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Beyond mortified over the events of the other night, I spent yesterday feeling miserable on SO many levels and last night was unable to go to sleep, ended up on the couch.

However, I was proactive in getting our phones back. It didn't really occur to me until this morning. At least I accomplished something, despite my deep fear, although I wasn't able to speak to the Trooper (in person) without breaking down and stuttering.

Talking with the Trooper last night, we were informed that the location our phones were stolen from has had numerous complaints and is known as a trouble spot. Obviously we did not know this before we went, although we did know it could be a bit low-brow and certainly not the nicest place. Thankfully we know it now.

Today I awoke, still feeling sick to my stomach over the way the crowd there, handled the situation. I won't go into details but really there were two situations; one involving me, one involving someone else, both at the same time.

Yesterday I spent a lot of time and energy talking with the owner of the place (and receiving hate mail and comments from some of her "flock" [as I call it]) whose attitude reflects a lot of peoples' attitudes: get over it. I changed my profile picture to solid black - I did not want to be seen. I was terrified all day yesterday.

I was really hurt Sunday night. Deeply hurt by the actions of a number of people who would not listen when Bill tried explaining to them that I was having a panic attack.

Yesterday and this morning, I felt like sandbags were tied to my arms and legs. Heavy. Just so heavy.

But then I thought, isn't this what you're so against? Isn't this what you have wanted to try to help fix for so long? Isn't this why you chose to share your story to begin with? To stop this kind of stuff?

So now, still feeling heavy and hurt and bewildered and confused and a host of other things, I also realize it was a heavy dose of reality: people don't understand and those who might, won't ever admit it because incest and molestation and rape are all so taboo that they don't want to talk about it. I can guarantee at least one person in the mob that was attacking us had been sexually assaulted, considering the statistics, but more likely, there were several. Still, they participated in the verbal and physical brutality. Better and easier to run with the pack, than to show weakness, I suppose.

It seems to be almost a catch 22: the uneducated and poor (such as those where we were the other night), don't want to know anything about it (they have their own problems) and the educated and wealthy don't want to know anything about it because you should just get over it and get a job (besides, they have their own problems and it's easier to donate to Easter Seals or some Cancer organization than to help with child abuse and rape. You don't have to get involved).

Of course, there are exceptions.... I'm sure there are. I'd like to meet them.

My safety was taken away that night and as much as I missed singing karaoke for all these months, I doubt I'll be doing it anytime soon again.

Compassion. It's been sucked out of people by the condition of this world.

What a shame.

Scared to Be Seen

My name is Cristina D. Johnson.

I was dreading going. My anxiety rose yesterday, knowing Trevor's dental appointment was today and I would have to go to Higganum. I'd have to go past those god forsaken exits. I'd have to pass by all those memories and worst of all...I'd see one of "them" - one of the friends...one of our "mutual friends."



When I was still at "his" place, people didn't realize that he was deliberately antagonizing me, while I was in the throes of horrible PTSD and DID symptoms. One of the cruelest things he did to me, was taunt me by telling me that he was telling everyone about me and he would not tell me who he told, nor what he shared. I'd spent five years keeping my issues pretty much to myself because I was ashamed of my past, my abuse, and my disorders. I deliberately, consciously chose who to tell what....and it wasn't a lot, and it didn't include many.

So having him tell me that he was spreading these rumors about me to God-only-knows who, threw me in a hole.

"I'm not controlling you," he said. "You can still go out," he said - as if I could or would ever dare show my face anywhere, ever again, knowing  the lies and rumors he'd spread about me everywhere. And I do mean, EVERYWHERE.

I was being tormented daily as he went out and made sure to alienate any possible friend I could have by partying with them and playing the victim. I was trapped. Trapped in shame. Trapped in unworthiness. Trapped in my own world, in his goddamn basement.

Among the "friends" that we had, there was one - Liz - who we weren't necessarily close to, but who we sometimes boated with. Liz was a blast. She was always bright and bubbly and fun to be around.

But as we went through our break-up, he was out partying with every single female friend I knew, and some that I hardly knew. He made sure he pissed on all his territory, including befriending anyone I could have possibly reached out to for friendship or support. Including "Dee" who would proclaim to be my friend, only to go out and party with him. (Yeah, some friend. Go party with the guy who cheated on your 'best friend')

He was partying on the boat almost daily and then almost nightly going to the bars - all of them - to make sure I was revealed (and in my weakened state, I could only assume the worst because of how he was treating me at home, which nobody knew, because nobody asked).

I was scared to go to the dentist today because Liz works there and she's a 'boater friend' - one of the few left on my FB friend's list. In fact, possibly the only one of our 'boater friends' left on my friend's list. I never deleted her because, well, I don't really know.

Anyway, we go to the dentist - but not before I take a risperdal disintegrating tablet - because of my out-of-control angst.

How much had he told Liz? What did she know about me? What did he tell her? What has she heard? She probably hates me! Oh God I don't want to go.

We went in and there she was behind the glass panel that separates the office from the seating area. She had her back turned, her brown hair was pulled up with a bit of it hanging down the left side of her face. She wore a cocoa-colored dress with a beige short-sleeved sweater. I was relieved when the other woman (I don't know her name), spoke to me instead of Liz.

But my relief was short-lived. As soon as the other lady spoke to me, Liz turned around and saw me. I shrank inside. I wanted to melt right then in that moment. I wished I could just instantly become invisible. I felt like I was diseased. Stay away from that girl - she's fucked up kept going through my head. I bet that's what she's thinking.

I could hardly breathe.

She smiled.

"Hey guys!" she said to Trevor and I.

She doesn't mean it. She's just smiling to be nice. She really thinks I'm a disgusting whore or something.

"Hey. Trevor's here," I said. "He's been really looking forward to this appointment!" I said with sarcastic enthusiasm (he needed to have three cavities filled) and also trying to lighten the mood.

Liz opened her side of the glass and started asking Trevor how he liked the new school as well as her experience when she was young at school with block scheduling and some other things.

They called Trevor back. My legs wouldn't stop bouncing. I was mortified. I was sitting there, alone.

She walked out into the lobby. She sat next to me. My heart was pounding.

"How are you doing? How is everything," she asked.

I almost cried, but held back.

"Okay. It's hard."

She proceeded to talk to me as if she cared about me (probably because I'd called and cancelled Trevor's last appointment in hysterical tears and Liz was the one who took the call and I told her I just couldn't do it at that time). She started to show genuine concern and she listened as I spoke. She touched my leg. She assured me and smiled and was kind.

She got up and rubbed my arm, and went back to her desk.

I sat there with tears in my eyes which I quickly sucked up. I was not going to break down at the dentist's office.

Finally Trevor was done and he brought his paper up to Liz.

"Okay you're all set!" she said joyfully.

I said, "You know....do..can I ...." and I walked around the counter and it was as if she knew what I was going to say. She stood and I began to cry, such an ache....God such an ache.

"Thank you," I cried as I hugged her tight. I didn't care who saw.

"You're a beautiful person," she said.

As we were walking out, she hollered at Trevor, "Take care of your mom. She's a beautiful lady!"

I drove home with much less anxiety.

As I think about it now, it's hard to absorb that kind of treatment, those kinds of sentiments. It aches to be treated so compassionately.

As If I Matter

My name is Cristina D. Johnson.

Since May, I've been overwhelmed, consumed by and obsessed with the debilitating grief over my break up of my five-year relationship, as well as the loss of every single "friendship" associated with that relationship. I've defriended at least 50 people from my Facebook page. My PTSD wreaked havoc on my life for the past year, but especially since May.

Being abandoned so young, I grew up with (and still hold to) this belief that I am nothing...worth nothing. I mean, really, if your own parents didn't want you, who would? Right? It started for me, so young (around age 3, when I was placed in a foster home), that it is an extremely deep-seated belief. "You are nothing" runs through my mind, every single time I try to wear a dress or put on jewelry. "You are nothing" echoes in my head anytime I go anywhere. Especially now...after the things that were done to me.

But that's not what this is about.

Today I was perusing my Facebook - which now consists of 127 friends - and I saw my name on someone's status - Robin - and she was commenting on how good a writer I am. "Just sayin'," she said in her status. I almost cried. Robin and I haven't ever really talked much - our sons were friends and her son was wonderful to my Trevor - and we got together a couple of times, but that's it.

But that's not all.

Ron and Cindy adopted me - legally - when I was 36 years old. Yeah, yeah I know it sounds weird - an adult adoption - and most people look at me cock-eyed when I tell them, but to me - at the time - I had no concept of family and in some way, I guess I was both fantasizing about having parents, and also thinking I was helping them. (So technically, my real name is Cristina D. Kuptzin-Johnson).

Anyway for awhile (actually for almost the entire time I dated "him"), we were estranged. Cindy and I texted occasionally but I stayed clear away from Ron. He was frightening to me. Very tall, domineering and intimidating. Much like my birth father.

In May, Cindy and I were talking (apparently, because I don't remember any of it) on the phone as I was heading to a motel to attempt suicide. Cindy showed up and found me, I believe. And "he" also showed up...I don't know who showed up when, but Cindy was there.

That's when our communication opened back up. Cindy understood - much more than "he" did - that it was not a suicide attempt; it was a cry for help...it was desperation, fear, pain...so many things but not a desire to die. (it's called Suicide Ideation).

As "he" went out and told everyone all about my disorders and attempted suicide, Cindy continued to talk to me and check on me, while he would yell at me or swear at me or mock my disorders, attempt to control me and constantly hurt me. While all this was happening, Cindy was there, always checking on me. Always worried about me. Like a mother, I suppose.

And, of course, there was Bill, checking on me and Hannah who was frantic over my well-being and irate over the way "he" was treating me.

But lately, as I go through therapy and work on myself, I am finding tiny little lights...little pieces of heaven.

Ron - with whom I have not spoke in over five years - has been quietly sitting on the sidelines, waiting for me to call the shots - as if I matter.

Cindy has been here every day, texting every day asking how I am - as if I matter.

Hannah texts me for advice or to see how I am doing - as if I matter.

Robin boasts about how good my writing is - as if I matter.

Nate and Derek help me with their knowledge because I have no idea what I'm doing with my whole website situation - as if I matter.

My cousins, Jan, Cora.... they reached out to me (Jan was even gonna visit!) - as if I matter.

My Aunt Neen encouraged me to keep writing, to get it out, to be strong - as if I matter.

Cindy came over today and cut Trevor's hair and watched (and helped) as I taught him to shave for the first time. She sat and talked with me for a few hours - as if I matter.

With her, she brought a box that had a small stereo in it that Ron sent, as well as some other things that he picked up for me at the store. As if I matter.

Officer Gingras knew what PTSD was and he helped me so compassionately, with such kindness.

And, finally of course, there's Bill who has been my rock, my best friend and everything I could dream of...been there for me through everything As if I matter.

Because my "You are nothing" runs so deep, the thought that I might matter, I might be important or valuable, is like (as I told my therapist) trying to get a rock to absorb water but I have to admit, these little pieces of compassion, acceptance, love...these kindnesses ....these small things (and big things) that you all have done, chip away at that rock and I want to thank you all.

Even though it aches, it's like pushing a sore tooth - it feels good, too.

The Shame that Binds You

My name is Cristina Johnson

Been reading Healing The Shame that Binds You by John Bradshaw. Just got it this morning and haven't been able to put it down. Shame is something that I've struggled with immensely - especially lately, but really all my life. This book is doing a good job of explaining why.

I'd even recommend this book for my recent ex - he would benefit from it - or anyone who's been through any form of child abuse.

There's a section that deals exclusively with sexual abuse and incest and I've been trying really hard to understand why I - a child - would feel ashamed over something that I had no control over. I mean, we - incest survivors - hear that all the time and cognitively we know it's true - it wasn't our fault - but internally we still carry this huge shame that we can't make sense of.

In the book, it talks about how children in varying stages but particularly at young ages, idealize and idolize their parents and their parents' behaviors. My parents are perfect so there must be something wrong with me. It must be my fault that I'm being abused because my parents are perfect. I must be bad!

For me it started with abandonment (not sure about other abuse) when I was preverbal...when bonds are created. But it begins with being not worthy enough for mommy or daddy to pay attention to you. I and my brother ended up in a foster home when I was very young - I don't know how young - but obviously this had a psychological affect on my psyche. And, given the circumstances under which we were living, I wouldn't doubt there was a lot of neglect on my mother's part. I do have one memory of it and it wasn't pretty. I was probably two or three.

And so it says in this book, the foundational years - first six months, then six to 18 months - there should be 'mirroring' but instead  what happens is our parents pass down their own shame, which was handed down to them, and so on. This can be in the form of any type of abuse - mild to severe, neglect to mental, to physical, to sexual abuse. All of which I and my brother endured.

My father's temper was violent and unpredictable. We were beaten a lot, indiscriminately, and without regard for dignity. We often endured punishments that kept us up until we were falling asleep standing up. I don't recall ever living with him, and not having holes in the walls.

But I idolized him.

And when he molested us, he would cry and I would go along because I couldn't stand to see him cry, even though I didn't want to do it, even though I knew it was bad and dirty. It must be my fault, though, right? Because Daddy's perfect.

So it is to this day...with everyone, until it just floods me...until I give in and allow myself to be vulnerable with someone, and then inevitably I shove them away because it's wrong to be weak. Wrong to show emotion. Bad, bad, bad. (Daddy would often chastise us for crying).

So in trying to understand shame, this deep, deep shame, I've been reading this book and it explains how you become your shame and that is exactly what I've been going through. Explains how - from being abused at such a young age - you lose your self. I have no sense of self. Who am I?

There's a part of me that I admit was hopeful that I would learn from the women in this area. I would learn sophistication and I would learn to be proper. I have a severe handicap but I really counted on compassion but without exposing myself, you know? I'd hoped I could sail through it, watching - observing - and learn to be "likeable" and "worthy".

I exposed myself to him, reluctantly... and I was met with exactly what I feared. This, I won't forget. It simply compounded my shame here - in this place, in these towns - and only made me more afraid to show my face anywhere.

I - like so many survivors - just want to be accepted and loved but the shame that grabs you and follows you and growls at you in your mind, keeps you from reaching out. 

God, if only people knew.

Please Don't Leave!

My Name Is Cristina Johnson

When I was five and six years old (the earliest my memories begin), I lived in Pensacola with my father, step-mother, step-sister and step-brother. At the time, my father was molesting me, my younger brother, and me and my brother simultaneously.

He was also very violent - very unpredictable, like huge violent waves crashing on the shore; you never knew what he was going to hit or when, just knew it would be destructive. He also had a very strong, powerful voice - very loud and frightening, especially to children.

But when he was molesting us, he was tender, kind, benevolent. It was the only time he was ever gentle.

Then, one day, without notice or warning or even knowing what was going on, I and my brother sat on our knees in the living room on the couch, staring out the window and I remember crying (can't remember if my brother was) and screaming as if he could hear me through the glass, "Please daddy!! Don't go!! Where are you going?? Please, Daddy! Don't go!!" as he threw one after another of huge black garbage bags into the burgundy Chevy van we had. To this day, I'll never be able to see a van and not think of it. Later that night, without explanation, my brother and I were put on an airplane to go back to St. Louis and live with our grandparents (his parents).

I say all of this because I experienced a severe panic attack this morning, and it brought back that feeling -  that horrible abandonment.

Yesterday, a friend came over and brought some beer. We (he, Bill and I) all had a pretty good afternoon, chatting and I cooked a great dinner for everyone. This friend - H - has PTSD and DID like me so we share a lot of commonalities and it's just nice to have someone to talk to who "gets it" - like, truly gets it.

Anyway, long story short, last night I was not myself. After H left, I did some things that weren't my nature and awoke this morning not remembering any of it, although I did remember that Bill promised the night before to go get cigarettes first thing in the morning and I would brew the coffee. So my memory of last night was splotchy with blank, black spots.

As Bill left to go get the cigarettes, memories came flooding back of last night and I freaked out - completely panicked - and began to shake. I was terrified.

And this is where the memory of my father leaving comes in:

It was taking Bill too long to go to the store and the story in my mind was, "You're bad. You're a bad girl!" and that Bill was leaving me...just like Daddy did 35 years ago.

"Please don't leave, Daddy!"

I panicked - ran all around the apartment, looking out the door and the windows, scared like a child. I was a child, but I was the child that Daddy used for sexual pleasure and then just left. The dirty child the unwanted child. The bad child. And Bill was leaving me because of it!

The truth was out and Bill knew it, now, and he was leaving!

"He's taking too long. He shouldn't be taking this long. Where is he? Oh my God he's leaving! It's all my fault!"

Please don't leave, Daddy!

Then I heard the rumble, after far too long, of his old Ford pickup truck pulling into the drive and I was overwhelmed with fear and confusion and shame.


He came in and I tried to tell him, tried to communicate but it wasn't coming out right (I was stuttering again) and he gently said, "Take your time. It's okay."

I explained that I didn't remember anything about last night and I was afraid and then I did remember some things (I was talking a mile a minute) and now I feel ......I couldn't say it.

"It's okay," he assured. "It'll be okay...everything will be okay...." he kept repeating as I sat on the bed rocking and shaking and crying.

"That's not what the story is in my head," I admitted to him cautiously, fearfully.

"What is the story in your head," he asked.

"D-D-Dir..." I couldn't speak it and he just kept stroking my hand and my shoulder and saying, "Take your time."

"Dirty!" I finally blurted out. "DIRTY! DIRTY! DIRTY!" came my rather loud, shameful confession. In my head, it was the voice of a child whose father used his perversions to show her "love" but left.

So there I was, stuck in 1976, staring out the front pane window as my father inexplicably left my brother and I to wonder, "Did we not do enough? Did I do something wrong? I must just be really bad and dirty."

At this point, I got a text from Gary. He had some of my stuff and wanted to bring it by. Oh great. Just what I needed. I was being thrown back to age six and at the same time being expected to handle things like the 41-year-old woman that I am today....which included facing one of the biggest triggers in my life: Gary.

He showed up. I didn't want him in the house. I was not well. I started to feel it in my stomach. I saw him and my skin was aflame almost instantly. The feelings come flooding back and mingle with my already disturbing feelings of being "bad" and "dirty" and here's this man who has proven, again and again, that I am bad and dirty and has told everyone about it! So now everyone knows I'm bad and dirty! Everyone knows! Oh God, get him out of here!

I began to tremble uncontrollably, tried to say "leave - just go" but couldn't get it out....finally managed and he left. Still as I know him - no difference. I know him. And he knows way too much about me. I walked away and didn't even watch him leave, because it was killing me - for the second time this morning.

I went inside and within minutes was vomiting.

Over the course of about three hours, Bill was there trying to comfort me, rubbing my back, holding my hand, telling me it'll all be okay, hugging me when I trembled, telling me to stop apologizing (I was dreadfully embarrassed and always am when I "lose control" like that)...just being a friend. "I won't leave you," he kept telling me, over and over. "I'm never going to leave you," he kept assuring.

So there are people who say to move on, get past it, get over it, stop looking for government handouts, etc. etc....

To those people, I say this is no picnic. My body is exhausted right now, and my mind is swimming in dark thoughts of self-loathing, self-blame and fear of being seen. Oh God how I don't want to live this life - some days it's all I can do to just get out of bed because I can't know if or when I'll be triggered; if or when I'll panic. I have so much to do - so many things to take care of - and it's like looking at life cross-eyed. Everything gets jumbled and mixed up. Even trying to read my bills, my vision blurs and I can't focus on it and I get confused by it.

I am fortunate that I have Bill (and a couple of other people) who understand what I am going through - they know this is torture and torment for me - and they also know how hard I am working to overcome it. I am so grateful.


Since I began posting my blog on my FB page, I have had people come out and share with me and show true compassion (a sorely lacking commodity in these small towns), understanding, empathy and encouragement. People I never expected to care, are showing they do.

I am grateful for this.

Just listen

I recently said in jest, that if I ever wrote a book for partners of incest survivors, I would entitle it "Bill"

Bill is a friend of mine. We've known each other over ten years.

He came to visit - just left about an hour ago, actually. He showed me a lot while he was here. I cried and cried and he listened. He hugged me, told me he understood and just...listened.

He didn't judge or offer advice; he didn't look at me funny or anything. He just listened. When I would gag (I gag a lot lately) he would ask me if I was okay. He wasn't pushy or arrogant; just concerned. Truly concerned.

He let met talk as long as I wanted to talk and then he validated me. He told me good things about myself - things I haven't heard in a long time, and things I need to hear.

For two nights, he let me stay with him (completely platonic, btw, because we are just friends) but even he saw the difference in me, when we neared this house, and as we drove away.

My nerves here are just shot. My heart broken and he listened to me pour it out... He never said a bad thing at all; just listened.

I realized it was the first time in years that I felt listened to and acknowledged. It was the first time in years that I felt I mattered - that I was important...that I'm worth someone's time. I'm worth someone's compassion.

He came for a couple of reasons but partly because he wanted to get a feel for what I need as I go through what I'm going through and I think, what he saw, was this crisis on top of a crisis. He calmed me down, told me he would help me... soothed me, promised me everything would be okay. He was honest - told me I didn't necessarily push people away, but that I definitely do test them. But he didn't say things like this in a condescending way, as if he knew some better way to be. It was a decade-long observation that he made, and that I accepted as true. Because it is true.

I didn't sleep too well those two nights, despite being away from the house, but I wasn't as sick as I have been, either. And I smiled. And I laughed, too.

I stuck my feet in the water at the dock...so did he. Something I haven't been able to do in years, without fear of ridicule or judgment.

We went today to see Cindy. She cut off all his hair (it'd been growing for three years - he had a ponytail!) so we went there and Cindy, too, echoed so many of the things that Bill had said.

It was ....something.

I can't describe it.

It was something indescribable to be sitting between two people who want me to heal. They want me to heal and not only that, but they want to help me through it. They don't want to leave me or run away. They want to understand as much as they can. They don't push or pull - they've been so gentle and so kind and I don't have any words. Just tears.

Mixed tears.

Tears of appreciation, and tears of longing.

Appreciation for what I have; longing for what I've missed all these years.

That ticker in my brain that keeps going, "You were never enough for him...." over and over.... it's all your fault, all your fault....

But now I have these people who are being authentic and kind and they're telling me they love me and they don't expect anything in return....just want me to heal.

This makes my heart ache. It makes me question everything I know and believe about myself. Everything I've always believed about myself.

It's not fair, what I'm going through.

And it's not fair that people gave up on me. I am worthy of being listened to until two in the morning if necessary. I am worthy.


Neither of them have shunned me for my suicide ideation or cutting; neither of them have chastised me for feeling so ashamed. Neither of them have put me down - not in the least. They lift me up. It is a little frightening, especially given the recent circumstances and how everyone just gave up.

They are helping me... sometimes just by listening.

Compassion for Incest Survivors

Yesterday I went to my spot with the intention of getting some sun. It's by the water so you can sit on the dock, get a good breeze and get some sun. The back yard is like a jungle with no breeze - no way was I going out there.

I knew there was a possibility that Gary might go by on his boat, but I could handle it (at least that's what I told myself).

For weeks, we've had this argument about how my personal business is my business, and nobody else's unless I choose to tell them. He disagrees and has repeatedly said, "people are compassionate, they care...yada yada...." and has also said it's none of my goddamn business what he tells others.

So yesterday, I'm sitting at my spot, getting some sun and some of those "compassionate" people came and rafted up right in front of me. Three boats on which I used to party along with the rest of them (and usually cook something because that was my way of fitting in). Not one waved. Not one single person waved. Boaters wave at everyone. But not one of them waved to me, never mind said "Hi! How are you?"

I just sat there rocking and crying intermittently.

That's the damage that happens when people tell your private business - all the way down to "what is she going to do? [now that we're breaking up and I'm not working]" - which is nobody's business. It's my business to tell, not his, and the appropriate answer is "I don't want to talk about her."

Because he shouldn't. Not only because he shouldn't, but because he has no discretion at all and just tells everything.

People do not have compassion for survivors of incest. I talked with my therapist about this last Friday and she agreed - most people don't have the capacity to handle it. People in her professional field sometimes even have problems with it, although she did say most other incest survivors have compassion.

To me, it's common sense because I've experienced it my whole life - the looks, the awkward tension, the way they gradually back away as soon as they find out. And they definitely don't want to talk about it or hear about it. In this way, it is an us-vs.-them kind of world that he doesn't understand. Survivors of incest have certain things broken - often as very young children - that results in phobias and behaviors that others simply don't understand - can't understand.

Compassion would be finding out - asking questions and listening to the answers. It would be waving when you see one, instead of pretending they're not there and it would be getting their side of the story, instead of sitting in judgment and ridicule.

My problem is I tried living here - in this place, among these people. I believed I was making a better life for myself and for my son. I truly believed I was moving up in the world.

I was really just moving farther and farther away from my abuse. Hiding behind multiple masks doing, as my therapist said, whatever I could to be liked. Nobody here was really my friend, even though Gary has said for years that they were. It's quite obvious now, that they weren't and aren't.

All these years, I was trying to be something I'm not - faking it. Gary recently told me (in his defense of talking about me behind my back) "People see you no matter what mask you wear." and I wonder what he meant by that because during my last session I literally sobbed, wracking sobs, over my fear that people would see the ugly inside of me and she said, "Nobody knows but you."

That's not true anymore, though. Now it's true - my biggest, greatest fear, my greatest shame is now out there like a fucking newspaper for everyone to read, and he gets to be writer, editor and publisher.

So cruel, so heartless, so callous and careless.

I remember one time when he referred to a woman at the marina as a "Crack Whore" and I was astonished and I chewed him out for it. He admitted he was wrong to say such a thing but he did - he said it - which shows the level of compassion in this place where I was trying so hard to fit in.

It wasn't long ago that I ripped my necklace from my throat and threw it because I felt so stupid for "dressing up" - stupid, stupid, stupid, I kept telling myself. Who do you think you are, to try to fit in?? Everyone sees it! Everyone knows you're a fake! A FREAK! 

 I sat on the edge of the bed and cried, thinking all these horrible things about myself.


Gary got angry with me. No compassion, just anger.

That's how much compassion there is in this town...in this state...in this world.