Ponies, butterflies...and shit.

Life is shit.

That's it, and it's true.

Sometimes I want to feel (what I suppose would be) the satisfaction of stabbing an idiot with an ink pen or have the guts to walk straight across traffic, into the median of an at-least-four-lane highway and scream obscenities at no one in particular, yet everyone all at once.

Life is shit.

"Teddy" isn't real and he does not talk to you. One day you'll learn neither is Santa real, any more than the Easter Bunny or the tooth fairy who somehow stuck some spare change under your pillow without moving you, yet a slight thump in the night makes you scream because you swear there's a monster in the closet (speaking of which, don't worry about letting your feet hang off the edge of the bed there's no monsters or sharks or anything under there that'll eat or grab your feet).

If you're lucky, you'll have been a wanted baby, and by "wanted," what I really mean is, "desired and planned by two people madly in love who die together in a hospital bed like in that best-kiss-ever movie." If not, chances are you were either an "oops" baby or they truly meant well, and believed they'd spend eternity together or they were selfish assholes who gave birth to you. (There's another set of people who are extremely young and naive' and know they will be able to handle raising a baby. It's not that they're selfish; just that they have issues and need someone to love, who'll never leave them. They just don't know it and probably never will).

Life is shit.

By the age of five you'll probably have been to the hospital or doctor's office for jumping on the bed or some other thing created with children's safety in mind. You'll either bust your head or break and arm or sprain a wrist. This will happen throughout your childhood, though, as you grow into your awkward pree-teen and teenage years, it will become more common any time you're near or with the opposite sex (unless you're homosexual, then it's the same sex). Invariably, you'll hit your teeth with the edge of a drinking container; you'll trip over a crack in the sidewalk; you'll bump heads when you go to kiss; you'll get naked in front of others, perhaps streak through the street or go skinny dipping, and someone will take your clothes, leaving you helplessly embarrassed.

Life is shit.

Your first time having sex will suck (no pun intended). If your'e a guy, you will probably orgasm before it's ever out of your pants but you'll play along and probably do one of two things: (1). you'll make something up or (2). you'll continue "fooling around" (what adults call "foreplay") and eventually be able to perform after a few more minutes, only that will last less time than it takes to enter a girl's vagina. If you're a girl, it hurts whether he's gentle or not. It is absolutely not like the movies. If you're at an average age (preferably at least 16 but nowadays as young as 12), take my word for it: don't look at it. If you look at it, you'll scream because there's no way that thing can fit inside your thing.

Yes it can and yes it hurts and yes, you'll likely bleed - if just a little - even if you've had experience with the finger before.

Life is shit.

You'll get your period while wearing white shorts in gym class or on the bus in the summertime, way too long before your stop. The cramps will feel like a hydraulic jack inside you and more than once, you're guaranteed to bite someone's head off (a warm heating pad and a good book helps, fyi, and sometimes you just need to spend a day sleeping).

You'll get a boner when Ol' Mrs. [Insert ridiculous name here] mentions anything that reminds you of sex and (God forbid) anyone saw or knew, you'd be teased about having a hard-on for the ugliest teacher in the entire school for the rest of your life. It's a given.

If you're lucky, you will be among the few who do not contract at least one sexually transmitted disease because, let's face it, condoms aren't always feasible and there's really no "good time" to put one on, once the ball is rolling... so to speak.

Life is shit.

You're going to drop your cell phone in the water more than once because "the first time was an accident and you weren't paying attention" but the second (third, fourth and fifth) time(s), it'll be because you continually believed it was simply a matter of not paying attention. This is true but not paying attention is what we do, so save yourself (and parents) some headaches and simply don't drink that Red Bull anywhere near the laptop or other electrical items.

Life is shit.

There's always going to be some girl at the prom who has a better dress than you; one who's more popular than you; one who's skinnier and/or prettier than you; one who's got the best hair; one everyone loves. There's also the one everyone feels sorry for and hangs out with or buys birthday presents for, just because of that. Incidentally, this one is usually the one who's terrified of you (unless it's you. Then you know who I'm talking about).

There's always going to be the guy who has it all. The one with the perfect hair; the one with the bigger penis (you know, because you looked one day with a fake sneeze at the urinal in 9th grade and, [although you never told anyone I mean, how could you, right?] the image will haunt you for your entire young adult life). There will always be the guy who has the newest car, the best computer, the sickest tattoo and the prettiest girls. Also, the penis fear thing will grow worse (no pun intended) as you overhear girls discussing the importance of size.

Life is shit.

People you love will die unnaturally and unpredictably. You'll sometimes be tough when inside you're crumbling and sometimes you'll crumble when you watch a Disney film. You'll refuse to cry in front of any other guy, but the other guy feels the same way...he just can't stop it and you awkwardly can't blame him because in some way you're going to envy him, even if you'll never show it.

You're going to experience at least one moment you'll regret the rest of your life: The moment you followed the leaders and made fun of/humiliated/hurt someone or something else. There'll be many moments of regret, but this one really sticks with you as if you've maimed a fluffy kitten.

Life is shit.

Parents fight. Parents hurt. Parents abuse. Parents divorce. Parents die. Not all of them (and most of the time, not all at once), but it happens. And if/when it does, some part of you will blame yourself and nothing anyone can say will change that until you grow up and realize the idiocy of blaming yourself.

Life is shit.

You're going to resent (unless you're real hard core, then you'll despise) anyone who believes other than you. At the very least, you'll quietly dispute them with disdain. You'll be indoctrinated in some way or another - most likely by your parents, grandparents, neighborhood or church. Possibly all of these. There will be the opposite side and they feel the same about you. Neither of you will know how to debate or have intellectual conversations about welfare or the state of the nation/union/world and you may even end up in a fight or two over it. (Seriously....People have died for Yankees vs. Red Sox arguments when lager and a pool cue were involved).

You won't always know what to say to someone who confides in you they've been raped or are being abused. You won't know when to "tell" and when not to "tell" and it'll drive you crazy, no matter which one you do, so the best thing to do is the one that helps the other person the most.


 Life is shit.

You're going to miss at least one extremely important, monumental thing in yours or your friends' or your parents'/cousins'/siblings' lives. At least. Probably a dozen. I'm being generous. Truth is, you just can't remember to be everywhere and do everything all at once.

You'll probably see a school counselor or private therapist at some point in your life, whether voluntarily or not, who will tell you exactly what I just wrote in the last sentence of the last paragraph. Still, those later-in-life therapists are usually necessary, even if you don't go to one.

Just think about doing it.

Trust me.

Life is shit.

Some sicknesses are invisible and the greatest wounds are usually internal (and not of the bleeding kind). This is part of why we abuse each other: because we don't see the hole we're shoving our thumbs into like a skewer to the eye. We hurt each other because we choose to be ignorant and unlearned about other cultures, religions, races and creeds and, instead....well, refer to paragraph above. You're not right. I'm not right. Nobody's right. We all simply have our indoctrinations. The lucky ones have a more complex doctrine with more information and education, but really they're not right, either (trust me, I'm one of them, and I know there's not a single one of us who has it right nor will we ever as long as we live on this earth).

And, though life is shit, there is this:

The smell of fresh cut grass; butterflies of magnificent, vibrant colors; star-spattered skies, bigger than anything you'll ever see; breathlessness from beauty of all kinds; synchronicity; seasons; the ocean; human resiliency; nature; the vastness of our own ignorance, which makes for titillating experiences when we first see or experience any of these things; the tininess of our personal world.

Our memories.

Love.

I wish I knew who to credit but I don't remember where I read or heard it (life is shit: the memory begins to fade and your skin will begin to wrinkle so get that tan if you want. It doesn't matter in the end), but when in doubt, consult your death bed. What will you think when you look back on [whatever] moment and made [whatever] choice? Will you hold regret? Will you be glad you did what you did? Will you wish you'd done something entirely different? What does your death bed say to you?

Life is shit.

But really, Life is all we've got.

No Defense

I'm completely immobile. Nothing tastes right; nothing feels right; nothing smells right; nothing works right. I can't tell if I'm hungry or if I'm in pain.

It seems like I've been working so hard for so long- since 2011 - on an abusive history I still am unable to grasp as my own. I've done all this work....God...I've done all this work, I've seen things in myself, my behaviors, my coping mechanisms that are broken and self-sabotaging. I've gawked at the realizations, cried, beaten myself up in more ways than I can say; more often and longer than I can say.

And then I get to this point where I feel I can reach out and be honest and I can understand - at least in part - why I react so quickly and dramatically to the thought of losing someone I love. In particular, my kids.

I literally panic.

I will do anything, fight anyone. I won't lose my kids. The reason is because I consider them to be the only family I've ever had.

So now...now that I reach that point where I can (and have) literally reached out to them all and begged their forgiveness and asked them for something a child should never need to be asked - support, encouragement, understanding as I work through all his mess and try to be a better person - they're falling away like flies.

I shake my head. I cry. I am stunned. I don't understand. I beg. I even pray. I wish to God at least SHE would listen but she's become someone I would never raise. She's my daughter but I'm nothing to her. Everyone says "she'll come around." Yeah....but that's not enough for me. I don't care. I'm so tired. I've been there. I probably saved her life and am constantly persecuted for it, though I'd do it again.

It's so simple. So easy to understand, but she won't even listen.

And even worse, takes, yet, another family member away. My new granddaughter. I'm reticent to even use the words "my granddaughter" since I've not been privy to any photos or videos which she's apparently sharing widely and proudly on facebook.





I sit for hours and half-listen to shows or videos about people who've lost loved ones and how they wish they could have them back for just one moment, just to say I love you.

And then I think how cruel it is, that we have these moments, but I'm nothing...not even worth an "I love you."

I hear these stories of people who could have done something to stop the disappearance of someone or the death of someone, but didn't and I shake my head. 

Nobody says a thing. Nobody tells the truth.

Everyone's scared to get involved.

Jesus Christ.

Why even continue doing it?

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.

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.

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.

Frayed Khaki's

Rupture the silence with a knock on the jamb
Tell me once more, how beautiful I am
"It doesn't matter," he said, "about your past,"
Falsities spoken through a clever mask
So wait, it's a lie. And it's not what I want
Taunted, misled by his beautiful front
Those perfect khakis, frayed at the ends
But he stood around proudly, just fitting in
Pointing and laughing, telling stories, calling names
I saw your facade but stayed, just the same
Could the tenderness of a child's truth
Reach to the hardened core of you?
No, the snow's dirty. The ground, grassless.
The sky, starless; and me, classless.
The "classless cunt," you said, I recall
I protected you from it, you took no fall
God forbid your true colors be shown to your friends
God forbid they see your khakis, frayed at the ends.

-Cristina Johnson

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?

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.

On Honesty...

My name is Cristina Johnson.

I've also been known by other names, some fictitious; some the result of marriage; some variations of my real name; and one because of my legal adult adoption (which always gets me double-takes. Yes, I was adopted at age 36. This is a story in and of itself, so I will save it for later).

Through the past six months (give or take), I have endured excruciating pain and heartache; disappointment and betrayal; upheaval and uncertainty; shattering revelations and painful truths. I've also experienced the.... no, "agony" isn't the right word.... let's just say intensity of reliving things my consciousness has cleverly (and intelligently) hidden from me for most of my life. I use the word  "intensity" because no other word seems to fit. Intensity such as these things brought me to my knees; rattled me to my bones; made me a completely different person with completely different views - sometimes for the better, despite the pain. At times, suicidal. Other times, like a child. And still, other times, angry enough to be motivated. It has shown me a world I never knew existed - a world within myself - yet is also shared by others, even if in secret shame.

The author, Sue William Silverman wrote two books about her horrific experiences as a victim of incest and rape and her resulting struggles: Because I Remember Terror, Father, I Remember You and Love Sick: One Woman's Journey through Sexual Addiction.

To me, she and other authors who have revisited their terror, nightmares, sensory flashbacks, suppressed memories, self-injury, confusion, struggles and countless other repercussions of incest and rape (of all forms, including SRA [or satanic ritual abuse] and other ritual abuse), in an effort to not only heal  themselves, but also to expose this silently destructive taboo, are the epitome of courage. (Sue went on to write Fearless Confessions: A Writer's Guide to Memoir). Incidentally, I own all of these and more by other authors.

I spent a long time learning the intellectual aspects of my past. The neurological, psychological aspects. I understood the cerebral parts - the black-and-white aspects. Further studying led me to the spiritual and physiological sides of it, which were equally mind-bending.

But it wasn't until I experienced the most painful break-up I have ever experienced, that I was hurled helplessly into the emotional aspects, unwillingly, unwittingly, and completely unprepared. Nobody told me it would be like this. Nobody.

And the truth is, nobody could have. I wouldn't have believed them. Wouldn't have accepted it.

When told - for the second time - that I had D.I.D. (Dissociative Identity Disorder), I became angry. I said to the therapist - a specialist in complex trauma - "No way." I stared in disbelief, each time she brought it up. I would gape and get angry. "There's no way I'm that fucked up!"

But inevitably, as the symptoms worsened, I had to yield to the pain that was glaring at me, daring me to deny it. Daring me to pretend. Daring me to challenge it.

There it was. And I got worse.

Foremost in my mind - perhaps as a clever way to avoid my own struggling - was the disbelief I was experiencing over my break-up. The sheer magnitude of betrayal I was feeling is indescribable. I literally could not - and still cannot - describe the level of betrayal and humiliation I felt over it.

But then some time passed and some things began to change.

It might have started as a way of defending myself against the things that were being said to and about me, behind my back.

But it opened a door: Honesty.

My bitter rage, aimed at my former partner, began to transform slowly and I used the tools I know to use: my intellect; my training; my experience; my insight; my intuition; my history and, ultimately, my friends to rearrange a lot of pieces and put them in their proper places.

The door was cracked when I posted my first blog of Honesty entitled Coming Out. I was terrified and yet, there was a tinge of (or perhaps a lot of) control to it. I took my story and my experience and put my name - my real name - to it and put it on my Facebook page for all to see. I left little - in terms of the basics of my past - hidden. I needed so badly to say all the truth of my experiences, to all those that "he" had went and shared, without considering the painful repercussions and the heavy panic and alienation that happened from what was once a large circle of friends.

Slowly, I chipped away at my public friend's list and yet even more slowly, I began to focus more on my feeling, than defending myself. It was an uphill battle to try to change my focus on my rage and disbelief and pain, to focusing more on the things I was learning and the reality I was facing.

I maintained a few friends. Actually just a couple.

Actually, just one.

Then, slowly, new friends emerged. And old friends emerged. And there was a sort of richness to these new, budding relationships. At least, for me. I held everyone (and still do) at arm's lengths. Trust comes very difficult for me, naturally, even if my mistrust is unwarranted. The greatest of my new (and oldest) friends have encouraged me to take that part slow - to allow myself that freedom, that time to learn to love and trust.

I learned - without the torment and destruction I endured, especially through the middle of 2012 - that it wasn't as cut-and-dry as I'd seen it and I am now reaching deeper, deeper... seeking, exploring and some parts of me are looking at his betrayals (and those of others) not as deliberate and/or hurtful, so much as the result of ignorance and not knowing and, thus, feeling desperate and helpless.

Dr. Brene' Brown so eloquently spoke about vulnerability and shame and strength but I know - just like Sue William Silverman and so many other courageous authors, speakers, advocates and healers - that we survivors are breaking a barrier and when I wrote "Coming Out" in August, the power behind that post was liberating, powerful and meaningful, even if the reasons for writing it, at the time, were different.

Today, I recall the three days I couldn't bear to open my Facebook page. I couldn't bear the thought of the criticism and backlash. I couldn't bear the thought of being seen for who I truly was - an incest survivor; a rape victim; a hood rat.

A survivor.

So for days, I allowed myself to drown in my writing, my thoughts and my fear.

After three days, I was astonished to find support and compassion, despite a number of folks who chose to "un-friend" me on Facebook. I received a number of private messages from others who'd experienced the same thing, and others who commended me for my bravery and courage in telling what I was telling.

It was, indeed, the most liberating moment of my entire life.

It was the most honest thing I'd ever written, up to that point, in my life.

It was the most terrifying and debilitating thing I had ever written, up to that point.

I hope someone reads this - even if it's just one person - and takes that jump, dares to take that leap, dares to remove that mask and be vulnerable (strong), be honest (brave), be authentic (help).

I am no longer Paige C. Storme. Or Dorothy Validus. Or Crystal, Crissy, Christie, Tina, Cris, T, TT or any other name. My last name is not Baugh or Santiago.

I am Cristina Dyan Kuptzin-Johnson.

I am a survivor. I will survive this.


Recommended reading:
When Rabbit Howls by The Troops for Trudy Chase
The Sum of My Parts by Olga Trujillo
Switching Time: A Doctor's Harrowing Story of Treating a Woman with 17 Personalities by Richard Baer
Stranger in the Mirror by Marlene Steinberg and Maxine Schnall
Healing the Shame That Binds You by John Bradshaw
The Post Traumatic Stress Disorder Sourcebook: A Guide to Healing, Recovery, and Growth by Glenn Schiraldi

There are a number of stories written by heroic survivors, who dared to share despite the nature of our society. Please share, educate and grow.

Haters welcome. I'm used to it.

The big story of the day is the massacre at Sandy Hook Elementary school in Newtown. About an hour away from me. In sweet, sheltered Connecticut where there are perhaps - perhaps - three ghettos and even they have picket fences.

So much I want to say about this - so much is wrong and politically incorrect but here I am, feeling things. Feeling, for a change, and feeling terrible about what I feel. Such is life. At least, my life. Always.

A friend of mine said to me, "You are feeling the truth of how you were hurt babe. The truth can hurt but in the long run you are more real, more [Cristina]."

She is so right and feeling things makes every moment hurt. Makes every decision or choice, a matter of life or death. It changes everything.

So today, I thought - as a mother - how devastated and crushed I would be if any of my children suffered the same fate as those at Sandy Hook. As a mother, my heart ached for the pain of those parents and families who lost those children. I can't honestly fathom it and I'd be lying if I even pretended to come close to understanding how they must be feeling.

But then something else came bursting through. Obviously the political side of it. I was both ired and touched by the President's statement today as he wiped tears from his eyes. I was touched because I knew he - like me - was speaking as a parent.

However, despite the fact that I've voted for and loved him from the beginning, I was struck that we - he, no officials, no officers, no grief - is ever expressed over the thousands of children WE KILL EVERY DAY in senseless, needless war. I commented on the White House's status. A lot of people were angered by the number of "Gun control! Gun control!" shout-outs and political barraging but you know, I was pissed. "Shame on you people for using such a tragedy to spout your political grievances." Over and over people were chastised for saying what they thought and felt. Outrage and anger. But it's true! How many children do we kill as a country, every day, in the name of GREED, cleverly veiled by some need to restore democracy in some other country?

Religion and politics enter and everything goes awry, because God forbid, we disrespect the dead to point out some painful realities. (not that I'm for gun control, even though I've never owned one and don't suppose I ever will).

Anyway. That was number one.

Then, tonight, another panic attack. How bad I am. I'm bad. I can't tell people this! I can't utter these words! I can't say these things! People will hate me! I'm BAD for thinking these things....

But I couldn't help it.

I remember kindergarten. We had play time and we got different colored necklaces to wear, that directed which play areas we were allowed to play in. The purpose, I suppose, was to make sure every child got a fair share of the play time in different play areas. It smelled of crayons and Elmer's glue and construction paper.

It was also the only safe place I knew.

So I thought, today, about these kids and I thought about statistics and I thought about the pain I was going through in kindergarten, every night after I got home. I remembered hiding and wishing my kindergarten teacher would take me home with her. She was pretty and nice and good to me.

Of the 20 kids killed today, statistics tell us that one in three girls and one in six boys were either sexually abused or being sexually abused regularly. This is a life sentence. This is torture.

I thought - I  couldn't help it, I'm sorry - but I thought, "They are the lucky ones. Why couldn't that have happened to me?"

Of course, then I think of the state of our world and what our children are "learning" and how fucked up our education system is, even in high-dollar, elitist, too-expensive-to-live-in Connecticut and I think, again, "Yep they were the lucky ones."

Of course, that's not to diminish the grieving of the parents and families left behind. But the children that were killed - most call it a tragedy.

Some childlike, wounded, bleeding part of me cries, "It's a blessing. Why couldn't it have been me?"

Yes....that's how bad I am. I am a bad person.

So many people will hate this post.

But that's because they cling to God and say "evil visited this town today" (Governor Malloy) and say "it must have been God's will" (which is bullshit) because they just can't fathom that - guess what - mean people live here.

Period.

Has nothing to do with God, Pope, but thanks for the condolences.

Everyone asking for prayers. So habitual.

I wish someone had come into my classroom when I was in kindergarten and killed me.

I'm sure most who read this, will probably agree.

Sexual Dysfunction (Warning: Raw, graphic)

Today was a very hard session, and I can't even identify the hardest part(s).

One thing I know is this is one of those times when I want to push away the very people I need - particularly Bill. I want to push him away so hard....no, no, no....no you can't come in, no you can't see this...Oh dear God if you knew....you can't come in.

And Cindy, I am content just letting her be there, just kinda hang out.

I don't want this. I hate this. I hate me. I hate my body. I hate what and who I am.

I will try to explain..... but it's rather um...personal and graphic and I apologize in advance for humiliating my friends and family. As far as me, well, I presently feel I have no dignity left. I am a shadow, with no substance. I feel vulgar, damaged.

I hurt myself the other night - intimately. Nothing serious, but painfully punishing.

I spent most of the day hitting myself (mostly punching my thigh or slapping myself in the head or face) as memories of my self-abuse flashed in my mind. This occurred even as I was in session today...hitting myself...it's like my arm takes on a life of it's own and I can't keep it from hitting me.

First let me clarify one thing: I do not and never have enjoyed masturbation. I've done it to satisfy my partners (mostly Gary). I don't like touching myself (barely can stand taking a shower) and I certainly don't like looking at myself. My ex-husband used to make a comment about my um...vagina that was, I suppose, intended to be a compliment but all it really did was imply that proper maintenance was required. That was back in the day when I felt it necessary to douche four times a week, or any time after sex. So, see, my body's always been ugly to me. Like it's not even mine.

I want to also point out that I have had a total of four serious relationships - two of them marriages. Yet, somehow, I am a "whore".....My father, brother, ex-husbands, and other key men in my life have said this to me and if they didn't say it, they treated me like one (like my most recent ex).

And, naturally, when you're standing on the cold tile bathroom floor with your father's penis in your hand and being told what a good little girl you are to do this for Daddy, that ugly, dirty feeling sets in, even if you're too young to understand what it means or where it comes from. Such conflicting emotions.

My family/friends yesterday encouraged me to tell Michelle (my therapist) about my most recent issue.... I wasn't going to do it. I started her an email, wrote two sentences, and then clicked "cancel"....too humiliating.

But then I thought about it....... a lot.

And today I told her. It was excruciatingly painful and humiliating but she was very kind and understanding. She asked me a lot of questions (first, obviously, if I was hurt).

So we talked about being a whore; talked about masturbation; talked about the reasoning behind my rationale.

At times I couldn't talk. At times I folded myself up into my own lap, pulled my sleeves over my hands, hiding every bit of my skin I could hide.

She kept assuring me..."It's okay, Cristina. You're okay. It's okay."

So I tried explaining to her, my rationale, stuttering breathlessly through the whole thing. It's the first time I ever told anyone that I'd done this before....sexually punished myself.

You start off as a whore, something happens and you want it, so since you want it, you're even more of a whore and since you're a whore and you want it, you must be bad, and if you're bad, you must be punished, and if you're bad enough to punish yourself, then you need to punish yourself for that, too. This is also the case when you do things for men, that you don't want to do (such as was the case with my ex) just to please them. Yep. You're a whore. The process repeats.

"Even now, sitting here, I can hear it in my head, over and over and over again. 'You're a whore! You're a whore!" (I also had flashes of an online conversation I had one, where he was drunk and put in giant bold letters, "WHORE!") - that, too, kept flashing in my mind and it was actually that image that had me crying on the way home.

That was my explanation. She sat across from me (I didn't look at her most of the time but I could feel her posture).

She sat quietly for a moment and then she asked me what I meant.

"I'm just trying to connect the dots for you so you understand what I mean."

She paused and then she said, "Cristina, I am never going to lie to you, and I am going to tell you when you're wrong. I am your barometer," she said, and I looked up briefly as she turned away to illustrate. She held her hands up to simulate a dial with a needle. She held her right hand in a circle, used her left pointer finger as the needle.

"This," she said, with the 'needle' all the way to the left, "Is okay."

She moved the "needle" all the way to the right, and said: "This is bullshit."

She didn't say it meanly, but she turned and looked at me and said, "Those dots don't line up. They don't match."

I was surprised by this. "Well, then I need new dots because these are the only dots I know."

She explained that women often try to take blame for their rape/incest, in an effort to have some control. This made me cry because it made so much sense....I had never thought of it before. I always blamed myself, "I shouldn't have been there," or "I should have said no" or "I asked for it."

Yeah....that's the mantra of many women, I suppose.

Then she made a comment that startled me: "...when you were assaulted."

Daddy never assaulted me.... well, only twice. But that was because I said "no" so it was MY FAULT. Other than that, he was always kind and benevolent.

I told her I had two lives. She asked why two lives.

"Daddy, and then the rapes."

Oh

"They were very different."

"I see," she says.

Either way, I have always been a whore.

Things got still for a moment, and I quietly cried into my kleenex, whispering to the wadded up tissue: "You know what I want?"

"What?" she asked.

And I cried harder, and I admitted, "Bill. He's never said or done one single unkind thing to me. Ever."

"That's what you deserve," she said. "I'm glad you have him."

And here I am....sitting in my office....

Wanting desperately to push him away.

Untitled

My name is Cristina Johnson

I wasn't going to write this...it's very embarrassing and I have not yet decided whether or not I'll publish or post it. This is one of those catch-22's where you are so desperate to make a difference, so determined to inform and educate people, but it's at the sacrifice of your dignity, your privacy, and that of your friends and family. How much to say...how much to share? All of it? Just a little?

Today is the first time I have ever experienced the strongest urge I've ever had, to mutilate my genitalia. I hate it so much today. I want it gone, shredded, disappeared. I don't want it. It's ugly. It's sinful it's disgusting and dear God if I could take a razor to them, I would...right now. Render them useless.

I've read about this and I've even talked with and coached people who've endured this kind of "thing" and I never judged them, but I always thought, "Thank God I have never had that problem."

And now, here I am, standing in the same muddy pond with them, feeling those same excruciating feelings of wishing to God there were no such thing as a vagina, anus or penis.

Today I feel so bad, so rotten and dirty...filthy...

I have an issue with masturbation. I don't do it. My ex liked it when I did and often asked me to. He also often wanted me to use sex toys for his pleasure (sure as hell wasn't for mine). Still, when we split up, I took them with me (the toys).

I won't go into gory details but last night was the first time (that I remember) doing that...you know... on my own (that is, by myself, without trying to spare my partner [which I have often done] or please my partner). I actually didn't even remember doing it until I woke up this morning and found a broken "toy" in the garbage can. This happened to me once before: I woke up, shaken and startled that I had a "toy" in my bed. I had no idea how it got there, nor did I remember using it.

Once things started coming back to me from last night, I was utterly ashamed (the previous time, I didn't recall anything but this time it slowly started to come back to me). Even now, if I think about it, my body jolts and I am astonished. I abused myself....and now I want to abuse myself more, because I abused myself.

How fucked up is that?

Of course, the logical response to this is: "Masturbation is perfectly natural" or "Everyone has needs and everyone does it or has done it."

Yeah, but that's not me....I'm not "everyone" and to me, it's ...selfish....it's cold and disconnected...it's meaningless. Absolutely meaningless and Oh God So DIRTY! What kind of whore masturbates? Right? Must mean she wants it, right?

This is digging into my marrow....this is tearing me up. I feel like there's a sign around my neck that says "Stone me to death, I am a whore and I've done something really bad."

Another aspect is the DID....

Today I convinced myself that I would just throw them away (the toys), but then some voice inside my head just kind of laughed this wicked, frightening laugh. "Go ahead...I'll find another way..."

My DID friends will know what this means and what this feels like.

So I am stuck...stuck in this rut, hoping to get back on even ground.

Please don't be angry, disgusted, grossed out, repulsed or otherwise feel untoward, towards me. I cannot help this. I hate it. I hate it so much and I don't know what to do.

God I wish Bill was here.

Intensity in Love

My name is Cristina D. Johnson.

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

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

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

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

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

"What did you say?" I asked her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What are you afraid of?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wonder....

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

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

Bill.....thank you.

It's Complicated

My name is Cristina D. Johnson

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

While he was here, we:

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

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

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

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

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

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

So back to the conversation with Hannah....

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

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

"Yes! Exactly!"

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

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

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

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

Where does this come from?

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

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

I want him home.

The "First Time" (sexual content)

My name is Cristina Johnson

It's been a tough week. I went through my phone and deleted all but one photo:

I was mesmerized by this picture. I cried as I deleted photos ...oh did I cry... but this one...this one I couldn't delete. It seemed to epitomize so much of our relationship. How much we looked like the "perfect couple" which - I'm sure - Gary always looks like with any woman. The "perfect couple." People never imagined we would split. This photo for some reason, had me bawling all day, all evening.

I cried. I called him. I left a sobbing voice mail. I was torn apart. So many memories...gone with a tap on the trash can icon.

My supporters have encouraged me to delete the photos from facebook as well. "Time to let go," they say kindly, supportively.

Then, today, I braved the hundreds of photos I have on my facebook, in an attempt to delete some, but not before offering (over voice mail) to let Gary have whichever ones he wanted. He never responded, so I will try to pick and choose the ones he'd like and try to get them to him.

But as I was going through them, deleting those of me and "Dee" and some of him and I (interestingly almost ALL at the bar or on the boat), I came across this one:

=

and I couldn't stop crying.

I sat in the living room, in the dark, except for two candles burning. I kept looking at this picture, which I couldn't bear. Across from me, on the coffee table is a beer bottle, cigarettes and a green lighter, the two candles going and a plate - given by "Dee" which I deliberately use as an ashtray because of the negative energy tied to it...I've already thrown away most of the junk she gave me). There's a small remote that goes to the shelf stereo where I sometimes listen to David Lanz, Leonardo Ludovico and George Winston (I prefer the sounds of piano, cello and piano in harmony)....

And a razor blade. It sits on the table, occasionally reflecting the flames on the candles. I hold my head and cry.

I used the blade last night, ran it along my thigh. Nothing major.

But I was in so much pain....

One thing taken  from an incest/rape victim at the age that I was, is the first time.

At the risk of embarrassing my daughter (which probably won't happen - she doesn't read my blogs), she texted me when she was 16. Told me she'd "gone all the way" with her boyfriend of a little over a year.

My feelings were mixed. I called her immediately.

My first question was obviously, "Did you use a condom?"

"Duh, yes."

My second question, spoken rather awkwardly, "Well...how was it?"

"It hurt like hell!" she said. She gave me further details - I suppose that's one of the good aspects of having her live so far away. She talks to me about everything. I listened intently. I was secretly so elated that her first experience was with someone she 'loved' (at the time)...that it wasn't traumatic.

I once told Gary that I was "still waiting for the first time," and he got angry, stormed off.

A couple years later, it came up again. This year - 2010 - we went to Selden's Creek. It was always awkward for Gary and I to be alone together. We never really knew how to "be" with each other. But this night, I drank a couple beers as we sat tied to a huge tree and a limb that was tangled in the marshy grass near the boat.

I started talking with him about sex. About that "first time" thing ....I explained it to him.

"I want to know what it was supposed to be like," I told him, afraid, ashamed.....not really knowing what his reaction would be.

We were surrounded by nature, not a soul in sight. We watched beavers and otters swim by, took the dinghy out and saw a whole flock of beautiful white swans. Trees like you've never seen. It was truly beautiful.

And by sunset, we were alone on the boat again. I made dinner. We continued talking, although I can't remember about what.

And then he attempted to give me my "first time"

He was attentive, gentle, kind....much different than usual. He spoke to me, kind words. He went slow, calmly, rather than treating me like a conquest, the way it typically felt.

I opened up that night, more than ever before. Tried - tried so hard - to stay present and be there with him, throughout the experience. Mostly accomplished, but still struggled. (I dissociate during sex).

It was a truly beautiful experience....

...I thought.


After that, we took a trip to Shelter Island. We anchored out at Sag Harbor. Oh the wind was horrendous. The boat wagged in the water like an excited dog's tail and neither of us could sleep. We anchored there about two or three nights.

We hadn't made love since Selden's Creek, so I was still lost in that emotional experience, as far as intimacy and I kind of believe that he, too, was somehow touched....although that belief was short-lived.

Anchored out about two hundred yards away from another boat, he decided he wanted to have sex in the cockpit, out in the open, in view of the other boat.

I completely shut down and every thought that he might have "gotten it" (as far as my need for tenderness, gentleness, slowness, calmness), disappeared in the wind. I did whatever he wanted....as usual. The "first time" was instantly deleted from my brain. I thought he cared....I thought he got it...Oh....I was so wrong.

That was in 2010....when he carved our initials in the picnic table at the beach at Coecles Harbor.

The First Time, I realize now, will never come. The reason is because for me to experience the "first time," I'd have to experience it hundreds of times, to replace the hundreds of times I was molested or raped. He thought, by giving me one "first time," I would suddenly be "fixed" and we could just go back to being an emotionally devoid, sexually perverse couple.

He was wrong, and so is anyone else who thinks they can give us back our first time. Our first time was taken. Taken. Oh my God how that hurts.

I'll never have that "first time" like my beautiful daughter did.....I envied her, I admit it, shamelessly but with utter love.

What's the first time supposed to be like?

The Elephant

My name is Cristina D. Johnson.

My blood runs cold tonight.

I was abandoned last night. Probably not literally, but in the end, at least for me, it was abandonment because once you say those words, they're spoken, and they reach down into a place that says, "See? You're a burden! You're trouble! Nothing but trouble!" which consequently pulls up that part of me that says, "Okay...seeya buddy. Never want to hear from you again."

I am irrational. I know. I am paranoid to go anywhere in my car smoking, afraid my landlady will happen by and see it (I told her I don't smoke). My basement door was unlocked this morning....FROM THE INSIDE.

So someone was in "my home" this morning, while I was asleep in bed. Fuck it.

The elephant in the room crushes me... I know what it is, and I know how it feels, but I cannot articulate it. I am not stupid. I am not useless. I am trustworthy.

Tiny images - like from little shards of a broken mirror - flash in my mind. Myself, giving me memories, little specks of time that I have consciously forgotten but I cannot see them, they flash so quickly.

That is what it is like. DID.

In the middle of a phone conversation and all the sudden, a flash....a flash of a shirt or something you can't quite identify but feel to the marrow of your bone, as if you're there - wherever "there" is - experiencing whatever that shard of pain is connected to.

And it's gone. Like a snap of the finger. So quickly, that if you don't interrupt the conversation and say, "Wait! I just saw something in my mind!" it disappears.

The emotional pain is overwhelming but it's so fleeting that it mercifully leaves in an instant. Same for the physical sensations that come with them.

Tiny little windows....into who I was, when I couldn't be there. When I couldn't withstand whatever was happening. That's what many children do. Escape into their minds. Out of their bodies so they don't feel the physical and emotional and mental torment of their experience. That's what creates "parts" or "alters" or "fragments".

These "parts" and "fragments" (there's a bit of a difference. Parts hold whole experiences, while fragments may hold only the emotion or the environment or the physical pain, et cetera) later come along in life and, as your psyche strengthens, these things are given to you as tormented gifts. Shadowy missing parts that you've blocked out.

Rage comes out for me a lot but because rage is an uncomfortable feeling, I swallow it back down, most of the time. Tonight, it's just suicide. This desire to not be alive. This deep-down belief that I don't deserve to be here...I don't belong here... The tears that would stain this page, were it made of paper, are filled with despair, yet I feel nothing for myself. As I said, my blood runs cold. I am bitterly angry at myself, disgusted with myself. What is wrong with you?

Feeling there is nobody to talk to... especially about the elephant in the room.

Confused in the Kitchen

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah this is a real fucking picnic, son.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Probably won't be the last, either.

Hopefully tomorrow will be better.