Summer... ever the same?

I should be festive.

I should be happy.

I should be content.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Really feel.

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

There was complete and utter loneliness. Darkness.

He left me. I was dumbfounded.

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

He couldn't carry that, and I understand.

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

Desperate doesn't begin to describe it.

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

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

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

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

What do I do with the ones that hurt?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How does that work?

How do I do this?

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

So what is wrong with me?

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

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

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

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

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

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

For now, I will try.

Left to Myself

My Name is Cristina D. Johnson

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

"I'll be okay," I lied.

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

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

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

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

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

She nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which led to the conversation about Carolyn and Gary.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bill is my only friend.

And he is leaving.

And I am afraid.

Double Whammy

My name is Cristina Johnson.

After posting yesterday, my DID kicked in, although I didn't know it at the time. I didn't know it until today, when I woke up and the entire day - yesterday - was a complete fog. Then, I got hit with a major panic attack this afternoon, just before therapy: got overwhelmed.

Panic attacks are horrible feelings. It feels like you're on fire and you can't breathe - like someone has a vise around your chest - and you can't stop shaking. For me, my mind goes absolutely berserk and thoughts just race and race, like a movie in fast-forward that I can't stop. Jumping from one spot to another.

This attack hit me as I was preparing to leave for therapy. Fortunately, my therapist was there - saw my panic - and helped me through it.

"Just breathe, and remember you're safe now. You're safe here," she gently reminded.

I started talking a mile a minute - started trying to iterate the things that had triggered the attack - but she reminded me to calm down first. I was stuttering - something I've never done in my life, but over the past few months, I've begun stuttering out of the blue when stressed.(She later pointed this out to me).

Anyway, got through the crisis and talked about what happened.

Coming Out was written and posted on my FB and I publicly admitted to many of the things I've kept secret for most of my life, with very few exceptions. I recall bits and pieces of yesterday but I was in-and-out: a consequence of DID. I described it to her as looking through a frosted window. You know stuff is back there, but you can't see it. So I spent most of today, recalling bits and pieces of yesterday and I completely blacked out last night - lost three hours, apparently - which is beyond my control.

There's nothing more frightening than this. My therapist asked me why.

"Because there's no control and I don't know what I did or said. Did I do anything inappropriate? Did I act in some way that isn't me?" (It wouldn't be the first time).

I had a bunch of things hit me all at once and the overwhelm kicked in - the panic sets in. Small things add up, on top of big things and it becomes unmanageable. I had a second attack after going to the grocery store. It's been a tough day.

We talked a lot in therapy about how I have (what I called) a habitual tendency to do whatever anyone wants, just to make sure they don't leave me.

I did it today and was immediately aware of it.

"I wouldn't call it habitual," she said. "I would call it instinctive."

I agree. It's instinctive for me.

I had a very short conversation via text and immediately felt like I was losing someone so I told them I loved them out of sheer panic.Again, doing all I can to keep from being abandoned.

And this led to a discussion about Bill - this need I have to do whatever I have to do to make sure he doesn't leave me. I am that way with everyone.

Ironically, when I am afraid someone will leave, I also will sabotage it - I won't let them leave me, I'll leave first.

I have a different kind of trust in Bill, though, because of the nature of our friendship and how long we've known one another. He's a very altruistic person....much more than any other person I've ever known.

It hurts so much to go through this process. To face so many demons, all at once, and also to feel so alone, even if I do have a handful of people who are here supporting me. Bill says I protect people from myself. He says I tend to hold people at bay because I don't want them to see what's inside of me. There's a lot of truth to that.

But, when I say "alone," I mean the loss of so many "compassionate friends" (as Gary referred to them), who haven't once asked me how I am, if I'm okay, how I'm doing or if I need any help. I am terrified to go out - terrified because of the things he's said about me to so many people - things he had no right to say.

So I feel isolated and shunned; ostracized and judged and so ultimately betrayed and abandoned.

These are shameful feelings - shame, shame, shame. That word keeps coming up. It's like I've lived my whole life afraid of people seeing the "ugly" inside of me - the reality of what I've experienced - but I've hidden it pretty well, only to have it exposed without discretion or regard. So unfair; so cruel.

But I have plans - aspirations - and they're built on this foundation of pain that I've endured (and continue to endure) and will learn from and teach from. I will give it purpose, and make a difference.

I just have a long way to go and it hurts to know that this tangled mess of barbed wire inside of me - this mess that keeps shredding me from the inside out - is not my fault.

And for those who say "get over it" or "stop living in the past" or "move on" (and I know a few of those), I say this: That's what I'm doing. Healing from the past - a brutal past that you don't just "get over and move on" because that, my friend, is what I've always done. Stoically looked at my past as someone else's story, ignored it's effects and pretended it didn't happen.

Now I'm taking the real, authentic, true steps to heal and move beyond this place where my past and my demons invade my mind and my dreams and my life.

Compassion would suggest an understanding that we can't cover up our wounds - we must heal them - and it's important  to understand how horribly invalidating it is to tell someone "get over it" (or any form thereof), and very painful. It's hard enough to take the time I need to take to go through this journey, never mind being judged for "living in the past."

Trust me. This ain't no picnic.