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.

Sick and sweet

Sickly sweet
like poisonous sap
drinking your innocence
you sit on his lap

An explosive laugh
contageous to guests
as thunderous
as his angry fists

Smile so bright
music so pulling
his web of deceit
so soft, so lulling

trapped inside it
there is no escape
you love him
you hate him
despite the rapes

stay away little girls
you're of no consequence
Daddy doesn't care
about your innocence

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.