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.

Weakness Versus Strength

My "friend" said to me, "...I'm sick of your...woe is me" and "[Your] 'nobody gets it' is old."

This from someone who said "she gets it" for months, but after saying these - among other things - she clearly doesn't get it, and never did. I told her as much. Told her it was an insult to suggest she understood.

People in these little sheltered towns (and, I assume, all over the country and even the world) just think you're supposed to get up, get a job, get moving, move past it, get over it.

What that means is, put on the mask you've always worn, pretend it's okay, hush, hush, hush - nobody wants to hear your tale of woe.

This is the viciousness of the cycle of abuse. The taboo - the keep the secret. Don't tell anyone - act like everything is normal.

For me, nothing is normal - especially right now - and some would call me weak. I am weak. I am extremely weak right now. I can't focus on anything; I'm easily overwhelmed; easily triggered; can't sleep; feel exhausted; can't eat (get sick when I try to); just can't function. Can't even read a book - one of my favorite pastimes for years. Think this is fun? Being weak?

Or...

Is it being weak? Isn't being "weak" and being vulnerable, paradoxically strong?

Because I gotta tell you: Right now, I am the last person I ever wanted to be. I wanted to stay the way I was, with my happy face and my forward motion, fake though it may have been. If I could go back and just be in denial so everyone would like me, I would.

But to me, that is weak.

Pretending to be something you're not in order to hide the shame, the secret, the truth - that is weak. That is giving in to societal pressure. Pretending to be friends with people, pretending to be strong, pretending it didn't affect you.... that is weakness.

So, for my "friend" - and anyone else - who thinks I should just pick myself up by my bootstraps and get a job and move on, I say this: get educated and stop being fake.

Right now, in my life, I'm being as real and raw as it gets. I don't need peoples' advice who haven't been there and who do not know my history or the pain I am in. In fact, they don't even know the truth about my current situation....it's all one-sided. Solidly unfair, but it is, what it is.

I am being weak, yes, and it's about goddamn time. I've spent my whole life being strong, being whatever I thought others wanted me to be. Now I'm finding the real me - and that takes a hell of a lot of strength and courage. The nightmares, flashbacks, triggers, nausea - all constant. It's a horrifying experience.

And I'm doing it without those so-called "friends" - the ones who can't take the truth, who can't bear witness to my pain.

But at least I have real friends - the ones who know, who are willing to learn, who understand, who would never betray me. At least I have that and that's more real than every single fake friend in these towns.