, today...I should say "allowed myself to sob" today...
These feelings were too much. Too hard.
Too much.
I wished Michelle were here. I wished she could see it so she could tell me what was happening.
I wished I could just do it all right then in that moment. I thought, god please let this be all I need to feel, to heal.
But I knew - and I know - that wasn't it.
There is more.
I shut it down. I am good at that.
This pain...this is worse than anything I have ever known, yet it is the track on which my train travels and I cannot move forward, without the track.
I won't get off track. I may stop or stall, but I will not get off.
It kills me - some part of me felt stolen today - but I will stay on track.
I will do this. God help me, I will.
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
Where Did the Time Go?
My name is Cristina D. Johnson.
It's been a really tough few weeks. It's actually been a rough two months but the last couple weeks have been particularly hard, despite some help I have received and am grateful for.
Still, I cannot control how my (using the word "my" loosely) mind will respond to these things. At least, so it seems.
Session today. I know I saw Michelle last week.
I couldn't tell you when, if I didn't know our sessions are regularly on Mondays and Thursdays. I don't remember the last time I saw her. Today was an anomaly because of a scheduling conflict she had which happens sometimes. Not often, but sometimes.
I almost cancelled today's appointment because I am completely disconnected from everything which means, nothing is wrong. This sounds contrary to what I mentioned in the opening of this entry, but the thing is I have shut down and nothing is emotionally affecting me so I need no therapy. I told her I almost cancelled because I didn't want to waste her time. I literally had nothing to complain or talk about.
I mean, I had updates and told her things I've done because I needed to see them get done, but Michelle even admittedly had a hard time navigating this session. She didn't know "who" she was talking to. She was trying to determine what was going on and I was at a loss, until she started telling me things.
Apparently last week I had a very emotional session wherein I told Michelle I didn't know if I could continue therapy and dealing with these emotions.
I don't remember this. I only vaguely remember a little bit about a very intense session not long ago, but I don't know when it was. When she said "well, last week we had a pretty tough session," I stared up at the ceiling, stared out the window, very disconnected, tried so hard to remember, and that's when I realized I didn't remember anything. This is truly an earth-rattling thing. So I really wracked my brain, trying...trying... Oh God I can't remember...what happened last week? What do I remember about last week?
This led me to the realization that it wasn't just the sessions last week that I don't recall, but the entire week last week. I don't remember anything. Thinking back, the first thing I remember is Saturday and pieces since then but nothing last week. Not one single moment.
This is where my DID diagnosis makes me angry, makes me hurt. Because I hate it and I deny it because I judge it and I don't want it yet it's there slapping me, laughing at me, daring me to challenge it.
It wasn't observably troubling today as we discussed it in session, really. Not until the end, when I realized I was feeling alarmed because I didn't remember last week.
As the session came to a close, Michelle told me the emotion part of healing is going to be very difficult for me because of my experiences with emotions. I know this to be true. It makes logical sense. It is cognitive; measurable. I can make logical sense of it so I can intellectually accept it.
Even if I feel nothing.
Which is what I did today, until a tiny little bolt of lightning struck me and I began to feel that fiery sense of alarm. That remembrance that - no matter how much I hold myself or pull myself together - I am still in need of healing, and a lot of it, and I cannot pretend my way through it. I cannot ignore it and make it disappear.
As I was leaving, Michelle suggested to me that I try meditating and mindfulness - both of which I am very familiar with and have studied and/or practiced at length. I talked with her very matter-of-factly about it, told her I was familiar with it, etc. I felt a bit shaken, but very much in control.
But then I watched her drive away and stood waiting for my cab and things started to pile on. My brain went into overdrive. I started thinking, "I don't understand this. How can I not remember? This is crazy. You are crazy!" and then I was thinking about emotions and I was thinking I need to write...
And that led me to thinking, as I stood there staring at a bitterly cold outside through a six-pane window, that I was going to write about emotions. No. No I am going to write about what I think about emotions.
Then I thought, no maybe I should write about what I feel about thinking.
This made sense to me. Logical sense. Intellectual sense. Perhaps, by writing about how I feel about thinking, I can touch emotions somehow.
So...
How do I feel about thinking?
I feel safe, thinking. I feel in control, thinking. I feel secure, thinking. I feel confident, thinking.
Because nobody can mess with my thinking.
This is quite ambiguous, isn't it?
Here's what I suppose I mean:
My intellect and street smarts are hard-earned and concrete. If I do not know it, I can and will learn it (if I need to). I watch everything and everyone closely. I seldom miss much because of what is called "hypervigilance," a label I consider to sound negative but which I embrace as "normal" and even a gift.
I don't know that I would still be breathing if not for my "hypervigilance."
There is control and, thus, security and safety in thinking. There is control in having no emotions. How's that for an oxymoron? Or, do control, security and safety count as emotions?
I am over-thinking, aren't I?
And I, myself - whoever "I, myself" happen to be today - am messing with my thinking and this is not a good thing.
There is nothing concrete or stable in having my thinking disrupted by something as alarming as DID and the analysis of such.
I am going to have a beer.
It's been a really tough few weeks. It's actually been a rough two months but the last couple weeks have been particularly hard, despite some help I have received and am grateful for.
Still, I cannot control how my (using the word "my" loosely) mind will respond to these things. At least, so it seems.
Session today. I know I saw Michelle last week.
I couldn't tell you when, if I didn't know our sessions are regularly on Mondays and Thursdays. I don't remember the last time I saw her. Today was an anomaly because of a scheduling conflict she had which happens sometimes. Not often, but sometimes.
I almost cancelled today's appointment because I am completely disconnected from everything which means, nothing is wrong. This sounds contrary to what I mentioned in the opening of this entry, but the thing is I have shut down and nothing is emotionally affecting me so I need no therapy. I told her I almost cancelled because I didn't want to waste her time. I literally had nothing to complain or talk about.
I mean, I had updates and told her things I've done because I needed to see them get done, but Michelle even admittedly had a hard time navigating this session. She didn't know "who" she was talking to. She was trying to determine what was going on and I was at a loss, until she started telling me things.
Apparently last week I had a very emotional session wherein I told Michelle I didn't know if I could continue therapy and dealing with these emotions.
I don't remember this. I only vaguely remember a little bit about a very intense session not long ago, but I don't know when it was. When she said "well, last week we had a pretty tough session," I stared up at the ceiling, stared out the window, very disconnected, tried so hard to remember, and that's when I realized I didn't remember anything. This is truly an earth-rattling thing. So I really wracked my brain, trying...trying... Oh God I can't remember...what happened last week? What do I remember about last week?
This led me to the realization that it wasn't just the sessions last week that I don't recall, but the entire week last week. I don't remember anything. Thinking back, the first thing I remember is Saturday and pieces since then but nothing last week. Not one single moment.
This is where my DID diagnosis makes me angry, makes me hurt. Because I hate it and I deny it because I judge it and I don't want it yet it's there slapping me, laughing at me, daring me to challenge it.
It wasn't observably troubling today as we discussed it in session, really. Not until the end, when I realized I was feeling alarmed because I didn't remember last week.
As the session came to a close, Michelle told me the emotion part of healing is going to be very difficult for me because of my experiences with emotions. I know this to be true. It makes logical sense. It is cognitive; measurable. I can make logical sense of it so I can intellectually accept it.
Even if I feel nothing.
Which is what I did today, until a tiny little bolt of lightning struck me and I began to feel that fiery sense of alarm. That remembrance that - no matter how much I hold myself or pull myself together - I am still in need of healing, and a lot of it, and I cannot pretend my way through it. I cannot ignore it and make it disappear.
As I was leaving, Michelle suggested to me that I try meditating and mindfulness - both of which I am very familiar with and have studied and/or practiced at length. I talked with her very matter-of-factly about it, told her I was familiar with it, etc. I felt a bit shaken, but very much in control.
But then I watched her drive away and stood waiting for my cab and things started to pile on. My brain went into overdrive. I started thinking, "I don't understand this. How can I not remember? This is crazy. You are crazy!" and then I was thinking about emotions and I was thinking I need to write...
And that led me to thinking, as I stood there staring at a bitterly cold outside through a six-pane window, that I was going to write about emotions. No. No I am going to write about what I think about emotions.
Then I thought, no maybe I should write about what I feel about thinking.
This made sense to me. Logical sense. Intellectual sense. Perhaps, by writing about how I feel about thinking, I can touch emotions somehow.
So...
How do I feel about thinking?
I feel safe, thinking. I feel in control, thinking. I feel secure, thinking. I feel confident, thinking.
Because nobody can mess with my thinking.
This is quite ambiguous, isn't it?
Here's what I suppose I mean:
My intellect and street smarts are hard-earned and concrete. If I do not know it, I can and will learn it (if I need to). I watch everything and everyone closely. I seldom miss much because of what is called "hypervigilance," a label I consider to sound negative but which I embrace as "normal" and even a gift.
I don't know that I would still be breathing if not for my "hypervigilance."
There is control and, thus, security and safety in thinking. There is control in having no emotions. How's that for an oxymoron? Or, do control, security and safety count as emotions?
I am over-thinking, aren't I?
And I, myself - whoever "I, myself" happen to be today - am messing with my thinking and this is not a good thing.
There is nothing concrete or stable in having my thinking disrupted by something as alarming as DID and the analysis of such.
I am going to have a beer.
Sunday, February 17, 2013
Get Over It
My name is Cristina D. Johnson.
Some things I have enjoyed my entire life. I can think of two, really: music and writing.
I mean, I have enjoyed doing other things and going places but, as far as things I've always loved consistently, I can think only of these two things.
There are feelings I have enjoyed. I love the feeling of helping someone.
I have an affinity towards minorities and have been known to randomly hug strangers because I felt compelled to do so and, I admit, I actually feel better when I help an Arab or African-American than I do when I help a white person. I don't know why, really. I guess I always seem to go for the underdog. Maybe I'm just a self-righteous narcissist. Who knows?
But I know the feeling of having the opportunity to take advantage of someone, and, instead, making sure the situation is right. I like that feeling. I like the feeling of helping. Of knowing I have done something helpful for someone.
But music and writing have always been there. Always.
I suppose they're similar: Both express, for me, what I can or could never say. My son - my oldest - is the same way, as far as music.
I enjoyed those things and those feelings. I still do.
Why would I choose to be so afraid so much so often of so many things?
Too many people say "get over it" or "stop living in the past" or any manner of such things.
As if I am choosing to be this terrified bundle of nerves every day. As if I enjoy being terrified of being too loud when I open the silverware drawer in my kitchen, or stand in front of a window. As if I prefer or somehow choose to tremble before I even step out my door.
I know what it is to live in my head. To be in in denial. I know what it is to say "Fuck all you crazy psycho-babble idiots. My past doesn't affect me and I don't NEED your fucking help," as I carry on every day as if nothing ever happened. As if I had the perfect cheerios childhood.
Sometimes it feels like you're being admonished for yielding to the agony that complex trauma causes. It hurts. It hurts and it confuses to hear these messages.
You think you're doing the right thing by seeking help - and it is so fucking scary, let me tell you - yet people say things like, "Aren't you allowing yourself to be trapped by your past?"
Well...yes. Yes, and no.
But if I don't get help, I will forever be trapped by my past because my existence will be nothing but a lie. My being will be a fraud. I will never know who I am nor what I can do... I will never know those things that I truly enjoy besides music and writing. I will never know my voice. I will never know a man's good touch. I will never know authentic love. I will never understand what it is to have someone do for you, just for the sake of doing for you. I will never know what it is like to not go a minute without thinking I owe someone sex (or sexual favors) in return for their gifts (whatever they may be).
So, am I stuck in my past?
Yes. I am trying so hard to dig out of this crater that fate handed me.
Please don't judge or chastise me. It is so bloody hard to do. It hurts more than anything I have ever known and opening up, trusting, being vulnerable is the hardest thing I have ever done in my life.
I am just now learning...crawling... reaching and trying.
Get over it?
Dear God I am trying.
Some things I have enjoyed my entire life. I can think of two, really: music and writing.
I mean, I have enjoyed doing other things and going places but, as far as things I've always loved consistently, I can think only of these two things.
There are feelings I have enjoyed. I love the feeling of helping someone.
I have an affinity towards minorities and have been known to randomly hug strangers because I felt compelled to do so and, I admit, I actually feel better when I help an Arab or African-American than I do when I help a white person. I don't know why, really. I guess I always seem to go for the underdog. Maybe I'm just a self-righteous narcissist. Who knows?
But I know the feeling of having the opportunity to take advantage of someone, and, instead, making sure the situation is right. I like that feeling. I like the feeling of helping. Of knowing I have done something helpful for someone.
But music and writing have always been there. Always.
I suppose they're similar: Both express, for me, what I can or could never say. My son - my oldest - is the same way, as far as music.
I enjoyed those things and those feelings. I still do.
Why would I choose to be so afraid so much so often of so many things?
Too many people say "get over it" or "stop living in the past" or any manner of such things.
As if I am choosing to be this terrified bundle of nerves every day. As if I enjoy being terrified of being too loud when I open the silverware drawer in my kitchen, or stand in front of a window. As if I prefer or somehow choose to tremble before I even step out my door.
I know what it is to live in my head. To be in in denial. I know what it is to say "Fuck all you crazy psycho-babble idiots. My past doesn't affect me and I don't NEED your fucking help," as I carry on every day as if nothing ever happened. As if I had the perfect cheerios childhood.
Sometimes it feels like you're being admonished for yielding to the agony that complex trauma causes. It hurts. It hurts and it confuses to hear these messages.
You think you're doing the right thing by seeking help - and it is so fucking scary, let me tell you - yet people say things like, "Aren't you allowing yourself to be trapped by your past?"
Well...yes. Yes, and no.
But if I don't get help, I will forever be trapped by my past because my existence will be nothing but a lie. My being will be a fraud. I will never know who I am nor what I can do... I will never know those things that I truly enjoy besides music and writing. I will never know my voice. I will never know a man's good touch. I will never know authentic love. I will never understand what it is to have someone do for you, just for the sake of doing for you. I will never know what it is like to not go a minute without thinking I owe someone sex (or sexual favors) in return for their gifts (whatever they may be).
So, am I stuck in my past?
Yes. I am trying so hard to dig out of this crater that fate handed me.
Please don't judge or chastise me. It is so bloody hard to do. It hurts more than anything I have ever known and opening up, trusting, being vulnerable is the hardest thing I have ever done in my life.
I am just now learning...crawling... reaching and trying.
Get over it?
Dear God I am trying.
Monday, January 28, 2013
Memories, flashbacks, dissociations and therapy
My name is Cristina D. Johnson. This entry may trigger.
In north St. Louis during the late 70's and early 80's, I was on the streets most of the time and, particularly, between ages 11 and 15. Intermittently, I would hitchike to various places. I was raped often, beaten just as often, especially when I was in St. Louis. Or, "home," as I thought of it.
After my kidnapping, I felt.... I don't know.... as if I belonged there, on the streets. I'm sure it began before that - I mean, I remember not feeling at home with Grandma and Pop because of the things Daddy did - but being on the streets became predominant after the kidnapping. I was 11.
After that, I was deemed "incorrigible" and made a ward of the state. I was no saint. I stole from my grandparents. I also shoplifted from Sears and Ben Franklin. Clothes, mostly. If not for Sears and the occassional clothesline with jeans my size clipped to it, I would never have had clean clothes.
I didn't steal with malice, although I know it could have been seen that way. Especially in Grandma and Pop's case. I even stole from my great grandmother, who was loved by all. She had a little green cup that sat on the mantle in the dining room, behind the column at the end. It was a coffee cup that was only one half the size of a normal cup. In gold letters on the green surface, it read: "Well you asked for a half cup of coffee."
I remember this is where she kept her cash. There wasn't a lot, but there was a lot for a teenage, incorrigible ward of the state. Pop kept his cash in the top left desk drawer. Grandma kept hers in her purse. She also kept her watch in a little box that sat on the counter behind her, where she also kept her address book and other things.
I stole the watch once.
Stole the car two or three times - don't remember.
Sam, the dog, knew me and I wasn't scared of him.
Most of the time, the money I took was to keep people from hurting me. To recruit allies, I suppose. It didn't really work. They would never be "friends" - they were ghetto opportunists.
One of the ways these men took advantage of women was to get them high. I never (fortunately) was into drugs as a kid. I had access and I did them because you couldn't not do them. Not doing them, was as good as wearing a badge and saying, "Hey I'm a narc," and was sure to get you beaten, if not killed.
It was always a no-win situation. You knew if you did the drugs, you'd be raped/beaten, but if you didn't, you'd possibly get worse so you just rolled the dice, hoped for the best.
The most dangerous drug I ran into was "whack." Back then crack was really becoming popular and I did it but didn't like it. Also did weed and coke but "whack" (aka PCP/Angeldust) was used to dominate.
Last night a friend of mine contacted me. She shared a harrowing experience she'd just had. I didn't think about it at the time, but as I laid down to go to sleep, I realized the experience she related to me was identical to a number of my experiences with "whack." I asked her this morning some basic questions and I firmly believe she was given it, without her knowing.
This brought me back to a memory of a cabby who took me to a motel. I don't remember the situation or circumstances; just that I'd smoked whack (which I HATED) and somehow ended up in a motel room. I was raped by the cabby. I recall watching him take my clothes off as I lay helplessly on the bed. I recall seeing him as if he were hundreds of yards away. I recall trying to talk, but not knowing if I was talking.
Whack didn't always affect me this way, but this wasn't my only experience like it.
Talking to my friend, I could taste it. Smell it. Came back to me as if I'd just smoked it. When I say I hated it, I cannot articulate how much. The smell, the taste never leaves you. To this day, sometimes I smell it at random places and it always makes me sick. I absolutely hated it.
I also recall being raped and beaten by a group that I'd been sold to. One of the perpetrators that I recall very vividly was Lafayette. I recall him vividly because he beat me horribly - worse than anyone else - and he had the largest penis. He caused me great physical pain and more than one bloody face. If I cried, as he raped me, he would punch me wherever was convenient - typically, on my face or head.
During the first incident (I ran into Lafayette and his gang multiple times. Lafayette was not the 'leader' but he was very violent and dominant), I smoked whack, but I remember Lafayette very clearly. He raped me multiple times - both with the gang, and alone - throughout my time on the street.
None of this is really new to me. Although I remember some of it or, at least half of it, I am completely disconnected from it, too.
So this morning, when I thought about "whack," and I talked to my friend and surmised that she'd been given PCP, I became angry..... angry for her, sad for her, scared for her....
And it took me back to that motel room.
Strange thing is, I feel nothing for myself. If not for my friend (who is in college), I would feel nothing but because she's so young and because of my own experiences, I felt it vicariously. Felt the anger vicariously. Felt the violation vicariously. Couldn't shake it.
Went to therapy.
Talked with Michelle about a few things, then finally told her about the cabby, my friend, whack and Lafayette.... some details.
When I finished telling her, she informed me I'd told her about the cabby before.
I was stunned.
I began to cry.
I had never told anyone about the cabby. Not to my knowledge, except my friend and that was just this morning.
I shook my head. Told her, "no."
"Yes," she said gently. "It was Friday."
I shook my head. Cried, disbelieving.
"I thought...I thought Friday.... I thought we talked about rent Friday," I sobbed.
"It could've been Monday," she said calmly, "But it was definitely last week."
Tears fell fast. I was embarassed. "I've never told anyone except [my friend] about the cabby," I told her.
"You didn't get into as much detail as you did today, but you told me about it."
I was floored.
"Funny thing is," she went on, "You used almost exactly the same words, although you didn't give as much detail and you haven't ever mentioned Lafayette."
I cried. I was mortified.
Quickly pulled myself together. Apologized.
She said, "This is that double-edged sword. You want to remember, but when you remember, it hurts."
I nodded in ascent.
"I think things are just starting to come up for you. These memories are coming back."
It sucks to not remember, remembering. I hate not remembering.
I told her that.
I wonder what else I've told her.
In north St. Louis during the late 70's and early 80's, I was on the streets most of the time and, particularly, between ages 11 and 15. Intermittently, I would hitchike to various places. I was raped often, beaten just as often, especially when I was in St. Louis. Or, "home," as I thought of it.
After my kidnapping, I felt.... I don't know.... as if I belonged there, on the streets. I'm sure it began before that - I mean, I remember not feeling at home with Grandma and Pop because of the things Daddy did - but being on the streets became predominant after the kidnapping. I was 11.
After that, I was deemed "incorrigible" and made a ward of the state. I was no saint. I stole from my grandparents. I also shoplifted from Sears and Ben Franklin. Clothes, mostly. If not for Sears and the occassional clothesline with jeans my size clipped to it, I would never have had clean clothes.
I didn't steal with malice, although I know it could have been seen that way. Especially in Grandma and Pop's case. I even stole from my great grandmother, who was loved by all. She had a little green cup that sat on the mantle in the dining room, behind the column at the end. It was a coffee cup that was only one half the size of a normal cup. In gold letters on the green surface, it read: "Well you asked for a half cup of coffee."
I remember this is where she kept her cash. There wasn't a lot, but there was a lot for a teenage, incorrigible ward of the state. Pop kept his cash in the top left desk drawer. Grandma kept hers in her purse. She also kept her watch in a little box that sat on the counter behind her, where she also kept her address book and other things.
I stole the watch once.
Stole the car two or three times - don't remember.
Sam, the dog, knew me and I wasn't scared of him.
Most of the time, the money I took was to keep people from hurting me. To recruit allies, I suppose. It didn't really work. They would never be "friends" - they were ghetto opportunists.
One of the ways these men took advantage of women was to get them high. I never (fortunately) was into drugs as a kid. I had access and I did them because you couldn't not do them. Not doing them, was as good as wearing a badge and saying, "Hey I'm a narc," and was sure to get you beaten, if not killed.
It was always a no-win situation. You knew if you did the drugs, you'd be raped/beaten, but if you didn't, you'd possibly get worse so you just rolled the dice, hoped for the best.
The most dangerous drug I ran into was "whack." Back then crack was really becoming popular and I did it but didn't like it. Also did weed and coke but "whack" (aka PCP/Angeldust) was used to dominate.
Last night a friend of mine contacted me. She shared a harrowing experience she'd just had. I didn't think about it at the time, but as I laid down to go to sleep, I realized the experience she related to me was identical to a number of my experiences with "whack." I asked her this morning some basic questions and I firmly believe she was given it, without her knowing.
This brought me back to a memory of a cabby who took me to a motel. I don't remember the situation or circumstances; just that I'd smoked whack (which I HATED) and somehow ended up in a motel room. I was raped by the cabby. I recall watching him take my clothes off as I lay helplessly on the bed. I recall seeing him as if he were hundreds of yards away. I recall trying to talk, but not knowing if I was talking.
Whack didn't always affect me this way, but this wasn't my only experience like it.
Talking to my friend, I could taste it. Smell it. Came back to me as if I'd just smoked it. When I say I hated it, I cannot articulate how much. The smell, the taste never leaves you. To this day, sometimes I smell it at random places and it always makes me sick. I absolutely hated it.
I also recall being raped and beaten by a group that I'd been sold to. One of the perpetrators that I recall very vividly was Lafayette. I recall him vividly because he beat me horribly - worse than anyone else - and he had the largest penis. He caused me great physical pain and more than one bloody face. If I cried, as he raped me, he would punch me wherever was convenient - typically, on my face or head.
During the first incident (I ran into Lafayette and his gang multiple times. Lafayette was not the 'leader' but he was very violent and dominant), I smoked whack, but I remember Lafayette very clearly. He raped me multiple times - both with the gang, and alone - throughout my time on the street.
None of this is really new to me. Although I remember some of it or, at least half of it, I am completely disconnected from it, too.
So this morning, when I thought about "whack," and I talked to my friend and surmised that she'd been given PCP, I became angry..... angry for her, sad for her, scared for her....
And it took me back to that motel room.
Strange thing is, I feel nothing for myself. If not for my friend (who is in college), I would feel nothing but because she's so young and because of my own experiences, I felt it vicariously. Felt the anger vicariously. Felt the violation vicariously. Couldn't shake it.
Went to therapy.
Talked with Michelle about a few things, then finally told her about the cabby, my friend, whack and Lafayette.... some details.
When I finished telling her, she informed me I'd told her about the cabby before.
I was stunned.
I began to cry.
I had never told anyone about the cabby. Not to my knowledge, except my friend and that was just this morning.
I shook my head. Told her, "no."
"Yes," she said gently. "It was Friday."
I shook my head. Cried, disbelieving.
"I thought...I thought Friday.... I thought we talked about rent Friday," I sobbed.
"It could've been Monday," she said calmly, "But it was definitely last week."
Tears fell fast. I was embarassed. "I've never told anyone except [my friend] about the cabby," I told her.
"You didn't get into as much detail as you did today, but you told me about it."
I was floored.
"Funny thing is," she went on, "You used almost exactly the same words, although you didn't give as much detail and you haven't ever mentioned Lafayette."
I cried. I was mortified.
Quickly pulled myself together. Apologized.
She said, "This is that double-edged sword. You want to remember, but when you remember, it hurts."
I nodded in ascent.
"I think things are just starting to come up for you. These memories are coming back."
It sucks to not remember, remembering. I hate not remembering.
I told her that.
I wonder what else I've told her.
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.
Sunday, January 13, 2013
Never Safe
My name is Cristina D. Johnson
From somewhere deep inside, tonight, I came to a realization: nowhere is or has been ever safe. In my "live blog," Is This Where It Starts?, I sometimes get stuck. I get stuck in my head - where I've spent most of my life, away from the reality of yesterdays and days before yesterdays, in denial of (or absolute unawareness of), sicknesses that riddled my life, my toddlerhood, my childhood; sexual perversions that twisted, tormented and distorted every sense of everything a normal child would have.
Yeah, yeah I get it. This has always been my mantra.
"But me. Well, I'm okay. I don't need fucking therapy," I'm known to say. "You're the one with the fucking problem," I often chastised and argued. "I'll send you back to your psych professor with your highfalutin' tail between your legs," I would challenge.
No...I have no problems. Never have.
Right?
No.....
Not to my knowledge. Or, should I say, not to my awareness. I simply was, who I was and at times in my life - here and there - I was good with that. Comfortable with that. Other times....well....
Mood swings.
I remember talking with Bill when I was living with Gary - the man I loved and intended to spend the rest of my life with. Still, we had our problems and I would lament to my best friend: Bill. He was always kind, considerate, understanding and - most importantly - honest.
He once said to me (paraphrasing), "Well your mood swings definitely kept me on my toes." (Bill and I were together either as friends, roommates, loves and partners or all or one over a period of about five years prior to my relationship with Gary).
Anyway, I'm veering off track here...............
There's an ache in me tonight. I can't vocalize it. Just like last night. We watched the film, Trust and I cried multiple times. Cried over the 'blame the victim' attitude of the unwitting father.
Cried over what I never had.... Cried over never mattering enough. Cried over never being able to say, "I love you daddy," with confidence and without fear. (incidentally, I also cried at the end of The Little Mermaid when she said, "Thank you, Daddy," for the same reason. I never got to say that nor did I ever have any reason to).
Tonight, we watched "Voices Within" which is based on the true story of Truddi Chase and the Troops - after the book, "When Rabbit Howls." This book I've read and if you can get past the first three or four chapters which can be a bit confusing, it's a profoundly informational and insightful book on the life (and inner life) of someone with DID (formerly known as MPD, or Multiple Personality Disorder). This is a must-read for anyone with the diagnosis or anyone who wants to know and understand better, the inner workings of the disorder.
Anyway, watching "Trust" and "Voices Within" last night and tonight, respectively, with each violent/sexual assault scene, Bill would ask, "Do you want to watch something else?" or "are you okay?" and to him I would say, "Oh yes. These are the easiest parts to watch."
This is true.
Rape, violence.... oh those things are just.... things to me. I'm so disconnected from these things that I feel nothing watching them. This sounds brutal and callous, I know, but it's really just another brilliant part of my defense mechanisms, built over a lifetime of abuse, abandonment and dissociation.
So I watch these scenes and it never occurs to me that I'm not feeling anything. I said this to Bill last night, watching Trust.
"Are you okay watching this?" he asks, as the scene goes to a motel room where a 14-year-old girl is being manipulated and sexually assaulted by an online predator who is at least 35 years old.
"Oh yeah," I tell him. "It's the parts after this that will get me."
And they did. The outrage of her parents. The support. The openness she had to counseling. The support. The SUPPORT she had. It literally tore me apart inside.
I watched while one of my favorite male actors - Clive Owen - portraying the father, made mistake after mistake through the eyes of a survivor. No, no no I wanted to scream (and even once said). Blame the victim. Big mistake. Oh God....
Yet that's what I do to myself. What I've always done. What society seems to demand.
Why put myself in the position to be gang raped by 4, 6, 8, 10 men? Why not go home? Why run away? Why did I stay on the streets? I was asking for it, right? So I shouldn't be mad. Right? I shouldn't be hurt or angry or scared or upset. I brought it upon myself. Rather I should just own my mistakes (those of an 11-, 12-, 13-, 14-, 15-year-old CHILD.
A CHILD
Tonight, I listened to a (poorly done but okay enough, I suppose) movie - Voices Within - and I was struck by a couple of things that were said but most striking, to me, was when she talked about how "the stepfather" came out of the darkness and if it wasn't dark, he made it dark.
Somewhere, deep, deep inside, far away, hidden, buried, a part of me felt exposed.
"It didn't matter where I was, he would find me," she said.
And in that instant, I realized - for the first time in my life - that I was never safe. Not inside, not outside, not in St. Louis, Pensacola, North Carolina, Louisiana.... nowhere. Not even with my mother whose husband - my stepfather - saw fit to molest me, too.
Rape and incest and molestation and beatings.... oh those are norms.
I am so accustomed to it (whether emotional, mental, physical or sexual) that I disconnect and feel nothing.
That is my grooming.
And truly, nowhere is safe.
This is spoken from a far away place. Untapped, young, afraid, easily hidden like the way a turtle jolts into its shell the slightest tap on the head or perception of threat.
These parts of me that feel just disappear and I am left with an ache and a curiosity and a need to know, a desire to heal. A desperation. An internal cry, "Please please come out. Please, please talk to me. Please, please tell me what I don't remember. Please, please....please...."
I don't want to be crazy but the world thinks me so.
I am not.
Yet I cannot show my face, nor go into public, nor literally speak my truth until people know - we are not crazy.
We are survivors, trying so hard to fit in.
Trying so hard to give meaning to atrocities many never see and still others see and never speak of.
Oh my voice.........
Give me my voice.
I want to be safe. I don't want a gun or any weapons. I don't want some man to be responsible for making me feel safe. I want to shed this lifetime skin of constant vigilance; this pervasive awareness of the ugly in the world; this unwitting knowledge of the perversions that exist in reality that so many choose to be ignorant of.
I want to be safe. I want to be free.
From somewhere deep inside, tonight, I came to a realization: nowhere is or has been ever safe. In my "live blog," Is This Where It Starts?, I sometimes get stuck. I get stuck in my head - where I've spent most of my life, away from the reality of yesterdays and days before yesterdays, in denial of (or absolute unawareness of), sicknesses that riddled my life, my toddlerhood, my childhood; sexual perversions that twisted, tormented and distorted every sense of everything a normal child would have.
Yeah, yeah I get it. This has always been my mantra.
"But me. Well, I'm okay. I don't need fucking therapy," I'm known to say. "You're the one with the fucking problem," I often chastised and argued. "I'll send you back to your psych professor with your highfalutin' tail between your legs," I would challenge.
No...I have no problems. Never have.
Right?
No.....
Not to my knowledge. Or, should I say, not to my awareness. I simply was, who I was and at times in my life - here and there - I was good with that. Comfortable with that. Other times....well....
Mood swings.
I remember talking with Bill when I was living with Gary - the man I loved and intended to spend the rest of my life with. Still, we had our problems and I would lament to my best friend: Bill. He was always kind, considerate, understanding and - most importantly - honest.
He once said to me (paraphrasing), "Well your mood swings definitely kept me on my toes." (Bill and I were together either as friends, roommates, loves and partners or all or one over a period of about five years prior to my relationship with Gary).
Anyway, I'm veering off track here...............
There's an ache in me tonight. I can't vocalize it. Just like last night. We watched the film, Trust and I cried multiple times. Cried over the 'blame the victim' attitude of the unwitting father.
Cried over what I never had.... Cried over never mattering enough. Cried over never being able to say, "I love you daddy," with confidence and without fear. (incidentally, I also cried at the end of The Little Mermaid when she said, "Thank you, Daddy," for the same reason. I never got to say that nor did I ever have any reason to).
Tonight, we watched "Voices Within" which is based on the true story of Truddi Chase and the Troops - after the book, "When Rabbit Howls." This book I've read and if you can get past the first three or four chapters which can be a bit confusing, it's a profoundly informational and insightful book on the life (and inner life) of someone with DID (formerly known as MPD, or Multiple Personality Disorder). This is a must-read for anyone with the diagnosis or anyone who wants to know and understand better, the inner workings of the disorder.
Anyway, watching "Trust" and "Voices Within" last night and tonight, respectively, with each violent/sexual assault scene, Bill would ask, "Do you want to watch something else?" or "are you okay?" and to him I would say, "Oh yes. These are the easiest parts to watch."
This is true.
Rape, violence.... oh those things are just.... things to me. I'm so disconnected from these things that I feel nothing watching them. This sounds brutal and callous, I know, but it's really just another brilliant part of my defense mechanisms, built over a lifetime of abuse, abandonment and dissociation.
So I watch these scenes and it never occurs to me that I'm not feeling anything. I said this to Bill last night, watching Trust.
"Are you okay watching this?" he asks, as the scene goes to a motel room where a 14-year-old girl is being manipulated and sexually assaulted by an online predator who is at least 35 years old.
"Oh yeah," I tell him. "It's the parts after this that will get me."
And they did. The outrage of her parents. The support. The openness she had to counseling. The support. The SUPPORT she had. It literally tore me apart inside.
I watched while one of my favorite male actors - Clive Owen - portraying the father, made mistake after mistake through the eyes of a survivor. No, no no I wanted to scream (and even once said). Blame the victim. Big mistake. Oh God....
Yet that's what I do to myself. What I've always done. What society seems to demand.
Why put myself in the position to be gang raped by 4, 6, 8, 10 men? Why not go home? Why run away? Why did I stay on the streets? I was asking for it, right? So I shouldn't be mad. Right? I shouldn't be hurt or angry or scared or upset. I brought it upon myself. Rather I should just own my mistakes (those of an 11-, 12-, 13-, 14-, 15-year-old CHILD.
A CHILD
Tonight, I listened to a (poorly done but okay enough, I suppose) movie - Voices Within - and I was struck by a couple of things that were said but most striking, to me, was when she talked about how "the stepfather" came out of the darkness and if it wasn't dark, he made it dark.
Somewhere, deep, deep inside, far away, hidden, buried, a part of me felt exposed.
"It didn't matter where I was, he would find me," she said.
And in that instant, I realized - for the first time in my life - that I was never safe. Not inside, not outside, not in St. Louis, Pensacola, North Carolina, Louisiana.... nowhere. Not even with my mother whose husband - my stepfather - saw fit to molest me, too.
Rape and incest and molestation and beatings.... oh those are norms.
I am so accustomed to it (whether emotional, mental, physical or sexual) that I disconnect and feel nothing.
That is my grooming.
And truly, nowhere is safe.
This is spoken from a far away place. Untapped, young, afraid, easily hidden like the way a turtle jolts into its shell the slightest tap on the head or perception of threat.
These parts of me that feel just disappear and I am left with an ache and a curiosity and a need to know, a desire to heal. A desperation. An internal cry, "Please please come out. Please, please talk to me. Please, please tell me what I don't remember. Please, please....please...."
I don't want to be crazy but the world thinks me so.
I am not.
Yet I cannot show my face, nor go into public, nor literally speak my truth until people know - we are not crazy.
We are survivors, trying so hard to fit in.
Trying so hard to give meaning to atrocities many never see and still others see and never speak of.
Oh my voice.........
Give me my voice.
I want to be safe. I don't want a gun or any weapons. I don't want some man to be responsible for making me feel safe. I want to shed this lifetime skin of constant vigilance; this pervasive awareness of the ugly in the world; this unwitting knowledge of the perversions that exist in reality that so many choose to be ignorant of.
I want to be safe. I want to be free.
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, January 3, 2013
Routine update (plus a little)
My name is Cristina D. Johnson
Haven't seen Michelle for awhile - it's been several days. I don't have transportation to see her unless it's a late afternoon appointment. This is really wearing on me. I am struggling a bit.
Woke up this morning with a sense of dread and a "who do you think you are?" complex and that now all-too-familiar feeling of being in trouble. I hate that feeling. I started feeling it when I lived with Gary. It's somatic and .....emotional(?). I feel it across my backside, sometimes down my legs, as if anticipating a beating. I hate the feeling.
But because I've been sick the past couple days, NyQuil has been my friend so I took some of that, fell back asleep and at least that feeling left me.
Then I awoke the second time and I felt indescribably stupid for writing the blog I wrote yesterday. I don't know why, but I'm pretty sure that's where the "who do you think you are?" came from. Who do I think I am?
Hell if I know - haha.
At least for now I'm okay with that, though at times it's a bit unnerving.
"Hi, what's your name?"
"Uh...Cristina?.....I think?" (c'mon...ya gotta see the humor in it).
Anytime I've switched or begun to dissociate and Bill asks me "Who am I talking to?" I snap out of it.
Actually, not every time; just every time that I remember.
(Also see: Multiple Personality Disorder: Switching Between the Alters - a little less clinical).
How bizarre....how strange and peculiar. How difficult to wrap one's head around.
Anyway, today I was sick - I dreamed of Bill. It wasn't a bad dream; wasn't a good dream. Pretty neutral, really.... at least I thought at first.
But I do believe our dreams are (in short) reflections of (or awarenesses of) our subconscious minds, telling us things. In my case, also could be alters reaching out (such as the two dreams I recently had about a little black boy being abused who wouldn't show his face, but that's a different story).
In this dream, the message seems so clear: I'm repeating an old pattern. I say this with absolute fondness and adoration and devotion to Bill, but the truth is, I am dependent and I am also veering away from my path - another reason I need to see Michelle again.
I'm falling back into an old pattern of trying to be a 'good wife' or a 'good woman' and do all the right things. Mixed in there, somewhere, is the "me" that Bill knew and loved over 10 years ago. The "me" that would go out and party and come home to find him plopped in front of his T.V. at 2 a.m. in his apartment as I returned to mine. The "me" that was somewhat flamboyant and extremely opinionated, inside and outside the relative safety of my own apartment.
And....the "me" that drank too much.
In my defense, I don't drink like I did back then. I couldn't. I'm getting too old for it (haha) but I know, now, that certain things that I drink will cause me to shift, as well as where I drink them.
For this reason, I try to keep it to just beer, but I do have an occasional dip into a favorite flavored vodka which, most often is harmless - a couple nips, here and there. But sometimes it gets bad and I recall nothing.
On a typical day, however, I have anywhere from two to six beers - depending on how late we stay up. Sometimes we will go through a whole twelve pack, plus Vodka, such as was the case over the holidays, which isn't to say we get inebriated - because we don't - but we do drink (of course, there are also days when we don't drink any alcohol at all).
I know that I will stop. There have been times in the past when I've stopped of my own accord and I don't have the same feelings about it now, that I used to (back in 04 and the beginning of 05, I would panic if I got down to a six-pack. Today, if I run out, oh well. I ran out).
Today, it's a lot different and I know the power of control it can have over you.
So to me, based on today's dream in which Bill said to me, "We need more nights like that [where we don't drink] so we can have more party nights," it was both sobering (no pun intended) and enlightening. It was a bit difficult to swallow (again, no pun intended) but truth is true.
Truth is True.
And I want my reality and my Truth and my journey to be real to anyone who reads it because it is real and it hurts sometimes and it's so scary other times but of all the good and/or bad things it is and will be, it is real and I am a real person, sitting here, living vicariously through my keyboard and hoping someone else reads this not with judgment but, rather, a sense of relief that they are not alone.
You are not alone.
Haven't seen Michelle for awhile - it's been several days. I don't have transportation to see her unless it's a late afternoon appointment. This is really wearing on me. I am struggling a bit.
Woke up this morning with a sense of dread and a "who do you think you are?" complex and that now all-too-familiar feeling of being in trouble. I hate that feeling. I started feeling it when I lived with Gary. It's somatic and .....emotional(?). I feel it across my backside, sometimes down my legs, as if anticipating a beating. I hate the feeling.
But because I've been sick the past couple days, NyQuil has been my friend so I took some of that, fell back asleep and at least that feeling left me.
Then I awoke the second time and I felt indescribably stupid for writing the blog I wrote yesterday. I don't know why, but I'm pretty sure that's where the "who do you think you are?" came from. Who do I think I am?
Hell if I know - haha.
At least for now I'm okay with that, though at times it's a bit unnerving.
"Hi, what's your name?"
"Uh...Cristina?.....I think?" (c'mon...ya gotta see the humor in it).
Anytime I've switched or begun to dissociate and Bill asks me "Who am I talking to?" I snap out of it.
Actually, not every time; just every time that I remember.
(Also see: Multiple Personality Disorder: Switching Between the Alters - a little less clinical).
How bizarre....how strange and peculiar. How difficult to wrap one's head around.
Anyway, today I was sick - I dreamed of Bill. It wasn't a bad dream; wasn't a good dream. Pretty neutral, really.... at least I thought at first.
But I do believe our dreams are (in short) reflections of (or awarenesses of) our subconscious minds, telling us things. In my case, also could be alters reaching out (such as the two dreams I recently had about a little black boy being abused who wouldn't show his face, but that's a different story).
In this dream, the message seems so clear: I'm repeating an old pattern. I say this with absolute fondness and adoration and devotion to Bill, but the truth is, I am dependent and I am also veering away from my path - another reason I need to see Michelle again.
I'm falling back into an old pattern of trying to be a 'good wife' or a 'good woman' and do all the right things. Mixed in there, somewhere, is the "me" that Bill knew and loved over 10 years ago. The "me" that would go out and party and come home to find him plopped in front of his T.V. at 2 a.m. in his apartment as I returned to mine. The "me" that was somewhat flamboyant and extremely opinionated, inside and outside the relative safety of my own apartment.
And....the "me" that drank too much.
In my defense, I don't drink like I did back then. I couldn't. I'm getting too old for it (haha) but I know, now, that certain things that I drink will cause me to shift, as well as where I drink them.
For this reason, I try to keep it to just beer, but I do have an occasional dip into a favorite flavored vodka which, most often is harmless - a couple nips, here and there. But sometimes it gets bad and I recall nothing.
On a typical day, however, I have anywhere from two to six beers - depending on how late we stay up. Sometimes we will go through a whole twelve pack, plus Vodka, such as was the case over the holidays, which isn't to say we get inebriated - because we don't - but we do drink (of course, there are also days when we don't drink any alcohol at all).
I know that I will stop. There have been times in the past when I've stopped of my own accord and I don't have the same feelings about it now, that I used to (back in 04 and the beginning of 05, I would panic if I got down to a six-pack. Today, if I run out, oh well. I ran out).
Today, it's a lot different and I know the power of control it can have over you.
So to me, based on today's dream in which Bill said to me, "We need more nights like that [where we don't drink] so we can have more party nights," it was both sobering (no pun intended) and enlightening. It was a bit difficult to swallow (again, no pun intended) but truth is true.
Truth is True.
And I want my reality and my Truth and my journey to be real to anyone who reads it because it is real and it hurts sometimes and it's so scary other times but of all the good and/or bad things it is and will be, it is real and I am a real person, sitting here, living vicariously through my keyboard and hoping someone else reads this not with judgment but, rather, a sense of relief that they are not alone.
You are not alone.
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