In or Out

What a horribly difficult and trying several days. Hurricane Sandy came in to visit. I was so mixed up over this...part of me was ready to take over and jump but part of me was crushed by memories of the last storm - Irene. I thought of Gary...thought of Tony....cried... questioned my own ability to do this right, so that Trevor would be safe and taken care of and fed.

The storm was supposed to hit New Jersey sometime Monday but Friday, preparations were already underway. They were telling us it was unprecedented and we faced days to weeks without power. There are many trees around my apartment and I was going through worse-case scenarios in my mind, wondering, questioning myself, "Can I do as good as Gary? Can I keep Trevor safe? What if a tree falls through his bedroom window?" (I moved his bed away from the window). What if one crushes my car? What if we go weeks without power and have no food and no transportation? Who would I call? Hah!

Nobody.

They're all probably over at Gary's house enjoying the provisions afforded by owning a boat. Propane stoves, ice chests galore, etc.

But that's not all.

Friday night, I received a text from an 18-year-old girl. She's been an online.....protege' if you will, for almost a year now. We grew very close because of our incest stories and other issues that are very similar.

Friday night the text reads (paraphrasing): "I am going out tonight so I won't be around much. Just wanted you to know so you wouldn't worry."

"Okay," I say, thinking nothing of it. Great! She's going to a party.

Ten minutes later, another text. "I'm nervous."

Oh shit.

"Why?"

And we played this little guessing game where she kind of beat around the bush which she does quite often (Understandable - I used to do the same thing at her age) until I finally figured out she was going to a place where she'd been drugged and raped before....and not long ago, either.

Now, as I explained in therapy today, we all have our own frame of reference. We can only see, truly, things through our lenses of experience. My experience has been - in such situations - horrendous terror, dissociation, anger, you name it, depending on the situation and the perpetrator.

Being surrounded by a group of pimps ("The Goodson Brothers" - they even had business cards. Get that!), locked in a room with a two-way deadbolt lock and tortured all night by several men. Unable to cry. Unable to feel anything except the thought - I must escape. Which I did. Under the guise of having to go to the bathroom. They wouldn't give me my clothes, just a blanket, so I wrapped up in the blanket and jumped from the second-story bathroom window. Not an easy feat.

Having a teenager pull a gun and point it straight at my face as his friends stood around and say, "Fuck this shit, I'm gettin' me some white pussy!"

"Then you better shoot me mother fucker, because that's the only way you'll get it."

He was tackled by his friends and they admonished me, saying he was about to shoot me because he was on whack (pcp).

Whatever. I didn't care.

These are the images I get when she tells me she's been raped or she's putting herself in a position to be raped.

I don't fault her for this - these self-destructive behaviors are actually common. One of the bases of our relationship was that there was never any judgment. I've been there. I know. I don't judge.

However, I have also repeatedly tried to explain to this young woman whom I've grown to truly admire, that I am not a therapist. Yes, a life coach, but no not active and I, too, am struggling on my journey. I, too, am trying to heal from the mental and emotional hemorrhaging that comes from so much trauma.

But me being the "motherly" type, I have grown and I am wiser now, than I used to be so the "situations" I get myself into are a bit more precarious and pose no physical threat. Mostly just emotional threats, dependency, etc.

A bunch happened that night. Some things just didn't add up and for the first time in our relationship, I didn't believe her and I was devastated.

Why? Why would she deliberately hurt me that way?

Obviously she doesn't know what images it conjures up for me. The demons it shakes, threatens to awaken.  The pain and suffering I went through, that I've yet to confront....and am not yet ready to, either.

She says she didn't lie. Swears she didn't.

So ...okay she didn't.

Why the texts? Why worry me, just after you've said you didn't want me to worry?

All while questioning my capabilities as a mother with Trevor, getting through this storm, the pending holiday (which I HATE and spent in the dark the entire time), not knowing where my son - Tony - was, nor if he was somewhere safe.

Did I get enough water? Did I get enough food? I don't think I did. I have to go back to the store. I need to stock up on gas and cigarettes. Oh, and beer of course. Cuz God only knows how long we'll be without power.

And my birthday is Saturday. I don't like my birthday because it's uncomfortable to receive gifts. Another thing on my plate.

Too much at once....and then this? In the middle of all of it?

It may sound small, but So many rapes...oh God...dear god so many rapes and beatings....being awakened in the middle of the night by at least ten men ripping your clothes off, holding down your arms and legs, as one sits on your chest, attempting to shove his penis in your mouth. Yes these are the images she brings to me and I don't want to touch them. Can't yet.

I can't take it... and she's never even known.

In or out. That's how it is. You're either in or out. In my life or out of my life and by "life" I mean, access to my weaknesses and vulnerabilities, my efforts and trials and errors and my fears and all the things that I hide from view.

Once you're in, you're in and it takes a lot to be pushed back out, but once you're pushed out, it's hard as hell to get back in. I have very few people "in" - she was one of them, to a degree, given her age. I tried to be a nurturing figure for her and now I'm seeing this as a mistake, when I should have just been a friend, even though I understand that insatiable hunt for a mother....for a family.

I've said, I need time....I just need time.....

That's how I work.

Cutting and Self-Harm

My name is Cristina D. Johnson.

This isn't an easy blog to write... it's full of stuff that nobody wants to talk/hear about: Self-harm.

I attempted suicide more than once in my life but more recently, in October (?) of last year and then March of this year. Tried overdosing. I'm not the only person who does this, who has my disorders.

Yesterday was a bad day for me. I was overwhelmed and buried, flooded and confused.

Yesterday was Gary's birthday. I cried most of the day.

That wasn't the worst, though...knowing he's celebrating his birthday with his new girlfriend and all the old friends I once knew. (I did call and leave him a voice mail, wishing him a tearful happy birthday).

I also went and got my driver's license renewed, and I got fuel for the house - for heat. Now, this might not seem like a big deal, but to me, it was shameful that it was a big deal. Like whoopy-doo...you managed to do something pretty much anyone in the world could do? I was ashamed for feeling I'd accomplished something. "I feel so stupid," I remarked to Bill in a text, but I couldn't elaborate on it. I just felt so stupid. Celebrate getting your license? You idiot...

I was also overwhelmed by increasing evidence of my DID. I'd apparently spoken to Bill on the phone and spoke in the voice of a child...whispering...saying "Shh! he's coming! Here he comes! Shh!"

This really threw me because I didn't remember it but when I put it together with all the other DID stuff that's happened, the mounting evidence that I suffer from this affliction makes me sick. Sick. I don't want to be that fucked up! No no no! But, alas I must admit I dissociate. A lot. In fact, I was with Michelle when I actually remembered that I'd gotten my driver's license yesterday.

There were a few other things but the worst came when I thought about going to court tomorrow. I began to panic, and I mean PANIC. What if they take me to jail? They'll take Trevor away! OH MY GOD!

I was inconsolable. I was making plans. I called Cindy, I called Bill I told Cindy where there's money so she could buy Bill a plane ticket home. "Please, please don't let them take my baby," I cried desperately. The feeling that was flooding me is indescribable. Trevor....Trevor is what keeps me going every day. He has no idea the strength he gives me. I don't lean on him, mind you. I know the harmful effects of that, but I look at him, and I watch him and I know he needs me and it keeps me straight, although there are nights when I can't be a "mom" and - because Trevor is so, so smart and we're so attuned to one another, he knows that it's a bad night for mom. He's autistic - supposedly incapable of feeling emotions - but with me, he gets it.

We've talked about our disorders. For many years I never told him anything but one day, he asked me about the cuts on my arms and I explained to him that it's part of my disorder (anyone with any experience with an autistic child, knows you can't bullshit them and just coming straight out with the truth [to their capacity] is the best way). He asked a few more questions. I don't feel he has a complete grasp on my disorders, but he understands more than any teenager you'll meet.

I don't know what happened but I cut last night... somehow it serves so many purposes. I emailed my therapist, told her I'd cut. I actually said, "I am emailing you to tell you that I cut tonight. The reason I'm emailing you is because I don't want to talk about it."

Incest survivors, particularly, are prone to self-harm and self-injury. It could be in the form of bulimia, hair-pulling, cutting, overdosing, alcohol abuse, or any other kind of self-destructive, self-effacing, self-abusive means.

There's all kinds of literature out there about it but I'm just gonna tell you straight out: It relieves pain. It releases a rage you're afraid to feel. To see blood or vomit helps you know you're alive - you're a living person, not a shell.

In reference to cutting, I've actually read that - in the schools nowadays - it's the new "anorexia" for teenage girls. Many girls cut.

But most cut in hidden places. I have one friend who cuts on her inner thighs. I've known them to cut on their ankles, their upper arms, their stomachs. Anywhere....anywhere, just to bleed.

Me, I've always cut my wrists. I had a short bout with bulimia and I was a hair-puller in my 20's.

There's another reason people do this: It's a scream for help. It's a way of saying, "I have this pain inside me and it's eating me alive but I can't show it to you or tell you about it." And they won't. They won't tell you about it.

Today, in therapy - though I had said I didn't want to talk about it - it was the elephant in the room. I know - because of the many moments of awkward silence, that she was giving me room, just in case I brought it up.

And I did.

There's practically no worse feeling than waking up with a couple gashes in your arms (one of them really needs stitches but you can't go to the emergency room for stitches on your wrist because most doctors don't understand that it's not a suicide attempt) and then knowing you scared the shit out of everyone who matters to you.

You feel like a loser, a failure, a mistake, hopeless, omg what's wrong with me?

Yet, there's also this strange fascination and even a sense of pride... you want everyone to see....but you want nobody to see.

Oh God if I could stand in the middle of the world on a huge podium and shout, LOOK! LOOK AT MY WOUNDS!! and somehow, magically, everyone would understand it's not a manipulative way of getting pity; it's not "for show" (as I've been accused of by my ex); it's not to show off how you've hurt yourself.

If I could show everyone these wounds and these scars, and somehow give a voice to them...let the wounds and scars talk for themselves... oh how I wish people would/could learn.

Gratefully, those closest to me (Cindy, Bill, Hannah, Howie) understand (and understood last night) that calling the police or ambulance is the worst mistake in the world. They understood I was overwhelmed. They know (a couple of them because they, too, experience this insurmountable pain and rage), that it's a temporary release.

I just want to note here, that I would never let Trevor see me cut and he does not know it happened, just in case anyone's wondering. He was safe in bed, asleep.

Self-injury is punishment for the "bad" that we are, because we did things. We performed fellatio on our fathers or cousins or uncles. We "allowed" ourselves to be raped. We created our own misfortunes and we must be punished. It's so, so, so much easier for me to turn my anger on myself, than it is to be angry at the father who beat, humiliated, tormented, molested and abused me (and my brother). Being angry at him is just unheard of.

In therapy today, I finally broke down and cried.

"Why do I do this?"

"What?"

I couldn't respond. She gave me a minute as I held my wounded wrist (covered by a long-sleeved shirt) to my face, wiping my tears, staring out the window.

"Why I cut. Why do I hurt people I love? Why do I cut and then tell everyone? Why do I cut?" I asked.

Very gently, very calmly, she responded, "If all your scars and your wounds could tell me their story, what would they say?"

Oh dear God what a great question.... and one I must mull over. It was frightening to even answer it to her.

Cutters are not losers. They're not idiots or manipulators. They know exactly what they're doing, even if they don't always understand why.

Next time you see a slit wrist, just know it has a story to tell.