Only One

I've had about 30 hours of sleep in the last 36 (thank you Nyquil). The few hours I've been up, I've been lost. I took the Nyquil after deciding last night that I was going to commit suicide but then, using a tactic I've used before, told myself I would wait until tomorrow and if I still felt the same, I would do it then. As I lay down, restless, anxious, angry, hurt....I fantasized about ways to do it. I have a lot of pills I can take. I sometimes hoard them...."just in case." But I know from experience, that overdosing doesn't really work and best scenario you end up with smiley shoes on the fourth floor of some cold, God-forsaken hospital for three days until you say the right things to get out. So I thought of other ways, in addition to the pills. I thought of the order in which I would take the pills. I thought of ways to build a "tent" for carbon monoxide poisoning. Perhaps a bag over my head, too. I would close the bedroom door. Trevor would never know. Nobody would find me until I was gone. Maybe I'd use my old, illegal, beat up car and drive somewhere and hide. But then I thought maybe the cops would see me and pull me over. Then I'd really be screwed. I even tried to figure out ways I could smuggle in my meds in case I did get arrested but that wouldn't work either: The meds would need time to kick in, plus they'd find me before I could die. I fantasized about using a big black sharpie to write "DNR" all over my arms and chest and even my forehead. I figured I'd probably have to do it on paper and then trace it since doing it in the mirror could prove difficult.

Every purpose I had to live, is leaving or dying. My fault for putting purposes on people, instead of myself, most would say.

But most wouldn't know I am no purpose. I have no purpose. I know, I know....and I've heard it all. My existence alone, changes the world. Yada...yada...yada...

Appeasement does not work for me.

All the work I've done on myself has been so honest and intentional.

But for naught.

I still have my pills hidden. (I hid them in case my therapist instructed my friend to hide them from me). I still have not gotten them out. I still haven't entirely changed my mind.

I have therapy tomorrow.

I have almost nothing to say.

I am so numb. So, so numb.

Voiceless, wordless, needless.

Nothing. Obviously.

No Safe Place. Heartless man.

Bill got home earlier than normal last night, after his drive from Coatesville. It was so good to see him. Over the previous 24 hours, I had gone through this sort of emotional awakening that both hurt, and felt  good, reveling to me things I secretly hold inside. I don't care, yet, to share, but it was a profound experience and very emotional.

I wasn't really quite sure how I was going to handle seeing him when he walked through the door; just knew I wanted to look into his green eyes. That's all I wanted.

I felt good. I felt safe. We embraced and I felt something I haven't felt since I last  felt it with him. It was a closeness and a trust. Something I've never shared with anyone. It was confusing and exhilarating at the same time. Part of me felt alive, trustful and adventurous. I felt like I had when I had met him almost 11 years ago. There was someone here who I knew, who knew me, who I trusted.

At my suggestion, we decided to walk down to the Ivoryton Pub and have a couple of drink before dinner. It's been so long - so long - since we went out anywhere. Finances didn't allow it and time just seems to melt away but we were both excited to get outside the walls of this apartment and explore our new neighborhood.

We went to the pub. Previously, we had questioned whether or not we wanted to go there because they proudly have a rebel flag flapping over their door, next to the American flag so it made us wonder about the clientele. Still, we decided to give it a shot.

We went in and I played a game on the Megatouch. We met the bartender - Donna - and each ordered a Corona with lime. Donna was very pleasant and the atmosphere was friendly. Seemed a lot of people knew a lot of people. We met a guy named Marcus who talked to us briefly about his work at the Ivoryton Playhouse. He was nice.

We went out back for a cigarette -Donna asked one of the waitresses to show us the path leading out to the smoking area- and we had a cigarette. We came back in and put $5 in the jukebox. There was a pretty good selection. We were enjoying ourselves. We ordered two more Corona's as we took our seats at the bar. We accommodated a couple who had come in and needed another stool so we moved down so they could sit together. All-in-all, everything was going swimmingly.

Then, we decided to go have another cigarette.

As we walked down the path towards the smoking area, we passed the kitchen. We paused a moment and I saw George Lincoln. He was a casual friend of mine and Gary's. Nothing close, mind you. I mean I don't recall seeing him at any parties or having him on the boat but we met sometimes when we'd go to the Pattaconk and he was bartending. We felt bad for him when he lost his job there. George was slow, but he was nice. He always knew what Gary wanted to drink so really, he was among those who were Gary's friends, and I was just Gary's girlfriend.

So I said hello to him, told him it was good to see him. Asked him how he was doing. Joked around a little with the kitchen staff, asking what the best thing on the menu was. All told, the interaction was about three or four minutes and I told George, again, that it was good to see him.

We went out and had our cigarette. We came back in.

We sat down and we were going to order one more thing (our music was playing) and Donna suddenly came up to us and said she was told she's not to serve us anything more.

There was no explanation. We asked why. Asked what was wrong.

She said she  didn't know, just that the manager had said we weren't to be served anymore.

I knew immediately why.

George.

And Gary.

And his rumors and lies.

I felt so foolish. I had put on make up and dared to venture out, trying to meet new people in the neighborhood, maybe even develop friendships or acquaintances but instead, I was singled out because of vicious lies and rumors by a man who ....oh Don't get me started. I've been very, very kind when it comes to the things I could say and/or do to make his life hell.

But still, the damage he did to my life here - even as I've tried so hard to build something safe and secure for me and Trevor - is irreparable. And he could care less. He thinks it's some big joke. And those who listen, those who believe him, are fools.

He's a cruel, cruel man who did horrible things to me and to my son and like an idiot, I stayed. Some people witnessed it, many did not.

He's very clever.

Up to this point, my fear of going outside, of being seen, of going anywhere, was based on the rumors he told others. Up to this point, it was under my control because if I didn't want to be seen, I didn't have to be. I could lock everyone out, hide. Stay away.

But this one time. God dammit this one time, in my own neighborhood, where I've tried to move on and build a new life and truly heal....

This one time, he brought it into my home. He attacked me through his viciousness and vindictiveness vicariously through his "friends" who believe everything he says.

Well done, Gary. Just remember, I won't ever touch or harm you - I loved you - but karma will, even though you don't believe in it. You believe in nothing, except your own inflated ego and that, too, will destroy you. I needn't do a thing.

We had our two corona's and we left, me crying, sobbing, collapsing, in total disbelief.

Suddenly, this was no longer home.

There's never been home. I've never been home.

I thought I was building a home.

Now I want nothing more than to disappear.

Having my secrets - my past, my issues, my pain - broadcast to every town within 50 miles invades every sense of self I have, which is very little. The work I'm doing to help myself and all the pain I've gone through with every memory and all the things I'm working on for myself, seemed to just be for naught.

Because last night, Gary came back and made sure - vicariously - that I would never belong here. I would never have friends here. I will never belong here.

This will never be home.

Now, more than before, I don't want anyone to see me. I ripped off my necklace and felt so stupid, so stupid. How stupid for me to think I could fit in anywhere. And a rebel-flag-hanging PUB of all places!
 

Relationships and Reenactment: I Married My Father

My name is Cristina D. Johnson

For decades, I've wanted to write a book. This is not some fantasy. This is a lifelong dream of mine. Having a 7th grade education makes that a bit difficult, though. Still, I worked my way up and landed a job as a journalist. I faked my way through it. I watched like a hawk. I could always write well - intuitively - as a child (I don't say this to boast. Just to merely point out that even as a child, words and sentences; grammar and punctuation; the way these strange characters on a page came together to create something new and remarkable that made sense, was fascinating to me).

At least, it started off as wanting to write "a" book. It's morphed into wanting to write articles, papers and several books. But for now - as I go through this process I never saw myself having to experience; this process of "healing" - I kind of "wish-write."

That is, I write in my head. Often I even say to Bill, "I'm writing in my head."

I've started "a" book, many times - always for a different reason but never with a different foundation: child abuse. I suppose at first it started off as a way to 'get even' or vent, then it gradually began to mature into something healthier going from that angry, bitter young woman who was pissed that Oprah wouldn't listen to her story, to where it is now.

Which leads to the "wish-writing" I've been doing lately. The mind-writing. It goes like this:

"Where does my story start?"

"Where does it end?"

And this is repeated in my mind, but not without silent, cognitive (and even sometimes emotional) responses.

I once told Michelle (my therapist) that I've had two lives. She did a double-take.

"What do you mean, 'two lives'?"

"Daddy, and then the rapes."

"Oh," she nods...I know she doesn't quite get what I mean but I do. I understand it.

Problem is splitting everything up since then: my two marriages; my children; my work; my relationships; my family; my many lives.

So here I am now, it seems, standing on a wire. It could go both ways.

Where does this story - this moment - end and the next story begin?

Was Gary the end of the last story? Is Bill the beginning of the next story?

Some would wisely say, "No, they're all chapters in the same story" but that's not how I view it.

It's segmented. Fractured.

First I must talk a little about reenactment.

When I was 16 and married, my drunk husband of 22 almost killed me by shoving me out of the second-story window. That was when I left him. If his mother had not come up, screaming in her native Puerto Rican language, "Siéntate! Siéntate!" at me, I would not be here today. It wasn't the first time he'd beaten me, but it was the first time he nearly killed me. There were times, as well, when I was terrified he would kill our child. For the first time, I defied my mother-in-law (of whom I was deathly afraid) and said, "No. No mas. No mas." and I cried as I walked out the door. No more.

A child, with a child and that story took a long time to end. That life was several lifetimes ago.

When I was 17, I met my (then married) future-husband. Of course, I did not know he was married. He was strong, cocky, arrogant and sexual. Very sexual. At 17, though, you don't really know (at least, I didn't, because of my past lifetimes), that if they'll cheat with you, they'll cheat on you. So he, too, became an emotionally and mentally abusive partner, controlling, dominant and I feared him. I also feared losing him. For 15 years (and with two of our own kids), I endured the pain of constant belittling, arrogance and infidelity. I felt I deserved it. I felt it was the best I could ever get. I should be grateful.

He, like my first husband, was very much - in many, many ways - like my father but it was so cleverly veiled, so ingeniously disguised, that I never saw it. I wouldn't have seen it if it were a flashing neon sign. I would have kicked the sign out a bitter, angry roundhouse and swore at it, "But he loves me!"

But after 15 years, that lifetime ended. Pretty much.

Then began a different lifetime - one with Bill. That was in 2002. This lifetime was frightening. He was nice to me. He made love with me, instead of acting as if he was doing me a favor by allowing me to do/say/be things I never wanted to do/say/be anyway. In fact, he wouldn't even accept them and even made me uncomfortable doing what I'd always done: Being promiscuous. He didn't take me for granted. He listened to me. He didn't just listen to me but he heard me. At times, back then, sometimes I'd be on the verge of tears and he would hold me and he would say, "It's okay. Let it out," and as soon as he spoke the words, my insides froze and the tears went away. I couldn't possibly cry. I couldn't let him see me unless it was the way I wanted him to see me. I needed control. That way if he changed (and surely he would; certainly he'd at least yell at me, if not hit me, rape me, or cheat on me or something. Anything), at least I had some semblance of control over it. At least I could say I asked for it. I deserved it. I have always deserved it because that's the way all men are.

I left him. He never changed, hit, screamed, yelled, cheated - hell, he never stopped opening my car door for me. Not one single time. He never denied me, always listened to my songs, always read me like a book.

I left him. I didn't believe him. I didn't deserve him and I didn't know how to be with someone like that.

Please get mad at me. Please stop being so open and honest. Please stop being so goddamn perfect for me.

I left him because I couldn't handle being loved. Not truly, authentically loved, despite the many, many tests I applied to the relationship - like all relationships I've ever had. Every one. He passed every test. How? He was consistent. He was always, always consistent. And me, well, I have an Eagle's eye for inconsistencies.

Which leads to the next lifetime.

Gary.

Like my father; my first husband; my second husband (and that one boyfriend I had between my second husband and Bill, Mike): He was emotionally unavailable. Perfect.

Me too.

By now I was in my 30's and I had developed my intellect enough that I knew I could survive on it alone, which was important in this relationship because - like my exes - Gary had a constant tendency to put me down and attempt to make me look stupid. He was constantly condescending and I fought back - hard. Never again would I depend on a man. Ever. Never again, would I open up emotionally. Ever.

What I would do, though (because I know so well how child abuse works), is I would nurture and be a motherly figure for him because of the emotional suffocation he suffered as a child. This, too, worked to my favor. I could keep my emotions in check. I had to because, truly, I did love him, despite our many differences and despite how little attention he paid to me. Really paid. He couldn't tell you my favorite color, gemstone, song(s), movie(s) and the only reason he knew the name of my childhood cat was because it was the answer to one of my banking security questions. He didn't know much about me at all. He was also - like my father and the men before me (Bill excluded) - sexually perverse. He'd been much more so in his past, but there still lingered with every touch, an absenteeism; no warmth, no love, no affection. Just this purpose that needed to be served and I was to serve it.

I was, after all, the woman (and Gary has zero respect for women).

So I played the role. Four years. Played the role - lived Gary's life. Got sucked into his way of living. Friends? Nope. All his. Places? Nope. All his. Whatever we did, whoever we did it with and wherever we went, it centered around Gary and his image, what he wanted, what he needed and what image he wanted to project. Which meant I had to be something I was not.

Which was okay, since my emotions were bundled up tightly inside.

Until that fifth year....When we talked and when I began to grow (going through Life Coach Training which Gary was adamantly opposed to but for which Bill enthusiastically footed the bill) and I realized how unemotional our relationship was - how unemotional I was.

I was encouraged by Gary to pursue therapy and I did, in earnest.

He promised to be there; promised to support me; repeatedly swore that he wasn't going anywhere - even on public forums. Reassured me frequently, even as I began to become more and more immersed in this unfathomable pain and darkness.

Despite his words, I felt alone. I know, now, that this is because he - like always - was incapable of emotional attachment (although I do believe that some part of him did love me).

However, the profundity of what I was experiencing was too much for this man who "loved" me and he, in turn, began abusing me in exactly the same way my father had.

I'm not going to rehash it, except to say that day by day, I got worse. Things got worse. I was inconsolable. I was out of control. I was drained, exhausted, terrified. I was having flashbacks and I was drinking to numb the pain I was going through. I was losing people I loved (my son, specifically, and my granddaughter) on top of the EMDR treatment I was going through in an effort to "heal" with essentially no help.

I had Gary and I had "Dee" (who has asked that I not use her real name): Both of whom did not and probably never will have the fortitude to endure the process I have to experience. This lifetime.

After two suicide attempts, a new lifetime began...

Or, re-began.

Bill came.

He came to see me. He saw me. And in his own words, "had never seen me that bad."

It sickens me now, to think about it. It hurts. It twists my insides. It sets me on fire - my skin literally feels alight.

Rage, anger, pain, torment, torture, uncertainty, fear....fear....fear... oh my God fear.

All of these things that I've never felt towards my father, step-father, brother, uncle, kidnappers, rapists, pimps, gangsters and thugs - all of these things that I have never, ever felt - I feel now, because of Gary. And because of "Dee."

Gary: the father, rapist, womanizer, woman-beater, pimp, wife-beating, abandoning, drug-dealing, ex-convict child molester.

"Dee": The mother, "poor-me" victim, I-don't-care-about-your-story, talk-behind-your-back, drink-myself-stupid (always with a great excuse), poor, live-vicariously-through-some-other-means, nobody loves me, I have no friends or money...

I do not say these things to imply that Gary and "Dee" are these things. I say these things because finally, finally I understand these intense emotional reactions I have to them. I drive by "Dee's" house every day. It's taken me months to not sneer down her driveway and wish harm to her. Wish her to feel the pain she caused me. The truth is, she's a fun person. Intelligent. Witty. Actually, very intelligent. But she, like me for years, has not yet found herself, so she lives whatever she supposes she's supposed to.

And Gary is, I suppose, a good man - though his flaws are many. I still loved him. He's not a child molester or woman-beater (although he did abandon me and he was horribly mentally abusive).

So that lifetime is ...ending?

And now Bill is here - consistent as usual. Same Bill, only this time I'm a different Cristina and I don't know what to do or how to be or how to act because I have my experiences with Gary and "Dee" to look back on and know - without a doubt - that I do not want to be that "fake" person I was required to be. Problem is, what am I now, in this lifetime?

And even though Bill has never been in any way, shape or form, anything like any of my former abusers, what if he does? What if I'm reenacting again, and I don't know it, and it doesn't happen until I get further into this crazy ass psyche of mine? What if ...what if.... What if I let go of control?

Will he let me run into a tree? Fall of a bridge?

I know, somewhere inside, that he won't but he treats me too good and he treats me too right and he's too nice to me and he pays attention to me and he reads me like a book. He shares all my interests and he makes me laugh he's good to my children and he is everything a woman could possibly want. Why would he want me?

And Cindy - my adoptive mother - how do I know she won't hate me? Hurt me? Betray me? Abandon me?

Making new friends. I don't understand. It's like talking Chinese. I don't understand this language or this foreign place, where I am supposed to just be myself (whoever that is), and be accepted and loved for who I am. I don't understand.

Shouldn't I be being abused right now?

One thing I should thank Gary and Dee for is this: making me feel these intense, painful, agonizing emotions that have kept me captive my entire life. It's just the tip of the iceberg, according to Michelle, but it's an important one. So though I hold such deep humiliation, anger, hurt and feelings of betrayal for the wrongs, I suppose being hurt, betrayed and abused (particularly by Gary), was a necessary evil.

It brought me to a new lifetime.