So Confused

My name is Cristina D. Johnson.

Obviously Dorothy Validus is a pseudonym. I was previously published under the pseudonym Paige C. Storme. I stopped using it,  because it became something used against me.

I want you to know that I - Cristina Dyan Kuptzin-Johnson - am a real person struggling with the journey through DID and PTSD. Struggling through painful realizations, memories, flashbacks, challenges, reprogramming...

Learning curves that nearly topple me, and sometimes do.

I should apologize to those I've pushed away (and to those who I keep at arm's length). It's always out of fear. Always.

To protect you from the ugly I see myself as.

Right now, particularly, I am chewing on a jagged pill. It was through a cumulative association between the movies Trust and Voices Within (based on When Rabbit Howls) and my own live blog, "Is This Where It Starts?" - that I was struck like lightning with the notion that possibly I was never safe.

Now, up to this time - up until yesterday - I scoffed at this idea. Bullshit. I put myself in positions to be raped or beaten. I conceded to my father, my step-father... I agreed and it was, therefore my fault, regardless if I was 2 or 20 or anywhere in between.

Today, in therapy, I tried explaining this to my therapist who is a beautiful, wonderful soul - a fantastic ally and wonderful therapist but who has no experience with Dissociative Identity Disorder.

She - like me - is winging this.

So I told her about my revelation.

This painful idea that I was never safe. Ever. Anywhere. This may seem trivial or small or like a "duh" kind of thing or even self-pitying but the truth is, it never occurred to me. And what happens is, you uncover this little gold nugget of truth - of reality - and it leads to another and another and another to the point where cognitive dissonance takes over and the only thing you know to do is to stomp the gold nuggets back into the dirty, mushy muck where they've been laying, dormant, my entire life because I can't handle all that truth right now. Not emotionally, anyway. Mentally, oh I get it. I know.

Intellectually, sure, it all makes sense but.......

To FEEL it... to believe it or even entertain believing it, well... that is a harrowing experience.

She suggested it was, perhaps, unhealthy to be saturated. She suggested - with all good intentions - that perhaps I was saturating myself by watching these movies.

"But we also watched Thor," I argued. But I was thinking,  "Oh God....I fucked up. Now she hates me."

It wasn't quite that extreme but when you need acceptance as badly as I do and always have, to be even remotely admonished for something that you've always known (for me, that would be learning intellectually and putting together the pieces), well, that's a failure and a let-down. I'm a failure and a let-down. I fucked up. I'm doing it wrong.

I let her down.



Truth is, I was completely lost. I thought I'd done something right; uncovered something important. Revealed something to myself that, though painful, was a step at least towards healing.

"So what do I do?" I asked. So desperate. So fucking desperate. I am in this apartment. I have no transportation and even if I did, I have nowhere to go. I don't want to be seen. I don't want anyone to notice me. So what do I do? I can't sit around every day, all day, waiting for my next therapy appointment. Waiting for my therapist to solve my problems. I'm far too strong-headed; far too intellectual for that. I refuse to be controlled by any means - even if those means are of my own making, unbeknownst to me.

Oh I play games. I play Cafeland on FB and words with friends and scramble with friends. I am active online, even though I tend to be tempered because I'm easily shut down so I try not to offend anyone. I consider this both considerate and cowardly. Whatever.

My session today was hard. I couldn't speak. The words were wrong.

I tried talking, but it felt as if my tongue was three times it's normal size and it seemed everything that came out was jarbled and it seemed the words that were said, weren't mine. I didn't want to say this. I didn't want to say that.

But you can't say "I didn't want to say this or that"

You just have sit there and let it be what it is and let your therapist do their job.

Which isn't really doing my therapist any favors.

Right now, I am very confused. For two days, I have been so confused, but today even more. Goddammit. I thought I did something right. I fucked up.

I don't know what I am supposed to do and I feel like I am surrounded so the only thing to do is sink within myself.

Alone.

Where it's safe.

She said to me words I've heard before.

They [your parents] were sick, twisted individuals.

I told her I can accept this about my mother and I know it about my father.

My father was - and is - a very sick man.

The thing is, if I gave into him what does that make me?

And if neither of them loved me, who can?

How can I love me?

And if I can't love me, then nobody can.

So how do you do that?

How do you love yourself when you hate everything that makes up who you believe you are?

I'm trying so hard...

It's so hard.

This pain is more than I ever imagined.

Yet I know it's necessary.

I know I won't heal until I walk through the pain and separate the fact from the fiction.

I also know, I have to be real.

And that is what I am being.

No make up. No dresses or scarfs. No hiding. No more fake shit. Just jeans and a t-shirt. Socks. Shoes from Marshall's.

This is me.

This is your neighbor.

This is your cousin, your student, your sister or brother.

This is your daughter, your neice or nephew.

No matter their age.

This is incest. This is rape.

Every. Single. Day.

This is the suffering that comes from putting the shattered pieces of yourself back together again.

What do I do?



Side note:
To Bill, Hannah, Cindy, Ron and my children

The weight you carry is so heavy. I'm so sorry. I never, ever, ever imagined being ...this.

I've always been strong.

I've always been the naysayer.

I've always said, "Fuck that. I can take it!"

Now................ now...........

now i am afraid.

And for this I am sorry.

Bill......... oh Bill

If I were truly your friend, I would ask you what the hell you're doing. I would tell you to walk away. I would tell you to stop, let go, she's broken.

And yet the dichotomy is that I can't imagine my life without you in it. I can't imagine Trevor's life, without you in it.

I'm sorry to you all. I'm trying so hard. I'm trying. I promise.

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.

Relationships and Reenactment: I Married My Father

My name is Cristina D. Johnson

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

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

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

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

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

"Where does my story start?"

"Where does it end?"

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

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

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

"Daddy, and then the rapes."

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's segmented. Fractured.

First I must talk a little about reenactment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which leads to the next lifetime.

Gary.

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

Me too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or, re-began.

Bill came.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So that lifetime is ...ending?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shouldn't I be being abused right now?

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

It brought me to a new lifetime.

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.

The Last Hug

My name is Cristina D. Johnson and I'm sorry to those who think this stuff is redundant. This is my life. This is what I am going through.

My days are like this....

I wake up every morning at 6:30 when Bill calls me. It's 5:30 where he is and he has to be at work at 6 o'clock. Thankfully, this works out well because this is when Trevor is up, getting ready for school. He doesn't like me to be overbearing ("did you put on deodorant?" "Did you brush your teeth?" "Do your clothes match?" "Did you eat breakfast?") so all he really wants is for me to wake up, check on him, and that's kind of how it goes. Then he leaves for school.

I end up crawling back into bed because I spent the previous night up until at least 1 a.m. - sometimes as late as 3 or 4 a.m. - talking with Bill. Depends on the conversation and how I'm doing. He's always concerned when I'm not myself (like last night).

This morning, after I went back to sleep, I had another nightmare. This one was hideous.

It's a little sketchy and scattered but Gary was there and my son, Tony was there (I know this is connected to the hurtful and shameless texts Tony was sending me the other night when he was drunk) but he'd told Gary (in my dream) that'd I had been sleeping with him (Tony). I confronted Tony immediately! Never! never, ever, ever!!! I was so unaffectionate with my children because of this fear of the mentality that "oh...it's passed down from generation to generation..." Oh my God I wouldn't even bathe Tony as a child unless someone was present and the door was open. It's an unfortunate truth. (Fortunately, Trevor does not appreciate nor want affection - part of his autism).

Anyway, we were in a place, some place where they did performances and all our old "mutual friends" were there and they had masks on. They were singing. They would mess up on stage, argue, then start over again, but when this accusation came out, suddenly I was somewhere else...I don't know, maybe on a bus? Somewhere small and confined, and all the sudden people - these "mutual friends" (one I recognized immediately was Hedy), began throwing things at me and kicking me and hurting me. I saw Gary standing nearby and he had his arms crossed, over his chest...staring at me with disgust as these people kept yelling obscenities at me and kicking me and throwing things at me. At one point, I was in the street and they were kicking dirty snow and ice at me as I cried.

There was more to the dream than that, but this is the part that sticks out most, besides one other part: a black man who resembled Forest Whitaker who was kind to me. My instinct and intuition aligns him with Bill because, in the dream, he stuck out (he was black) and he was gentle (like Bill) and worked hard (like Bill) and, most importantly, he was kind to me (like Bill). He invited me to come to his apartment. He stood outside his door, unlocking it, and spoke so gently, telling me I was welcome inside - welcome to come in and be safe - and I was afraid. I was dirty. I couldn't go into the apartment.

I know this seems repetitive, but my days and nights are filled with torment over nightmares and flashbacks - all of Gary.

Today, shaken over my nightmare, I was talked through it by Cindy and Bill. At least to a point where - along with two Klonopin - I was able to make it to the store and post office. I felt accomplished, although weary and concerned about what to make for dinner. I opted for something simple: sloppy joes, but the ground beef was so damned expensive I chose some hamburger patties. I hate feeding my child what I can afford, rather than what I want to feed him.

Anyway....

Trevor got home from school as I was packaging up a care package to send to Bill (it's cold in Illinois and, well, he's a wuss as far as cold weather goes) so I had to get that sent. I did it.

I came home, I put up all the things I'd bought, spread the towel out on my bed as I always do (to protect against dirt, cigarette ashes, cat hair, etc.) and rocked...just rocked... and suddenly, I was hit like a truck with the flashback of when I moved in (I'm sure it had something to do with Samantha's post on moving alone with no help).

I told Trevor he could have the leftover steak in the fridge that I couldn't eat the other night. This pleased him, of course. "Are there any mashed potatoes left?" he asked. "Yep," was my answer, trying to be upbeat.

As he ate downstairs, alone, I sat on my towel, on my bed, and rocked and rocked and rocked...just rocking.... and I saw in my mind, the day I moved. Gary was the only one I could ask for help. He still had the seats out of the van from when he helped "Dee" move. He and Kurt helped. It took them two or three days to move her stuff. I'm sure they were very careful with her stuff.

It took one day to move mine and when it was done, I had scratches and scars, broken furniture...nothing was cared for or handled carefully. Nothing about what was important to me, mattered. It was a rush.

It was a hot day and Gary wore a white shirt. I believe he wore shorts. He kept ordering Trevor around, yelling at him although he was doing his best. I've never seen my son work so hard, without argument. He did everything Gary said and told him to do, but seldom without criticism, although he was working so hard to do his best. My baby wanted out of there so bad, that he put up with Gary's degradation and never said a word.

At the end of the day - when he called his friend, Kurt who had a truck to help move the last of the larger items - I was treated like I was diseased. Shows how clueless Gary is. He told Kurt God-only-knows  what, who, in turn I'm sure, shared with his new girlfriend, Sandy (who was there that day), and who said something to me that she had no reason, business or right to say: "Take care of yourself. I hope you get better."

Well-intended, I'm sure, but none of hers (OR ANYONE'S) business!

That's how I was treated in my dream.

After everything was moved in, and though I knew Gary was seeing someone else - and had been - I recall, it was dark. He and Kurt were going to hook up that night.

We stood in the kitchen, by the back door before he left. He still wore a black bandana around his head to guard the sweat coming into his eyes. He was merciless that day. To me, and to Trevor.

I began to cry.

I walked up to him, I put my arms around him. Oh God.

I cried. I don't remember what I said. I don't remember what he said.

I just remember that he held me, rather sideways....as if he didn't want to cheat on his new girlfriend. As if, again, I was diseased.

I wanted more than anything at that moment for him to just hold me. HOLD ME. Hold me, goddamnit, the way I've needed you to for months!! Show me you don't want this! Show me you love me! Show me I matter to you!!!!

But it was just a sideways embrace. Like our entire relationship. I put my heart into it, my trust into it. I opened up and dared to be vulnerable, only to get half a hug and a pat on the head.

Now....

Now I have Bill who is absolutely in love with me - always has been. He's helped me (and is helping me....and us) more than anyone ever has. And I can only have nightmares about Gary and mourn and cry and feel afraid because of how people treat me. Even my own son.

 Nobody gets it. No, "Dee," you DON'T get it and you never did - claiming to be my friend - and never will. You, in my dream, threw things and kicked me. You were never a friend. Just keep enjoying your absolut and living vicariously through your children, and letting men buy you drinks while you drink yourself into denial.

Bill.... Bill ...oh God.
How do I reach that level of trust and openness and vulnerability that I had with Gary - he promise....he promised....God he promised...

And although Bill has never let me down, never betrayed me, always been there, treats me spectacularly.... I am still so terrified. So afraid. So so afraid.

I don't know what to think or believe. I don't know who to believe. I'm so lost. I'm so, so lost. I'm afraid in my own home.

All I could think this morning was, "I don't belong here" and when I said it, I felt like I don't belong anywhere. I never have. Especially here - where everyone's wearing a mask and kicking me while I'm down. Oh God how that hurts.

This isn't to say there aren't supportive people out there and I suppose it's hard to be supportive when you've heard only one side of the story and you believe it. I suppose that's easy to do, when the person telling the story is buying the drinks, throwing the parties and has been here for over 30 years.

I got so far....so, so far in my therapy and in my journey when I lived with Gary. I thought he understood, at least a little.... but then he got misinformed by a mutual friend who, I'm sure meant well, but did not do any good to help. She hurt, more than she helped. An LCSW, at that. She did nothing to help Gary understand what was happening....just took his word for it (they went to school together) rather than asking my side of it.

It's going to take me a long time to get over this. I have cried so much today, that I'm glad I have nothing to do tomorrow. I will look like a raccoon with puffy eyes.

I'm flying blind. I'm in this dark, damp, dank dingy tunnel, the walls are cold and wet, and there's no light and I keep pushing forward, but there's no light yet.... I have to be vulnerable enough to just keep going...just keep my hands on the cold brick, around the curves, and hope...hope...hope that in the light will be Bill and  Cindy and ....others.

Right now, in CT.....I feel like I'm in a different world. These people as a rule, have no idea. They just have no idea and you can't tell them because they don't want to hear it. They can't envision it because life here, in CT, is beautiful. Full of fall foliage and rivers and streams. The Sound and beautiful mountains and nature.

No, no, no you can't have DID or PTSD....that doesn't exist in this world.

Furthermore, if it does, get over it because we can't handle it.

Gary.......oh Gary.

Oh God I wish you knew. Oh my heart splits right now, right down the middle just wishing you knew. I never needed at hero. You thought I did. I didn't. I needed someone to help me bring out my own hero. Someone who would be there, unconditionally.

And there's Bill...there unconditionally...and you've made me fear him.

Everyone here, makes me fear people. Everything in my past makes me fear people. Going to the grocery store I am terrified of seeing someone who knows me. I hide my face. I move fast. Very fast. I don't want to be seen.

I will get better. I won't always have these horribly sad, depressing blogs but for now, this is part of my journey. And that's what this blog is about: The Journey.

I don't know who reads my blogs. I write them for me...and I truly hope/wish they help others, but this is my venue. Forgive me if I sound like a victim.

I am a fighter...just been knocked down pretty bad this time. I appreciate that some of you have stayed with me.

Duct Tape?

I was nervous. It was "girls" night. One of only two times I recall ever going "out" anywhere without Gary during our relationship. I was very, very nervous because I never felt I fit in. But I convinced myself it'd be okay..... I offered to bring the salad.

Dina invited me, Bonnie, Leah, Beth, Rachel and I think that's it. Dina's a quiet, shy type. I and Gary did not know her really well but we met her though Leah who I considered to be one of only two real friends I had. I'd met Bonnie before and Rachel but not Beth (who turned out to be a riot).

I was nervous the whole time, feeling like I stuck out like a sore thumb and wondering the whole time, where Gary was. I knew he was going out - figured probably to the Pattaconk - but at that time, it was just us girls, hanging out in Dina's apartment, eating her delicious homemade chicken pot pie and my salad.

I think there was desert, too, but I don't recall.

After a couple of hours, a couple of us phoned our beaus - mine, of course, being Gary. I couldn't wait to see him. I just wanted to be near him and to feel safe.

"They're at the Pattaconk," I informed the girls (Leah's boyfriend and Gary were there), as was "Dee," funny enough - partying with Gary.

So we left Dina's and we all went to the Pattaconk. I was still nervous...didn't feel quite right. Saw him, felt much better, and stood there by him as I drank a Corona. Everyone partied and had a good time. I kind of just wanted to go home. Being with the girls was fun but it rattled my nerves, for sure, and I was saturated with a feeling I can't describe. One of discomfort, of just wanting to go home.

That was months ago.

Dina was a friend, I suppose. And the rest were potential friends... I liked them all, especially Leah. She was a good friend to me, I thought.

Gary hardly knew any of them except Leah and "Dee" - the only two people I considered to be friends of mine. I often joked that if/when Gary and I got married, they would be my bridal party....that's how close I considered them.

But then the break-up happened and I moved. Strangely enough, I moved to an apartment that's literally around the corner from Dina. We were both shocked and delighted! I haven't seen her since I moved but we talked a little on Facebook about getting together and she (again) mentioned that she needed to bring my salad bowl back to me.

Then in August it happened....

She changed her profile picture to one of her partying on Gary's boat, with Leah.

My heart just sank. It wasn't the first time I'd seen heart-breaking pictures of him partying on his boat as if all in life were perfect, while my heart was cracking into a million pieces. I had defriended most of our boater friends because I literally couldn't stomach seeing it. It sickened me in a heartbroken kind of way, not in a disgusted way....just shattered me.

I labored over this for days, finally sent her a message:

Hi Dina

I'm writing to let you know that I think you're wonderful but I am defriending everyone associated with Gary and those who party with him. It's an enormous trigger for me and quite honestly I don't even know who to trust.

Seeing a picture of you on his boat, immediately sends me reeling - it's that bad.

This is not personal because, like I said, I think you're a wonderful person, but I just can't handle any reference or pictures of him or his boat or his activities.

I hope you understand and I wish you the best.

-C

No response.

Today I got a text message that simply said: "I put your bowl on your mailbox"

"Thank you," I responded.

He went out during our breakup and made sure to talk to every single female person who could have possibly been a friend to me. He sunk his claws into them and made sure they went out and partied with him...made sure they saw how much fun he can be...even Leah. Even those who he didn't even really know! People who I could have turned to.

Today, as I was going to the store for milk, I saw a bag hanging from my mailbox.

I got out of the car, walked over to it, and saw that it was hung over my flipped-up flag, duct taped into place.

She went to an awful lot of trouble to make sure she didn't have to see me.

Duct tape? Really? What the hell did he tell you about me that made you treat me like a diseased animal?

Thanks...thanks a lot.

Less than a block away, and not even the courtesy to bring it to my door.

I  could die right now.

People are so cruel.

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.

Character Flaws

My Name is Cristina D. Johnson.

Had therapy today - she made me cry. The discussion was about me asking the question, how come all of "our friends" see what he's done (or know what he was doing) and they still just want to hang out with him, and haven't even reached out to me?

"I don't understand," I lamented.

"What would understanding, do for you?" she asked.

This is a question I took in and really thought on.

"That's a very profound question," I answered, as my eyes began to tear up. It brought up such immense pain, that I stuttered out the answer after a few moments of silent tears.

"Understanding why....would help me to know I'm not ugly or dirty or unworthy," I choked out.

Why? Why didn't anyone check on me? This has plagued me for months. I wondered, how could people want to be with someone who was so hurtful, so insensitive to me - their "friend" - in desperate need of help and compassion. How could they all abandon me in favor of someone who did such detrimental things to me at such a critical time? Why?

I couldn't understand it and it's hurt me.

"Has it occurred to you that it's not you, but them?" she asked.

No...it hadn't because of all the things he said about me. People just took his word for it and I know the picture painted of me would look like a painting dropped in mud. It hadn't occurred to me that the problem may be theirs.

"Relationships end," she said matter-of-factly.

I hadn't thought of that.

"Clearly [he] didn't have the tenacity to help you through the pain you're going through," she said, adding, "and maybe those 'friends' don't either. That's their problem - it's not your problem. It doesn't mean there's something wrong with you," she said. "Perhaps it's just part of their character flaws."

"Two suicide attempts is hard for some people to take," she said. Which I acknowledge, but have made as many apologies as possible for.

She remarked on Bill and Cindy and Hannah, saying how these are the kinds of people I need in my life: supportive, understanding, compassionate, patient.

"Bill is the kind of guy you need," she said. "He obviously truly wants to see you healthy and independent and he's proven it."

This, too, made me cry and I admitted to her that I - for a brief moment the other day, after blogging about him - allowed myself to believe I deserve to be treated the way he treats me; with kindness and consideration and respect and genuine love.

I have an event coming up. We talked about it briefly....I am a little nervous about it. She suggested, "So don't do it?"

"I already said yes," I responded.

"So why not back out? You've done it before with [Dee] and with Tony. Why not now?"

I began to cry again.

"Because if I step outside of my box, and my comfort zone [of conformity and complacency], then people will leave."

"So you're afraid if you step out of your box, people will leave you?"

Yes. If I don't do what I'm supposed to do, people will leave me.

What a terrible way to live...a terrible way to believe.

And that's how I've always been.

Called Police

Had to call the police the other night when I discovered two of my email accounts were shut down and my website was shut down. The officer was nice but at first didn't understand the gravity of the situation.

He asked if I would be willing to go with a police escort to get my things from "him" and I said, "You don't understand, officer. I have PTSD and DID and he triggers me worse than anyone or anything ever has."

Once I explained this - as well as the email and website issues - he contacted the ...other party, and then called me back.

He said the "other party" would be returning my things to the Essex police department, and an officer would bring them to me, but said there would have to be some contact in order for him to transfer ownership of my website. This is the most dreadful thing in the world to me - having to hear his voice. Just the thought of the things that happened, cause me to throw up. People have no idea...just have no idea....God...

The officer then told me there should be no further contact between us and I assured him that I have absolutely no desire to see, speak to or hear him at all, ever. Not because I hate him, but because I loved him so much, and I am still beyond mortified over the things he did to me. Deliberate things, horrible things, agonizing things.

He accused me of "stalking" him because I went to the same sitting spot I've gone to for months, with Bill, with no idea of whether or not his boat would be there. While there, his boat did show up and, yes, I yelled a few obscenities but I didn't really figure he heard me. It just felt good to scream...God it felt good to scream. He hurt me so bad, and still is. Just needless, vengeful, childish stuff...just exerting control, like always.

It hurts that I had to defriend a number of people from my friend's list because simply seeing a picture of his boat triggered me. It got that bad. It got that abusive. Plus he's concerned about his image. Ironic, I think, given what he's done to mine.

I immediately emailed my therapist. I was so shook up Friday night. I couldn't eat, kept gagging, crying, scared. I don't know why scared, but scared. Scared, I guess, that one person could have so much control over your life and you feel helpless to do anything about it. Scared of myself ...scared that my choices have led me to all these horrible relationships that always end up with me feeling terrified.

But never like this. I've never been affected like this.

All it does is make me question everyone and everything (including myself) even more (which is why I defriended so many people).

How can I trust, after this? How can I ever trust anyone with my journey? My pain and my experiences? How can I ever open up to anyone again when it was spat in my face, used to deliberately hurt me?

Gagging now, just thinking about it....

The no contact order was initiated by me, for the record, which isn't officially a 'no contact' order because there's no need - clearly we want nothing to do with each other. It was just an unofficial police officer telling us no contact.

Fine with me.

For you: You'll always have a place in my heart - I loved you deeply, and that doesn't just go away. I wish you the best and hope you have a happy life.

Left to Myself

My Name is Cristina D. Johnson

"What's wrong?" Michelle (my therapist) asked as she opened the door. My eyes were brimming with tears. Bill sat in the waiting room with me, watching me intently. Rose to give me a hug.

"I'll be okay," I lied.

As I walked into Michelle's office, the crying started. "I can see you're upset," she said as she handed me a box of tissues.

"We just found out Bill is leaving for Illinois this weekend," I choked out.

 She sat quietly for a moment. "Let's just take a minute and breathe," she said. I huffed out a few labored breaths. It felt like someone was squeezing my chest with a vise.

"What else?" she asked, intuitively knowing there was more.

"I had to talk to Gary yesterday. That didn't help."

She nodded.

"And I was going to go see Carolyn but I backed out - I just can't do it. I'm not ready," I said.

She nodded again and I was still sobbing, although I'd calmed slightly.

"So let's just take a minute and get you  grounded," she said calmly. "You have a lot going on and we have a whole session to talk about it."

I nodded and we just sat there in silence for a couple of minutes.

Bill has been here for about a month, although I've known him over twelve years. We've worked together, lived together, dated, then lived together again, and then parted ways as friends. We both understood - to our core - what unconditional love is and we both agreed that our friendship was more valuable than trying to be in a relationship.

And so it's been for years. He's been a constant friend, not just to me but to my son as well.

For the past month, he has been my constant companion. He's seen me through multiple meltdowns, slobbering, snotty, trembling break-downs over my break up. He's listened to me sob over my pain, held my hands when I was shaking and wiped my tears away with his thumbs. He's stood by as I vomited and gagged and was there with a wet washcloth when it was over, each time telling me, "Don't apologize. You don't have anything to apologize for."

He came initially to see how I was doing and, in his own words, he'd never seen me as bad as I was. The things I was going through with the break-up, the agony of my therapy and the flashbacks...everything and he swore he would do whatever he could to get me out of that house, away from the horrible triggers and abuse I was experiencing and somewhere safe, where I could be independent.

He kept his word. He has helped me in every way possible. He has been my friend. My only friend. My true friend. He has made me laugh, eaten dinner with Trevor and I, and sat silently with me, intuitively knowing me so well, that he knew I needed simply to think. He's read every blog (and always has), and every book or article I've shown him. He's given me more support than anyone ever has, in my entire life.

"What is it you're afraid of?" Michelle asked me, regarding Bill leaving.

"Being alone," I answered. "Not belonging here. I don't belong here. I am scared to go to the grocery store. I'm scared to go anywhere," I cried. "He's my only friend."

Which led to the conversation about Carolyn and Gary.

"Why do they have so much power over you?" she asked.

"I don't know. I wish I knew. I gave them that power by letting them in. By getting close to them," I answered.

She nodded. "So how can you take that power back?" she asked.

"I don't know. I can't even stand the thought of either of them. I can't stand the thought of the things they did. I can't stand that he's doing the things he's doing. It literally makes me sick in my stomach."

And the truth is, I don't know. I don't know how.... I don't know.

"Bill has been a helpful distraction for you," she said. "His leaving is going to allow you to experience the grieving process."

"I've grieved and Bill has been there through it. I've gotten angry, I've wept..."

"Yes, but now you're going to be doing it alone and maybe that's what you're supposed to do," she said. Then she paused and she said, "I'm just going to throw this out there....it could be way, way off..."

"Maybe the years you spent with Gary were meant to bring you here, to this place. This place where you are feeling emotions that you've never felt before."

I'd actually thought about that - more than once - and I told her so.

"You say you're disconnected but I see you feeling feelings. Maybe, when Bill is gone, you'll experience the feelings of grief and pain and all that comes with grieving."

It was a tearful session. I feel sick - extremely nauseated. All of my "friends" are partying on his boat, oblivious to the PTSD and DID symptoms I've had to endure because of the things he did to me.

Bill is my only friend.

And he is leaving.

And I am afraid.

Still Reeling

Day started off okay until I logged onto facebook and got sliced in two with photos I really don't care to see.... photos of former friends on his boat. It sent me reeling, gagging again. It seems so insensitive to me. And I spent most of the day with my heart pounding in my throat (I try not to take the anti-anxiety meds unless it's really necessary) so I finally gave in and took one this evening.

I wish there was closure but there isn't and I don't feel there ever will be because he can't be kind and I can't physically, mentally or emotionally handle even hearing his voice. I wrote him a letter...that's all I can do.

I guess it's hard for people to understand... I know it is.

Bill is leaving and it'll be just Trevor and I. Not sure when, but probably within the next week. I am afraid of this. Afraid of being alone and going through all this. I hide from people...don't like asking for help so I take it on the chin and then lay it on my therapist's lap, praying for it to just go away.

My anxiety is through the roof. I want the water so bad. I want to sit by the river and feel the breeze - especially now, it's so cool and refreshing outside. My thoughts keep revolving around all the things that are happening (and have happened). Going to sleep, I am overwhelmed with anguish and rage, both.

I wish I could go back to the way I used to be...I wish I could clear my mind but it's just haywire and I can't control it.

We went to the store today and I knew I was dissociating because it felt like I was watching myself walk to the car. I kept trying to come back to myself, but I couldn't - I was still seeing the picture from facebook. It hurt me so much...it really cut me bad.

I am still in disbelief. I am just gobsmacked...the hell of those last several weeks. The nightmare of being so tortured, so heartlessly. The abuse...the abuse he got away with, and came out looking like a rose while he vilified me and mindfucked me.

I just can't believe it. He said he loved me.

I told Michelle (my therapist) that one of the hardest parts is how I have to start all over again, now. I trusted him more than anyone and now - after being kicked and threatened while I was at my lowest - I fear ever trusting again. Especially a man. And then the "friends"....I'm just so hurt.

And afraid.

So scared to go out anywhere or be seen anywhere...  I fear isolation once Bill leaves because that is what I will do. I will isolate and try to work through all this on my own and the emotions tied to child abuse, rapes, etc. are so intense (those I've been able to feel), that I am terrified.

But I won't stop.

I Being I

My Name is Cristina D. Johnson.

When have I been "I"?

When I posted "Coming Out," I was being I...I was being "real" and goddamn it was scary, especially posting it on my facebook, going public to so many people I hadn't shared with and had, in fact, deliberately hidden from.

Today I was talking to Bill (a long-time, trusted friend) about the past five years of my life because I've given it a lot of thought. I suppose it even started before then - when I moved to Connecticut.

I had the intention of making a better life for myself and my son (and also my daughter at the time, but it ended up not working out that way). I was afraid of this...place. These people. Upper Crust Society - the "them" that I'd always feared and been ashamed to be around, and also held some contempt for. But somewhere inside, I wanted to be that. I wanted to be more than I always had been.

I didn't want to live in the ghetto anymore. I didn't want to be poor and broken anymore and throughout my life, I ran and ran - always running (I can't tell you how many places I've lived in or how many places I've gone to) but I was always running. I didn't know it at the time, of course, but I know it now.

Then I came here and I was still running...still running from all the darkness inside, the truth....the shadows that followed me with the promise of torment.

Then I met "him" and I thought, okay...this is my change. This is where I really take a step up and move further up and beyond. And BOY was I really running then, but in my mind, there was no way my demons could catch me if I were with him. No way because life would be different. He was more cultured (I believed) and he was more educated and intelligent and would help me escape my ugly. I could hide in his world.

And I did - for a long time.

So I was talking to Bill about this - about how I used to be, before I met "him" and how different I became. How I got sucked into this world - his world - and slowly became someone I didn't want to be and have never been: someone who judged others. I became exactly what I'd always abhorred in humanity...exactly what makes it feel like an "us versus them" world. I would sit around the picnic or dinner table and, at first, just listen - listen to others talk about people (poor, gay, drug addicts, etc) with little or no conscience or compassion.

But slowly, trying to be this "better" that I'd been seeking (whatever "better" is), I became one of those among them who, albeit not quite as much, fell prey to the gossip.

I didn't like it and I don't like it now. I am not that kind of person and never have been (although my blogs of recent could be argued otherwise, however I do not view them that way - I view them as opening up and sharing my pain and my heartache and they're certainly not "gossip" but, rather, my experiences).

"Yeah you used to get mad at people when they talked about others," Bill said to me. "It used to irritate you."

"Yeah it did," I recalled.

That's because I was one of those people that "upper crusters" talk about. So...

When have I been "I"? I certainly wasn't free to be "me" when I was among "the enemy" - those whom I'd heard bashing the poor, gay, different, etc. I was not free to be "me" because I was afraid to show myself.

I was, though, myself at one point: When I became vulnerable and weak; when I opened up; when I shared; when I was afraid; when I was open and honest about my past to everyone I know and have known for these past five years. When I gave him my trust and was vulnerable...terrifyingly so. It was the first time ever in my life. That was when I was "I".

It is so terrifying to put it out there, oh God you can't imagine.

I have a tendency to tell people something - some detail or part of my abuse or something about the effects of it - and then immediately push them away because I am afraid I've said too much.

Well it's the same way with this blog - with Coming Out. I was scared for three days of what people were going to say to and/or about me and for three days, I was severely affected. I was truly shocked when people - even family members that I hadn't talked to in decades - came out and encouraged me. Friends contacted me and shared with me. My therapist was proud of me, as were Bill and Cindy and my beloved Aunt Neen. It even inspired others (from a different site, as well as my online protege' to do the same - to come out and share their names).

So for a few days, I got to experience "I" - the real "I" that I've neglected all these years and the one that I've run away from my whole life. With every blog I write, I dig deeper into the "me" that I've never had the luxury of knowing and for every message, text, phone call, or letter, I feel more and more empowered, encouraged, supported and accepted.

I know there are people out there gossiping - I lived it and it's rife here.

But I won't live it anymore. That's not me. That's just the tiny pieces of a little girl who has spent her entire life trying to be "better" or "right" enough to be loved who just keeps trying to do everything she can to fit in.

It's much more satisfying to be accepted for the real "I" that I am - as terrifying as it is to be so exposed to people whose character I've come to know...to communities that are burdened by judgment, and don't even know it.

Thank you to those who have reached out to me, despite the ugliness I feel inside. I struggle a lot and know it's a long road, but your support and encouragement truly gives me hope and strength.

Oh the Irony (lesson learned)

My name is Cristina D. Johnson

I wrote "It's All About Image" yesterday and - at the time - it felt so damn good to have my say. It felt so good, to tell my side, to share my pain and to elaborate on things that I'm sure were never shared during "his" many nightly escapades.

But one thing I am, is introspective and this morning it occurred to me that by writing that blog, I was doing exactly what I was accusing him of doing: protecting my image.

Even though the blog was sincere and I was sincerely angry and felt betrayed by a number of people, the bigger part of me knows that writing it was wrong and some of the things I said were things I shouldn't have.

The bigger part of me knows things I won't ever repeat about him, and also knows that I loved him - still do - and that's what hurts, but it's easier to just be angry. The truth is, I am still reeling, still stunned, and still devastated. I've been in what they call the "crisis stage" for a little over a year, and having the additional crisis of a break-up on top of it, was literally sickening. My heart was so broken. He'd promised....and broke my trust and it hurt so much and then he left me there, alone, talking to others about me, and the only thing I could do was be angry, although I cried...oh God I cried ...and still do.

So there I was blogging about image, in a vain attempt to protect my own image which, in my mind, is destroyed by the things he said about me to God-only-knows who. I am terrified to go anywhere or see anyone because of the events of the past several weeks and because of the crisis stage I'm already going through.

So in writing "It's All About Image" I was wrong and though it felt good to rid myself of some of the toxicity inside of me that's been eating me alive, it was not really me being true to myself, and honestly it was dishonoring at least some of what was good - there were a few good times. A few.

I am still not convinced that he ever loved me. Perhaps this is my issue, but perhaps it is true that he didn't. I have my own theories on this but he - on a few occasions (though not many) - showed some tenderness and I won't forget that.

But I will never, ever forget how painful the betrayals were, either.

Bare and open - here I am. Hurt beyond words, devastated, crushed and feeling so deeply betrayed and still in love with him - this man who's seeing someone else and who hurt me so deeply in ways he will never fathom.

My image is this: I am afraid and I feel alone, save for a couple of very good people who are helping me through this stage, although I tend to keep things in a lot because it is my tendency to hide. I am disappointed by the number of "friends" who walked away... just gave up... yet I'm not surprised. I am afraid to be seen by anyone, anywhere and I spend a lot of time preoccupied, confused, sometimes triggered, sometimes terrified for reasons I don't understand. I can't look at myself in the mirror - I am ashamed of who I am and how I look and I feel very awkward in social situations so I fake it.

I am so wounded, so hurt...and it all came out as anger in my last blog. I am so scared because I took it upon myself to tell everyone on FB about my story - at least in brief - and took the risk of sharing. The fear of that- fear of rejection and humiliation and judgment - is very, very big. So my image is out there....here I am.

It's All About Image

My name is Cristina D. Johnson

This is an angry blog. Just a forewarning.

Woke up this morning with text messages from "him" - bouncing back and forth between being nice and being an ass. I was immediately triggered.

I have never, ever in my entire life had a single human being trigger me as instantaneously as he does.

I know why that is, too.

For about eight weeks, we were still living together. We would bounce back and forth between deciding whether or not to work it out, or whether or not splitting was the best choice. He would say, "You're the one who said you were done," never realizing he made it impossible for me to stay.

Then...he would go out. Not only would he go out, but he would tell people my private business. I was horrified beyond belief. I couldn't believe he would betray my trust - my deepest trust - in such a way. But he was very clever about it. He "told just a few people" (which means anyone, really) knowing damned good and well that these towns talk - everyone talks. Never using any common sense or decency, always without regard for my own dignity.

Oh God how it hurt. I've been writing my entire life and I can't think of a single word (or set of words) that can adequately describe the pain I was going through. The lies he told me - how he misled me about the wedding and instead took my "friend" "L" (who, incidentally is apparently not much of a friend since she hasn't even once contacted me to see how I'm doing. Instead she hangs out on his boat or goes out with him). He made me feel like the lowest form of life by telling me lies, and then going behind my back. He blew things out of proportion, made himself look like a super hero and divulged everything from my issues to my financial situation to people whose business it was none of, nor was it his right to do so. Especially to an incest survivor. OH MY GOD the things I'd shared!! I was beyond terrified. And nobody checked on me. They just took his word for it - poor, poor him. The victim, the savior. Oh he made himself look like the real hero and me...well I was just nothing. As I always had been.

I attempted suicide. I was in crisis. It's not uncommon for people with my disorders. Neither is a lot of stuff - cutting, binging, drinking, drugs, etc. but the triggering...Dear God, every night he would trigger me, telling me he was going out, knowing it would trigger me and then carelessly walking away.

(Definition: Anything that brings about a symptom of PTSD. For example, a news story about the Iraq War may cause a veteran with PTSD to have thoughts and memories about the war. Triggers may include people, places, sounds, words, and/or smells. Source: http://ptsd.about.com/od/glossary/g/triggerdef.htm)

That about sums it up.

Being abandoned, being cheated on, being lied to, being talked about behind my back and then being told - when I asked - no, begged - him to please stop talking about me.

"You're just trying to control who I talk to and what I say," he would respond angrily. "It's my life."

"No, it's my information and my private business that I'm asking you not to share."

"It's none of your goddamn business who I talk to or what I say," he said one night.

He would say and do things, knowing they were going to trigger me and when the panic attacks came on, he would causally walk away, go out to his van, and go party - pretending his life was perfect as I sat alone in the house, mortified, horrified, embarrassed to be seen by anyone.

That was one of the most insidious aspects of his telling people (and of him telling me that people were talking about me): He never would tell me who he told what, and who said what so I was there, like a nothing. I had no importance, ever. I was nothing....just something to gossip about and he being him, would do all he could to protect his image. Because, after all, it's all about image.

He's not the person people think he is. He went out and made himself out to be a victim - which, in a way, he was; a secondary victim of my abuse and at times of my own verbal abuse.

When he would trigger me, I would become irrationally angry. Actually, it was profound pain that was misplaced (being triggered brings back feelings, memories, sensations, etc. from your past) and the only way I knew to react was by anger because that's what happens when you grow up on the streets: you fight.

I was also living in complete disbelief. How could someone who said they loved me, do this to me? How could he? I wasn't unreasonable - I was trying to get out as soon as I possibly could because it hurt to be there - but I asked him to please, please just wait until I'm gone before you start going out. Please.

Nope.

So it  got to the point where even hearing his footsteps or his early-morning coughing was sending shockwaves through my body. I was uncontrollably triggered and stuck.

"You can go out if you want," he would say, never considering how mortified I was that he told everyone my personal business. He even told people he fixed my car for me, never divulging the fact that it was OUR  car and it broke down because of OUR use and should have been fixed at least a year ago. It just so happened to be in my name. So he made sure he looked good.  Made sure everyone knew how much he loved me.

We can see that now, can't we? As he takes his new gf out on his fancy boat (which he cannot afford)? Yeah he loved me alright.

No....if love bit him twice in the ass he wouldn't know what it was.

Because, for him, when love gets complicated, it's too much.

So then he starts accusing me of being violent. Violent because I would grab the front of his shirt and cry and plead and beg, "Why are you leaving me? You said you wouldn't leave me! Why are you giving up on me!? You said you never would leave me!" ...this, is violence, for which he would call the cops on me if I ever did it again. (another huge trigger of mine, btw, being a child of the system - and a trigger he's well aware of).

In this morning's text messages, he flipped back and forth between being nice and being not-so-nice, even with a veiled threat about how if [my blog] begins to effect him, he'll handle it then.

Well, here I am - being real. Spread out wide open, everyone knows my secrets and my sins. Everyone knows my shame, now, because I chose to tell it - not because someone with no morals or sense of loyalty decided to spread it around. Because for me, it's no longer all about image.

It's about being real - and I'm being real.

Nothing in my blog is a lie, distortion or exaggeration.

I was so thrown off today just by his text messages this morning that the entire day was a trigger until I was exhausted.

I laid down and fell asleep, only to have a nightmare about him. Him and his brother.

They were being so cruel in my dream - heartless, cruel, vicious.

Control. Image.

It's all about that, isn't it?

Image?

What a fool I was to fall into that trap - to drown myself in this pool of high fa-looting, the-world-is-my-oyster, pretending to be someone and something I wasn't. And why? To live up to his expectations?

Well, who the hell is HE? A cheater, a liar, a fake? And *I* was trying to live up to HIS expectations?

But when the going got tough and I needed him more than anything in the world, he fled - to another woman (which he admitted to, but now denies) and is now seeing, (surely just coincidence).

Then...out of nowhere, came friends and supporters - people who aren't so obsessed with their image. People who've either been there or understand or want to help or want to be friends with me or want to help me.

I discovered in this process - this process of coming out and telling my truth and being real- who my friends truly are. Painfully, I also learned who, among those I've known for five years now, are not.

I could go on and talk about the REAL person I know - the reality of his life but he has to live with himself. He must be exhausted - just like I was - holding up such a fake facade, living up to others' expectations, trying to be something he isn't.

But unlike him - I have empathy. I pity him, despite the fact that he is the single most biggest trigger of any person ever in my life. I have never, ever been triggered by anyone as much as him - mostly because of the deliberate and intentional pain he put me through. Mr. Perfect. Mr. Wonderful. Oh but if people only knew the truth...

This is the end of my angry blog and I must say that in the past five years I've met two amazing people - R & R - father and daughter. Dad R is so authentic and lovely, wonderful and fantastic and daughter R is the same. To them I say: I miss you. I always authentically loved you both.

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.