Tenderness

I suppose you could say I'm kind of writing to write. Sort of stream-of-conscience. But not really.

Through most of my life, a tender touch always made me cry. Always, without question and often to the point of shoving the tenderness away, until my later years. I suppose I calloused myself to it, though I still hold a weakness for certain touches (the face, particularly).

I've always maintained my favorite English word is "whisper."

Today I sit and listen to Rain by Patti Griffith.

Rain is a silent, private tenderness. Delicate. I've never done "delicate" very well. A tough girl. A tomboy. Dresses make me feel like an alien (except during my promiscuous period, during which time the higher the heels and the tighter & shorter the dress/skirt, the better). Still even then I was seeking that tenderness that I almost always rejected. Strange oxymoron, I know.

Whisper....whisper is soft, like the breeze...I always envision it riding on the wind, sailing across the world, over oceans. Whispers of wishes and dreams and broken hearts.

Tears....tender.

So hard to cry...can't stand that tender part of me, that cries from some place of deep wounds and darkness. I can cry angry tears because anger is not tender, but tender tears are.

Tenderness is so hard to take...to accept. To be understood and validated hurts more than anything else because it's so foreign. To be accepted hurts because it's not believable.

To trust......all the years I've spent thinking I was trusting when, in truth, I've never trusted anyone completely. There are still secrets, dark ones where I can't let tenderness invade. Places of my own torment that - ironically, out of tenderness - I don't want others to see or experience.

Tears, rain, whispers, winds. Things that fade, but hurt so much because they touch something I avoid and always have.

That's why tenderness hurts.

Hardest Parts

My name is Cristina D. Johnson.

All of my life, I have been able to recount numerous attacks - physical, mental, emotional, sexual - but never with any connection to them. Like telling someone else's story. This keeps me from burdening people.

It's occurred to me lately that perhaps the hardest part of all of it, is accepting that it happened to me. These things happened to me. Or, perhaps, the hardest part is accepting that these things affected me.

Maybe it's a two-part hardest part.

I still talk about my experiences from afar. I think maybe I do this because I fear peoples' reactions. I don't know about others, but for me it's always been difficult/uncomfortable to be in the presence of someone who is crying.

Not always, but most  times.

So I spare people. I talk about it as if I am talking about the latest movie I saw.

So what's the fix for this?

How do I break that barrier in my mind that prevents me from accepting these things? How do I break through that wall that keeps the memories away? How do I make sense of the fragments I hold?

How do I begin to feel?

I am not PTSD. I am not DID.

I am Cristina Johnson.

But who is Cristina Johnson?

What will I be, when the walls and barriers are gone and the feelings show up? What will happen?

Who will I be?

Ouch...

My name is Cristina D. Johnson.

Today was a tough, tough day.

I even considered voluntary hospitalization today because I was so afraid and because I literally felt as if I was losing my mind. For those who know me, this would tell them I was in a really bad place today. Hospitalization is an abhorrence of mine. I have been traumatized via hospitalization too many times to count. To consider it voluntarily, is like moving the Lincoln Monument.

Today, I came up here - to my writing room - and I cried. I came up here so nobody would hear me and because there was nowhere else to go. I felt ashamed. Today I came up here and I cried a deep, aching cry. I needed Michelle. I dialed her number several times and hung up. Finally, up here, I dialed it one last time and I heard her voice - her voicemail - and I left a message.

Although I felt such shame for such a heart-wrenching cry, I calmed a little after hearing her voice, even if only a recording.

Yesterday's session left me rattled and shaken. Today, I watched Law and Order, Special Victims Unit, Season 9, Episode 15.

That was it.

I have never, ever had a problem watching violence and rape in movies. I mean, there are some things that are too grotesque for me to watch, but violence and rape, I have always been able to handle. It's never made me emotional.

But this episode, well...it was chock full of triggers.

rape
child of the system
arrested for drugs without actually being involved
abuse of authority
lock up
orange jumpsuits
big, thick, brass keys
woods
machete's
the showers

I can't even describe how many things were there...how true this episode is to the experience.

However, that said, I watched the whole episode untouched, unmoved.

Disconnected.

Until the end. The very end.

The victim - an SVU detective - is asked, directly, "Did he rape you?"

and my soul felt like it was shot out of a canon into and through moments in time...dozens or hundreds of times when I couldn't answer that question.

The assault scene was difficult, but I managed it.

It wasn't until that question was asked: "Did he rape you?" that I was hurled into a blackened, charred history of uncertainty, childishness and terror.

And I felt it.

For the first time in my life, I felt these bizarre feelings. These intense emotions and I was bombarded with the question of "Why?"

Why? Why? Why?

I think about others and I think about children and child abuse and I am astonished by what is done to them but never have I been able to look at myself and feel, "Wow, that hurt. Ouch."

I wish I had written earlier but my mind was shattered. I wish I could have seen Michelle earlier. I wish I could have talked to her. I was riddled with emotions that were pulling me so deep, so deep. Deep into something I have never felt and it frightened me.

Bill and I talked the other night about how frightening out-of-body-experiences (OBE's) are, and it was like that today. Exactly like that. I felt like I was losing myself. Drowning. I couldn't see. I couldn't think. Every bump made me jolt in my seat. I was terrified. I fantasized about going to my neighbor, going anywhere...but then it felt like my body was tied down to an anchor and I couldn't move. I was crushed and crushing...I was immobile and absolutely confused and terrified.

I ran through my mind so many different times in my past. Was that rape? Was this rape? Was it rape if I didn't say no? I didn't say "no" because I knew I couldn't say no, but does that mean yes? Is that rape? If he didn't penetrate me, is that rape? Did I ever fight back that hard?

I bent my brain desperately reaching for memories, trying to recall moments when I fought. There are times when I know I did. Times I remember.

The man who nearly strangled me to death. I remember I must have fought because he wouldn't have strangled me if I hadn't fought, right? I don't remember how I came to be at the place where we were. Was it a motel? An apartment? I don't remember a kitchen. I remember the television and the nightstand and the rotary phone. I am confused. I thought - because I was street smart - that he was one of those that was full of piss and wind and he wouldn't kill me. I could mock and intimidate him. I could beat him at his game and he wouldn't hurt me.

I thought...

But he almost killed me.

In the end, he didn't (obviously) and in the end, I was right: he was malleable. I remember laying there - I was around 13 - and he was limp, flacid. Pre-semen hung like sinew from the head of his dark penis and I knew he was infected. I made fun of him and told him he couldn't rape me because he couldn't even get it up because he was diseased. I knew, somehow, this would work.

And it did.

I remember I tricked him. I convinced him that I cared about him and that I would come back when he had healed himself of his disease. Probably syphilis or gonorrhea. These were rampant in those days.

And...I remember that I fought the men off who attacked me when I slept.

Did I scream? I don't remember.

I know as one sat on my chest, his testicles against my neck and he kept  trying to shove his penis in my mouth, the rest were ripping off my clothes and I was kicking and fighting and I didn't mean to but I kicked on in the nuts and he said to me, "Don't ever kick my nuts you white bitch!" and he slammed me in the mouth with his fist. They threw me out into the snow and I was wearing very little. I was frozen. I was 12 or 13.

I must've fought, right?

There must've been sometime in the past when I fought....

I said "no" to Daddy twice...twice...

The first time, he hurt me sexually. The second time, he smothered and choked me.

Did I learn to not say no?

I am so confused and hurt and bewildered.

The feelings I felt as I sobbed, briefly, today...I should say "allowed myself to sob" today...

These feelings were too much. Too hard.

Too much.

I wished Michelle were here. I wished she could see it so she could tell me what was happening.

I wished I could just do it all right then in that moment. I thought, god please let this be all I need to feel, to heal.

But I knew - and I know - that wasn't it.

There is more.

I shut it down. I am good at that.

This pain...this is worse than anything I have ever known, yet it is the track on which my train travels and I cannot move forward, without the track.

I won't get off track. I may stop or stall, but I will not get off.

It kills me - some part of me felt stolen today - but I will stay on track.

I will do this. God help me, I will.

Summer... ever the same?

I should be festive.

I should be happy.

I should be content.

There are so many better things in my life now, than there were just six months ago, a year ago. Five years ago, perhaps.

I've discovered some true friends. Sadly, this discovery led me to the awareness that true friends are rare so it's a double-edged sword. I suppose, for me, it's weird because I don't really know "real friends" - I've never allowed myself to have them, even if they were there.

I've had people - strangers and those I know and people in between - contact me because of my writing and tell me thank you....thank you for sharing your story and your journey. Thank you for giving me the courage to speak out. Thank you for saying what I've never been able to say. They tell me they relate on some levels they relate (which, in my opinion, at least, is them saying yes....I, too, have been sexually assaulted).

I've been encouraged by a number of people - too many to list - to keep writing, keep telling my story.

I have a fantastic therapist who I see (usually) twice a week - although this week was disrupted because of the Newtown shooting and she was recruited to counsel there. Our sessions are a good balance of one heavy, sobbing session, followed by two or three light-hearted, discussions, followed by another snotty, slobbering, bawling session.

I've been more honest with myself than I've ever been in my life. The things I see hurt. The things I feel - or am starting to feel or sometimes feel or whatever - are devastating. Feelings..... Oh man.

Even with someone like Bill - someone who's been there for over a decade. Someone who is more authentic, kind, gentle, patient and honest than anyone you'd ever know... even with Bill I remain guarded.

Which really says a lot about me, to myself. Because I logically know there is no reason to fear him....yet I do. Actually, I don't fear him, I fear feelings.

Feelings like I'm having right now as I listen to Tonight I Wanna Cry by Keith Urban.

During the last several weeks at Gary's house, this song was on repeat because the words fit so well. I was so alone. There were pictures of us everywhere. He was gone. Gone with "our friends" - out partying, talking about me, telling people about my "issues" - "issues" for which I carry such deep, deep shame and guilt. Issues that were private.

I felt so much at that time. So much, that just listening to this song again, brings it back to me, as if I were still sitting there in the basement, alone, afraid, panicking. So alone. So scared. So devastated.

I remember his touch - before everything fell apart. I remember his quirkiness and things he did that made him, him. I remember his kiss. I remember his hands.

Mostly, though, I remember how we just scrambled along together, completely clueless and aimless, unsure - in unfamiliar territory. Neither of us knowing how to feel.

Really feel.

It wasn't until the end that I felt the most profound feelings. The hurt....God. The fear... My God.

There was complete and utter loneliness. Darkness.

He left me. I was dumbfounded.

I understand, in hindsight. I know why, yet it also plays on my own self-loathing. Logically, I understand a man like Gary couldn't have endured this journey, even if my heart wanted him to. But emotionally, I was so vulnerable - too vulnerable, too needy.

He couldn't carry that, and I understand.

But at the time, when I could do nothing but pop another cap off a Corona, escape to the river, listen to music...anything...anything to numb, to escape.... I couldn't stand him being there....couldn't stand him not being there.

Desperate doesn't begin to describe it.

So I wonder, if - as I listen to this song now, and these feelings erupt in my chest like a bomb going off - will Summer ever be the same?

Will August ever be one of my favorite months again? A time to sit in the sun, soak in the rays and the warmth of the sky. Stick my feet in the water.

Will I ever be able to look at a dock or a boat or a jet ski or a 'raft-up' again and not want to break down and cry or crumble completely inside.

There's some part of me inside that looks at those in my life now and I think, yes...yes I can make new memories. I have always told my children that: Make memories. Nobody can take them away from you.

What do I do with the ones that hurt?

Will they ever go away? This kind of hurt, I mean?

We all go through break-ups. I've been through break-ups before.

This one hurt. Really bad. Really, really bad.

I'd chosen, for the first time ever in my life, to stay - to dare to hope and to dare to trust - and it was the wrong person. I know, I know...it's been said a million times by as many people but this is my life and my story and my journey and my pain.

I've wondered, does it mean I still love him? Does knowing, that if I were to see him right now, I would shatter again, mean that I still love him? How is it holding me back?

How do I let go of my fear and let down my guard, when I still choke on my own tears, as I remember those horrible, painful, lonely, terrifying nights alone in the basement?

I wonder if he learned as much from me, as I did from him.

Is it really possible to always love someone, even when they're not in your life? Really?

And, if so, is it possible to love someone else?

How does that work?

How do I do this?

One thing I know is this: Those who saw my suffrage and my agony, are still with me. Gentle, tender, loving, guiding, non-judgmental, giving and compassionate.

So what is wrong with me?

I am on the fence with the whole "feelings" thing. Sometimes - well, every time, really - I feel something, I don't like it. Part of the journey.

He was part of the journey. Still is, in a lot of ways.

I want to cover it up with new memories but I know  that's not the right thing to do. Rather, that's what I've always done.

It takes real conscious effort to sink into that despair and confusion and let it flow. I still don't know how to do it....but I'll figure it out.

And one day, maybe, I'll be able to thank him, instead of all the other feelings I have right now.

But for now, I will turn off this song, enjoy good company and let it sink back down under the surface.... save it for a time when I know what to do with it.

For now, I will try.

Worse, before it's Better

As Michelle (my therapist) has pointed out, the closer we get to the underlying issues and memories I have, the closer we get to the emotions. This is turning out to be painfully - excruciatingly - true.

I find I am far more sensitive now and more easily triggered. I want to cry more often. I ache more often. I am confused more often and I shut down more often. I am overwhelmed far more easily and I panic more often.

When she called me yesterday to cancel our appointment for today because she's been recruited to help counsel those involved with the Newtown shooting, I was immediately panicked. Not just because of that, but because I'd just gone to the grocery store and it started then. I was getting some groceries with Bill and I began to feel things closing in on me - the walls began to close in, the people got closer and louder and I was starting to get confused. I couldn't get out of there fast enough.

We go to the car and I lit a cigarette with slightly trembling hands.

"It's okay, honey," Bill assured me.

As we drove to the gas station, my angst grew and I was trying desperately to do the "belly breaths" and calm myself down. I wasn't sure entirely what was causing my anxiety but Bill got out of the car and it got worse. Part of me was glad he wasn't there to see it. It is embarrassing to be so visibly helpless, to feel so afraid.

I jolted when my phone rang. Ironically, I just downloaded a new ringtone - something melodic and calming. Still, the sudden shatter of the quietness in the car, startled me.

The name was my therapist. At first I was overcome by a fear that I'd done something wrong and she was calling me to tell me I was bad. I know this is irrational, but this was my instantaneous first thought. "Oh God I did something bad and now she's going to leave me!"

I answered the phone. "Hello?"

I heard her familiar voice, "Cristina? Hi hon. How are you?" she asked, probably detecting my unrest. She is exceptionally perceptive.

"I'm - I'm okay," I stammered. "I just had a minor panic attack that's all. Just let the grocery store."

"Oh no, take some deep breaths," she reminded me gently. "You're safe now."

I tried. God I tried but then she said, "I'm calling because I have to cancel our appointment for tomorrow," she said calmly and apologetically. "I have been recruited to go help in Newtown," she explained.

She's leaving me! She's leaving me!

I was immediately trembling ten times worse. Not only because she was cancelling, but also because it brought up the Newtown incident, which - for me - brought out a whole slew of irrational emotions that have been holding me down since I wrote about them.

"Okay," I answered, shakily, trying desperately to hide my fear and disappointment.

She assured me that we would be in touch and do our regular session on Thursday and I told her good luck, before hanging up.

Unable to control my pulse, the heat of my skin, my trembling and the nausea, I grabbed frantically for my purse, reached inside for a Risperdal disintegrating tablet. I was glad the windows were fogged up and that Bill had not yet returned to the car.

When he finally did, he took my hand. He asked me if there was anything he could do. I shook my head, no and pulled my coat closely around me, frustrated by the seatbelt that was serving as an inconvenience to the task.

We had to go to the laundromat. I didn't want to go in. "I don't want to be seen," I told Bill after he asked me if I would like for him to put the clothing in the dryer.

"But I have to do it," I said.

I blocked out everything. Turned everything off. Just shut down and did whatever I had to do, still a little jumpy; Everyone in the laundromat seemed suspect. They were all staring at me. I felt small - so small - but defiantly (as I was when I was young) continued with the laundry chore.

"Do you want to go back out to the car?" Bill asked. Yes... Yes, I need to get out of here.

Everything is a little bit of a blur. We came home. I made dinner. Bill stayed with me the whole time.

My thoughts race. My heart pounds. My decisions are difficult. Sometimes I just wish I could go to sleep and not wake up.

Nope. No feelings.

Started to feel
felt a rip
reached for the drawer
grabbed my scrip
tears choked me
I gagged on the pills
but needed to stop
the bleeding that spills
into my bones
floods my mind
relentless, cruel
pounding, unkind
turned it off
like I was taught
within this whirlwind
I won't be caught
I refuse to look
at the reality
that keeps coming back
and tormenting me

Everything just simmers there inside me, scorching me with unknowing and uncertainty. I am afraid to feel because I don't know what is right or appropriate. I am afraid.

Relationships and PTSD/DID

My therapist and I have talked about relationships...how you're always in a relationship, whether with your partner, children, neighbors or the grocery store clerk. These are relationships.

In having these discussions, we've talked about regulating emotions - something that's super hard. I wish I had a map, or some way to draw a picture of how it works.

I can have a relationship with someone and if they're doing things that hurt themselves, I try to be a good friend to them, I try to help and support and encourage. On some level, there's compassion and understanding and it doesn't put me off. I don't take it personally, for example, if someone cuts. I know it's part of their journey and struggle. I just try to be there for them.

I can also have that same relationship and have them do something that frightens or angers me and I shut down. It goes through my brain, processed immediately - instantaneously - and I completely shut down.

Intellectually, I am realizing, "Okay people are fallible. Everyone makes mistakes." but this part inside of me that's shut down is saying, "No, HELL no! DANGER! DANGER!"

I recently had a falling-out with a friend. A good friend. A good, good, good long-time friend. And the timing was really bad, too, because I was "mourning deeply" (as my therapist put it) the loss of my relationship with Gary and all the friends that went with it.

It affected me so badly, that I essentially cut everyone off. I really didn't want to talk to anyone, although I did briefly. For days, though, I screened my calls and was relatively unavailable. I mean, if it could happen with this person, it could happen with anyone!

But because we're so close - and always have been - we're kind of talking about it. Kind of. I'm trying to be different, trying to handle things differently than in the past where I would simply walk away....fast.

I'm trying to use my intellect, rather than my emotions....people are fallible, it's not fair to blame him, it's okay... but the dialogue inside is so much different. The fear of abandonment; the fear of hurt and pain...the story that plays in your head your whole life about not being good enough (all on the heels of a very loud and clear such message from Gary and his friends). It hurts and even if I recognize the irrationality of it, I don't know how to fix it.

Regulating emotions. I've written about it before....it's a struggle. The emotions are so intense.

That's why relationships - at least for me, and I'm sure, many other incest survivors - are so intense.

To my dear friend: I love you. I always have and always will. I'm so sorry that I am so damned difficult. I know I am fortunate to have you in my life. There is absolutely nobody in this world like you and I know you love me... I'm just afraid and trepidatious right now.

All my love.

Good feelings that hurt

My name is Cristina D. Johnson

I have so much to say tonight. I hope I don't ramble. I had a very exciting session today.

Something really huge happened Monday, but I didn't realize it at the time. In my blog, "To Show or Not to Show," I wrote:

"She brought her other hand up to gently squeeze my shoulder. This made a part of me scream inside, "DON'T BE KIND TO ME!!!! STOP IT!!"

It hurt more to have her be that kind - to touch me despite my wound - and say those words, than anything else."

This session brought up something very deep, that I wasn't expecting, but being willing to explore it, I looked within myself and started questioning why I felt that way. Why I reacted like that internally, though I didn't say a word. That session affected me so deeply, in fact, that as soon as I got home, I vomited. It was that powerful.

I talked with Cindy at length about it and then later, talked with Bill but it was right before dinnertime, just after he'd gotten off work. I said to him in a text, that I loved him - I truly love him - in a place that hurts. He couldn't have known this, but I was speaking from that wounded place - that place that feels this intense feeling. But since he didn't know, his response frightened me and shut me down. I almost went to bed but instead, this time, decided I would tell him.

And we talked about it at length....I told him I have this huge, huge wall but there are pinholes in it and every once in awhile, he or Cindy will reach through it and touch that part of me. It's very childlike and afraid.

It's also very frightening to feel so I am always on guard - always have been - and I'm only now realizing this.

The next day, I wrote "Tenderness Kills," and I wasn't going to post it on my facebook page like usual, but I did send it to my therapist. It's always been easier for me to write than speak. I never heard back from her so I was very nervous to go see her today.

"So, tell me about your email," she said after our opening pleasantries.

I told her, as I was writing it, that I envisioned a child, cowering, always afraid...always waiting for the next foot to fall.

So she asked me about that...and I explained.

Family meetings.

These were meetings held every day where Daddy and his wife and her two kids (ages 13 and 16) would meet in the family room with my brother and I. We were five and six years old. Each time, Daddy would have us stand in front of him and he would  tell us all the things we'd done wrong that day. He would then make us take off our clothes as the rest of them looked on, and he would put us over his knees and beat us with a wooden spoon. He would then tell us to get our clothes and go to our rooms. We could hear the others snickering behind our backs. Perhaps the worst parts of these meetings was when Daddy would cry, making me feel as if I were the lowest life form on earth (he also did this when he molested me, and I would do whatever he wanted, hoping to stop him from crying).

I told her about my mother's lying - so many lies - and how, when I tried to tell her about my abuse, she said to me, "Oh that's nothing. You should try...." and then she went on to tell me some story of her childhood, completely invalidating me. That was when I was 12 and I never talked with her about it again.

I lived on the streets and in the system from age 12 until I ran away and got pregnant at 15. I was kidnapped, first though, at age 11. When we lived in North Carolina with my father, he strangled me and smothered me as he molested me. He beat us and constantly stormed around, punching holes in the walls or breaking furniture. He was unpredictable and frightening (except for most of the times he molested us when we were younger).

"So no wonder you envisioned a child cowering," Michelle said. "It seems that's all you've ever done."

"Yes, it is," I agreed.

As we began to talk more about this "part," I became increasingly excited to have an explanation for what had happened the night of our previous session so now, hopefully I won't confuse the reader by going back to Monday night, when I'd told Bill what I had.

Part of me shut down with Bill's response to my profession of love for him.

But I emailed him - it was too much to say in texts - trying to explain it. All cerebral, but with this new awareness of this FEELING that I didn't realize I had.

The rest of the night, we texted back and forth but I remembered very little of it the next day. I discovered the next day I'd emailed and called my attorney, I'd opened a window and I'd gotten coffee ready to be brewed. I did not remember any of this. This is where  DID comes in. If you understand the Internal Family System's Model, there are three "types" of parts: Managers, Firefighters and Exiles.

Managers (to cope) are the "parts" that handle day-to-day stuff, keep things in order, get groceries, pay bills, etc. They manage.

Exiles (hurt)are the "parts" that hold very powerful, intense emotions - pain, rage, fear, shame, among others - and are usually young parts, stuck in a place in time where they are still being abused.

And the Firefighters (compulsive) are the ones who come in when the exiles are starting to emerge and the managers can't handle it.  The Firefighters either watch over and soothe the Exiles or they hush them by any number of means, including binging, cutting, distracting, drugs/alcohol, shopping, etc. There's a whole list but when the "system" (the term used to describe the multiple parts of someone with DID) becomes disrupted, the Firefighters step in and take over.

This is what happened Monday night: First the overwhelming session with Michelle, then the issue with Bill - all surrounding this young, wounded part of me.

One of the Firefighters said, "Oh no, no way" and I think has always said, "Hell no. Do not be tender to me!" because this other part - this part that loves so intensely, is very authentic and young and open.

So if I go by the Internal Family Systems model, it would seem that I have an Exile that is beaten down, terrified and wants to be loved, that's being protected by a firefighter that's saying "hell no, stay away!"

But now that I understand it more, it makes more sense and I feel like there's going to come a time when I can talk to that part - or those parts (?) - and soothe them myself.

I never truly understood why it hurt so much  to hear my grandmother say, "Oh honey, I'm so sorry," when she came to the police station and found me beaten and bloodied after my kidnapping. In my mind, for all my life, I've always felt that it was the worst possible thing she could have said to me.

Now I know why: Don't be kind to me!

Of course, there were constant reiterations and reinforcements of this belief....going through so many rapes by men who said they were there to help me; being molested by men in the system; being attacked in hospitals. Why would a child expect kindness or tenderness after that? Why would I expect (or feel comfortable receiving) kindness or tenderness. For years, a soft, tender touch would make me cry. I still sometimes whimper.

Over the past few months, I've felt that terrifying feeling for Bill and for Cindy. Through those pinholes.

I want to explore it more...open them up....break down that wall....

I'm both afraid and excited about it.

Feelings

My name is Cristina D. Johnson

The past couple of days have been hard - dissociated the other night, got overwhelmed by thoughts and memories of "him" and today....just started uncontrollably crying - again, thoughts of "him" and berating myself for feeling.

Sitting in the parking lot at Stop and Shop bawling, hitting my steering wheel and inside, screaming at myself, "Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!"

I don't want to feel anything. I don't want to feel this pain and this confusion. I'm confused about what I feel. What do I feel? I am rather new to this. I've never really been allowed to have feelings - mostly because I didn't trust my feelings. Didn't trust anything about myself so I just go with the crowd, run with the traffic, do, act and be whatever everyone else is...because I don't have a fucking clue who I am.

Now I have these fucking feelings that I can't help but feel and it is killing me. It's confusing me. I don't know what to feel or if what I'm feeling is right or wrong.

I feel so deeply betrayed and hurt and dear God so wounded....so wounded. Part of me that was once bitterly angry, is now just bleeding pain inside. I was never anything - I never mattered and oh God how that hurts. God how that hurts. I was nothing. I was dispensable. I was unimportant. Nothing I wanted, ever mattered. Ever.

Oh God that hurts.

And there won't ever be closure. There won't ever be amends. How desperately I wish he could see my pain. How desperately I wish he could know how much more damaged I am now, learning through our break up that I was just...nothing.

Ever.

Damaged where I was already beaten and battered, and I dared to let him in and once he was in there - in the end - he ripped it to shreds and left it that way, gaping, shredded to hell.

It makes every relationship complicated. Every relationship terrifying. Even my relationship with myself.

I loved you so much.... I gave you so much more than I ever gave anyone...told you more than I've ever told anyone....trusted you more than I ever trusted anyone....invested in US because I believed in us. In the end, when I needed you most, you took what I gave you and used it to hurt me so deeply. I didn't know what to do, except fight back and I did until my fight was gone. And now there's just this huge, immobilizing pain and I am beyond confused.

You said to move forward. That you found something better. You carried on with your partying as if I never existed. As if we never existed.

I've got something better too but because of you and because of all this pain, I don't trust any of it and that hurts. That hurts everyone....everyone and it makes me feel like a horrible human being because of people who are trying to help me and I can't even trust  them. What kind of person am I?

What's wrong with me? Why can't I just do what you did? Why can't I just "move forward" like you did? What's wrong with me?

What's wrong with me, that I don't know what to do about feelings? I don't know anything about it.... I don't know what to do with them and I can't help how I feel. I can't stop it. It hurts so much, that I was nothing.