To Show or Not to Show? (warning: Graphic)

My name is Cristina Johnson.

Michelle - my therapist - works independently at Sound Counseling Center. She's a bubbly, energetic person whose energy is often contagious making it sometimes downright impossible to be melancholy while in her presence. She has deep blue eyes and long, thick, gorgeous brown hair. She's a voluptuous woman who almost seems to bounce, rather than walk, and I've never had a session with her, where she didn't pull her feet beneath her in her chair, and listen to me (or speak to me) intently. Her laugh comes easily, as does her empathy. She's very good at matching your energy.

Walking into Michelle's office is a waiting room just outside the therapy room. Everything in her office, I would guess, is from Pier 1 Imports and it's very Zenish - which I like. It suits my personality and is very comforting.

In the session room, are two contemporary sofas - cream-colored - sitting kitty-cornered from each other. Behind one is a large plant and a lamp. Where the two ends would meet, Michelle's black leather chair sits, so that she can see you, whichever couch you choose to sit on. I always sit on the one across from her - the one that keep us separated by the contemporary black coffee table. She always has a candle burning and there's always a blanket available, plus a weighted blanket - often used to comfort people in therapy (she's offered it to me a number of times but I always decline).

Today, was a hard day. I was scared to go in and truth be told, I had two beers before I went, plus a klonopin. I was nervous because I wasn't sure if I should show her my wrist. I was concerned for a couple of reasons: First and above all, I did not want to be locked up. This is such a huge issue for me that it's be at least three other blogs alone. Even the Sidran Institute - an organization dedicated to trauma - has articles about the re-traumatization of trauma victims through hospitalization.

So I was very afraid that I would be locked up if I showed her my wound.

Secondly, I felt all the familiar feelings that come with self-injury: shame, guilt, anger and I didn't know how to talk about them.

Third, I didn't actually remember the cutting - just the moments before and after. How do you tell someone that?

And finally, I was afraid because it'd been unimproved since I cut it so I was concerned I might need to go to a doctor...which was why I thought about showing it to her. To ask her advice. I was encouraged to do this by both Bill and Cindy.

I sat down in my usual spot, across from her. She sat in her black leather chair, pulled her feet up and asked, "So how's it going?"

"Okay," I said...not really sure what to say. "Last night was a rough night,"I admitted, honestly.

"Why's that?" she asked.

I told her I was very depressed last night, thinking about Gary's ring. Gary has a class ring, although he didn't graduate. He has always worn it since I met him and, I told her, there were about three times he'd taken it off and me - like a childish school girl - would put it on my finger and pretend it was an engagement ring. I would also marvel at how big it was because I have always had a very strange fascination with men's hands. I attribute this fascination to my father who played beautiful music but could also kill you - all with the same powerful hands. It amazes me that a man's hand can be either gentle or kill you.

"Interesting," she said. "What else?"

I looked down at the ground. My feet were rocking back and forth, toe-to-heal and back, and my body was rocking with them. I told her I was afraid to say.

Silence.

"Bill and Cindy think  I need to show you my arm," I finally uttered, and added with unnatural speed, "because I don't know if I should see a doctor or not but I don't want to be locked up." It sounded like a run-on sentence when I said it.

She said some things but the moment she said, "I can't promise you that," my mind went blank. I became very hot. I was so hot and frightened and I said, "I think I need to go."

She leaned forward in her chair and gently said, "I think it would be a good time for you to stay."

Being the pleaser...not wanting to let anyone down... I sat back, despite my urgent need to bolt.

"It's entirely up to you, whether you want to show me or not," she said gently. "You don't have to."

I took a breath. Very (very) quickly lifted my arm so it reached half-way across the coffee table, quickly lifted my sleeve and gave her a glimpse of the cut before pulling my long sleeve back over it and holding it in my lap.

I began to cry, she asked why I was crying.

"I feel anger and shame and pain."

"Explain those to me," she said.

"Anger because last night, as I was looking at it [the cut] part of me was angry because I didn't do it 'right' or I did it 'the wrong way'," I confessed, terrified.

"What is the wrong way?" she asked.

"I don't know. It was just some fleeting part of me that kept criticizing that I didn't 'do it right'," I repeated.

"Okay. And the shame?" she asked.

This was when I cried the most. "I don't want you to give up on me," I whimpered. I sounded like a child. I was embarrassed and my shoulders started shaking.

"Oh Cristina," she said. "Look at me."

Of course, I couldn't look at her. Couldn't bear it. She said it again, "Look at me," she said, and as I managed to lift my head to look out the window next to her, she said, "I won't give up on you. It's not in my DNA."

She let that settle and then she asked, "Can I come look a little closer? Do you mind if I come sit by you?"

I nodded.

She came over and I tentatively pulled up my sleeve. She took my hand gingerly. Sighed an empathetic sigh.

"I'm sorry you're in so much pain," she said, softly. Tears rolled down my face. I couldn't speak.

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

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

I just nodded, refusing to acknowledge any such pain.

Then my cell phone rang - I forgot to put it on mute - interrupting the session. She went back to her chair while I explained how to make pork chops to my daughter, which lightened the mood quite a bit.

"Well," she said, as I hung up the phone, "It's worse than I thought it would be, but it's not as bad as I've seen," adding, "That's not a double-dog dare!"

"But," she explained, "I don't know what your doctor would do - I don't know what doctors are trained to do in such situations so I can't promise that he wouldn't call someone. I don't know how medical doctors are trained as far as self-inflicted injury."

But she told me it didn't look infected, asked how I was caring for it...told me she's sure it needed stitches at first but now it's too late.

I explained it all. She seemed satisfied and since she didn't know what my doctor would do, I decided to continue doing what I'm doing.

Sunday, I went to the laundromat with my wrist bandaged. It was hot - especially doing laundry - and there were about a dozen people there. Not one didn't stare, nor did anyone show any curiosity. I find this both interesting and perplexing. I've spoken to people when I saw scars, and my friend, Hannah, and I discussed it.

"Awkward," she expressed.

"Depends on how you approach them," I suggested. "Whether with judgment or empathy."

Secretly, though the scars are embarrassing and ugly, everyone wants to share their story - they just think nobody wants to listen and they don't want to burden anyone. Typically, at least. There's such shame involved in it...so much shame.

I Do Love Him

My name is Cristina D. Johnson

So today in session, I was frustrated because I told Michelle (my therapist) that I am frustrated because I want to work on me. Me. I'm tired of being enmeshed and consumed by the grief and pain I feel over my break-up with "him."

"You act like you're supposed to be over it by now," she said casually.

"I feel like I should because I have more important things to do. I want to move on - like he has."

"It's only been two weeks," she said compassionately. "You're in pain."

This made me weep. I use the word "weep" intentionally - because to me, weeping is crying from someplace inside untouched...a tender place of utter pain.

I wept and cried and sobbed. I feel so confused and so devastated and betrayed. There simply are no words. And for all these weeks - until recently - I've kept it all in, kept it to myself, so terrified over the things "he" told me he'd said to others.

Tonight one of his friends told me that "he" is hurting, too, which I just cannot fathom because of the things he's said, done and threatened.

This "friend" also said I look like an ass for "airing dirty laundry" and I need to clarify.....

I'm not trying to air any dirty laundry. I am defending myself when - for weeks - I was stuck in a basement with no friends and nobody who cared with a man who was - according to him -  telling everyone my personal business (some of which I know because I saw it on his FB).

I'm not trying to make him look bad, nor make myself look good. I am trying to heal.

When I was a very, very little girl - as far back as I remember - I wrote. I had no voice. My voice was taken. But the paper and pen were my friends and I could write whatever I wanted. Sometimes I would sit with paper and pen and just transcribe conversations my grandparents were having, just so I could write. Sometimes I would simply practice changing handwriting, making my "Y's" or "J's" different (eventually I learned calligraphy).

I write my feelings. It's both a curse and a blessing.

I think - at this point, given his friend's perspective - I should point out that I loved him - and still do - so much. I tried. Oh God I tried...I tried to be important. I tried to be what he expected as, also, I was raised to be. I went into my relationship with him intellectually - as did he - and somewhere in the middle of it, we decided to go deeper and we did.

I did, anyway. I can't speak for him.

I opened up like I never have before. I shared more than I have ever shared with anyone. I was terrified.

But this place - this man - was the wrong place, wrong man. Wrong venue. Wrong everything.

Things like I've gone through don't happen in pretty white houses with blue shutters and picket fences so sharing my truth, my experiences, my pain and my disorders was too much for him. On some level I get that. In fact, on some level...in some part of me, I kind of expected it. Nobody, I suppose (or, at least, nobody like him) should be expected to understand what I was going through.

Still, I hoped. I wanted to marry him. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him.

I'm not "over it" and won't be for a long time. Sharing such deep, hidden wounds with someone for the first time, only to go through what I went through with him, caused some serious damage to me.

But I love him still. I miss his scent. I miss how he (almost) always woke up in a good mood. I miss how he misspeaks words because of his Italian heritage. I miss his hands.

I miss him.

My intention in sharing my story is not to trash him or anyone. I hope this comes across loud and clear.

I sometimes have angry blogs, yes, but I am human and writing is my venue. I don't know how to speak - yet.

But I will one day.

And I'm sure one day, I will look back on this whole thing and be able to pluck from it, things I've learned...things I can take away from it. But for now, I am beyond hurt. Just crushed. Promises are important to me and many, many promises were broken. A lot of trust was betrayed.

I've never claimed to be an angel and I've publicly aired my own transgressions. I just never posted them on FB but they're there. For example, My Current Truth is my blog about how horrible I felt.....what a monster I felt like as he was doing "his thing."

I felt like a monster, an outcast, some kind of ....trash as he told me the things he told me he was telling others. Nothing and nobody could hurt me more than myself, beating myself up.

Even today, I had a "friend" beat me up over an incident that happened during this time.

It's my hope that in the end, I'll be able to show my face again and not be afraid. But as for love....as for relationships.... I understand I must first heal myself.

My blog is one piece of that.

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.

Devil Among Angels

My Name Is Cristina D. Johnson

My therapist has said it to me before, but said it again to me today:

"It's easier to be a devil among angels, than an angel among devils."

She's referring to the past couple of blogs wherein I admit to doing, saying, being anything and everything I can to be accepted and not abandoned.

It's easier for me - for a child - to blame themselves for all the "bad" and all the "dirty" within them, and to try and fit in, than it is to be the person who can just be themselves.

So view myself - and always have - as this ugly stain in the fabric of life; this irreparable, broken, "classless cunt" (as he referred to me) who's worth nobody's time, love, compassion or attention so I keep everything in, do what I can and hope nobody sees the truth - sees how "dirty or ugly or bad" I am.

For me it's a lifelong thing but particularly over the past five years when I stepped out of my comfort zone and became engaged with people who were....let's just say of a different class. As I stepped outside of that comfort zone, I stepped into a whole new world.

Lots of white and crystal and things that a dirty little girl like me didn't fit into...but damn I tried.

He told me that people were coming out of the woodwork saying things about me. He was very cryptic about this, leaving me to believe the absolute worst. Oh my God! They know! They know! and my first instinct is to run away - run away as far as I can. I still feel this way, mostly. There's been very little compassion.

I believe it was my therapist who said people just want the dirt, the grit, the gossip - something to talk about. They don't really want to know how you're suffering...how you're struggling...they just want to know the nitty gritty.

And I think this is true....
                                        .........and pathetic.

In a video my cousin shared with me the other day, Dr. Brene' Brown talks about listening to shame. It was a very, very powerful video but one thing she said that stuck out to me the most was this:

"I feel bad," is guilt.
"I am bad," is shame.

I've spent my whole life believing "I am bad." Believing I didn't deserve someone like "him" - when in hindsight, I gave him everything I possibly could....gave him more of myself than I'd ever given anyone, only to have that white and crystal world explode in my face and leave me even more scarred and feeling that I am bad than before.

Being abandoned by people who called themselves my friends, just reinforces that I am bad. I must be.

After all, I spent particularly the past five years as a devil among angels ...perfect people with perfect lives, perfect hair, perfect clothes, perfect partners, perfect homes and boats, perfect everything and here I was....bad.

At some point, I know I will offload this shame. There are brief moments when I think to myself, "Wow....someone loves you..." but they're fleeting. Still, when they come, they're very powerful and they ache. Mostly, though, I am overcome by this incessant voice in my head that tells me I am bad. I am dirty. I do nothing right. I am not worthy.

The bottom of this mountain is big.

So is my determination. People left me - I knew they would because I haven't shared any "nitty gritty" or gruesome details about my abuse (for the most part) but oh....bet your sweet ass, I will one day. I won't share it for the punishment of my perpetrators nor for the glory or to make myself look good. I will share it with the God-Honest intention, the authentic desire and hopes and prayers that someone in that white crystal world will read it and feel some compassion....someone will learn....

And hopefully, someone else will come out...and someone else will come out...and someone else will come out.... and eventually we - we incest survivors - will stop being devils amongst angels, but the angels we have always been, if misguided.