Salty Flashback (WARNING: Graphic)

My name is Cristina D. Johnson

Today Michelle and I talked about an article I read about DID. I had sent it to her, to get her opinion. See, I am pretty pissed off about this whole DID thing and for the past two days, have fought the notion. Fuck that. I don't have DID. No way.

But then I read the article... searching, I suppose. Just wanting answers. Something. Anything. I don't know. Some kind of answer or answers for the weird, crazy shit my mind goes through and the stuff that just doesn't make sense.

I asked her what she thought about the article, "besides the typos," I said...

"There were typos?"

"Yeah. Several," I said.

"I didn't notice."

"I did. I didn't like it," I told her.

And, like any good therapist, I suppose, she shot my own question back at me. "What did you think about it?"

I shrugged. I didn't have an answer.

We talked about the reasons why I might have sent it to her, what I was looking for. She asked me what the DID means for me, what's wrong with it?

I  told her I am among the victims of The Seven Faces of Eve and Sybil - those who see DID as some malady where you change personalities so overtly that people think you're crazy.

"I don't want to be crazy."

"Do you think you're crazy?"

"Sometimes I want to go crazy."

"Do you?"

"Sometimes."

It felt like I needed to fit too much into the session. Like always, I suppose. In a hurry. I want this over with. I want all these stupid fucking "parts" or "fragments" or what the hell ever it is to go away so I can know who the hell I am because that is what I fear the most and I don't want to fear anything.

Still, my "core self" (whoever that is) lies dormant and hidden.

I felt a surge...a need to tell her what happened last night, despite this feeling I had not to say anything. But this urge took over, this bizzare disconnection happened and there I was, saying it.

"Tell me something," I said to her. "Last night, when I went to bed, I had a flashback," I continued, not waiting for her to speak. She sat quietly and I talked.

"I don't know how old I was. I was on the streets. There was a car - the door was open - and a big black man and he had a gun to my head. He had me on my knees. He made me perform oral sex on him right there, and he held the gun at my temple and said, 'Swallow it or I'll blow your fucking brains out.' So I swallowed it. I remember this very vividly, even though I couldn't tell you how I got there, where we were [except that we were in St. Louis] or anything.

"But then the flashback went from that to Bill and it stopped with Gary. I got this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, envisioning Gary." My father - my first predator - didn't even come to mind, despite my vivid memory of asking him as a child, "Daddy what is that white stuff?" and his response: "I don't know, honey," as he handed me a towel to wipe it off.

I was emotionless. The black man, the gun, the swallowing - how it burned - those things were far removed from me, aside from the visual (and the burning sensation which I can call upon if I choose, but I choose not to). Instead, I was overwhelmed with disgust over the taste of semen.

"I tasted semen. I felt it was flooding my mouth," I told her, speaking of last night. "This has never happened before."

I was laying in bed. Bill was asleep. I hadn't watched or read anything that might have prompted it, but there it was - suddenly - and I was heaving, panting, sitting upright, reminding myself who I was, where I was, that I was safe. And there was an argument in my head and I was trying to ....I don't know, calm it down.

So strange.

"What the hell is that?" I asked her. "I mean, if someone ever did something like that to my daughter, I would consider it traumatic. But me? Who cares?"

She said this centers around this enormous shame I have. I trust her. I believe this, even if I don't understand it.

She said (paraphrasing), "While you think it'd be better if you didn't exist, you have people standing on the other side of the [chasm] saying, 'Come over here. You deserve to be here. You deserve to be safe, loved.'"

"I don't think I'm really doing anyone any favors by existing," I argued, adding: "Except for Trevor."

"I would argue that," she said calmly.

She did tell me one thing:

She told me she's seen me switch and described some of the ways it appears when I do. My posture changes, my countenance changes, my voice changes, my body language changes.

We discussed other things I've experienced that I've never told anyone and am not yet ready to now.

For now, at least.

I'm very confused and I feel lost. But part of me figures, you can't really be found, until you're lost first.

In or Out

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

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

Nobody.

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

But that's not all.

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

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

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

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

Oh shit.

"Why?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whatever. I didn't care.

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

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

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

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

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

Why? Why would she deliberately hurt me that way?

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

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

So ...okay she didn't.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That's how I work.