Strength

Sometimes I think strength is misconstrued

Some ascribe it to one’s attitude

Some would say get over it

Others would say, take time…heal

I battle inside

Wondering what strength is

They say ‘you’ve already conquered’

‘you’ve made it through,’ they say

“The battle is already won”

But it’s not because, for me,

The battle’s just begun

The repercussions of a supposed win

Eat me alive, from within

So which way does one go?

Eaten alive, just to survive?

Appease the ones who’ve “been through worse?”

Apply salve to the wounds

Through the need to cry, heal, move forward?

Go to work, get a job, be productive?

Sit alone, cry and be self-destructive?

Nobody knows, but many think they do.

Walk in others' shoes.

Truth is nobody knows strength

Only their own strength

their perceptions of others' strengths

Nobody really knows.

Film

A film of self-defense
self-denial
Denial altogether
covering the lenses
of eyes that never cried
denial of the inside
the red heat of self
dark cataracts to reality
cauterizing release
blocking the view
of wounds that
never healed
blackened and charred
the chips fall away
like obsidian teardrops
tiny shadowed tears
This film covering my reality
a lifetime
of denial.
A lifetime of unknowing

Whores and Martians

After my blog on Forgiveness and Judgment, I received a brilliant email from a friend. It was a very well-thought-out, compassionate and knowledgeable email and there were things said in it, that really set me back, made me think.

I spoke with my APRN about it today - gave her a small paraphrase from the email - to which her response was, "She's exactly right." My APRN is fantastic and has experience working with PTSD and DID.

The paraphrase was something like, "If I insisted you were a martian, you would laugh and think I need my head examined. It's the same with words like 'whore' and you have to dig down and find that wounded part of you that believes you're a whore and help heal that part, hold that part, assure that part that it's safe now and she's not a whore."

She said many other wise things. It hurt in some ways - mostly, though, because that "part" (or those "parts") of me, I avoid. I abhor. I don't want to see them. I don't want to hear or feel them. That makes it a bit difficult to embrace them. I guess it's sad to know some parts of me are crying inside, and if I saw someone else - some other child - crying fiercely over their pain - I would embrace them and comfort them but for me, it just feels so disgraceful, even though I know it's an important part of healing.

I've been working on a story. I'm up to about 30,000 words. I've written it in the third person and that keeps me detached from it. I've also fictionalized 80 percent of the first part of it, but it's my story....or at least, the story of a girl I no longer wish to acknowledge but who seems to control my thoughts, reactions, relationships.

Writing the story, brings up a lot but what's missing is the emotional element. I can't connect, can't understand. I can only imagine what she must have felt, what she must have believed.

Judy (my APRN) says it might be good for me to write about these things - the things it brings up. Truth is, I wish I had someone there, who knew what questions to ask.

"What did you feel when this/that happened?"

"What did he/she look like/"

"What was the environment like?"

"How did you respond? Why?"

Because these elements are missing. It is just as if I am telling someone else's story. Exactly like that. Exactly like it's always been. From a distance, looking through a lens at someone else's life and experiences.

It's a dream of mine, to publish this book. God how many times I have started it and never finished. So many unfinished manuscripts. But this one is different. I have avoided it over the past week. I've shared it with four people - it contains some humiliating facts about myself - so I have only shared with a select few and of them, only portions.

It is hard to write. Hard to remember. Hard to connect. Hard to stay focused.

Thank you, my friend, for your email. And RevAli, for your response. It is nice to hear words of wisdom, of healing, of guidance. Sometimes I feel like I'm hanging by a rope over a chasm and it's about to snap and all I can do is cling on and cry.

My relationships are suffering (except with Bill) because of the distance I've put between myself and the outside world. Most recently I suffered a severe epiphany which brought me great pain. Great, great pain and deep shame and I can't even bring myself to write about it. Perhaps one day I will.

For now, I cry almost nightly because of it. More and more shame, piling on.

Seems too much to share, and too much to bear and sometimes I just have to hang onto moments like this weekend when Bill came and forced me to buy a nightgown and robe. It's the first time in ...I don't know how long, I bought something for myself. Something I really wanted. He helped me plant flowers, and bought me some cacti to make a cactus garden in my dining room window box where the heat is too much for anything else. Somehow I have to hold onto those good moments, according to Judy. Let them in, let them permeate me.

I like that idea.

She told me that I have to learn to do this so when I  get flooded and overwhelmed, I won't shut down so automatically because that's exactly what I do. I get three text messages at once and I  go on auto-pilot. The phone rings and dinner's cooking at the same time, I  go on auto-pilot. I have an appointment and the school calls - autopilot.

She said this is something I learned very young and it is now automatic. So automatic that it happens even when I don't realize it. She is right.

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 Rescue

My name is Cristina D. Johnson.

Today, as I was helping my son out, I drove past exit 7 and then exit 10. It was bittersweet - my former home. The two main exits. On the way back from Middletown, I cried as I passed them again, but I quickly wiped the tears away, refusing to be hurt.

"That's kinda normal," Michelle (my therapist) told me later. "That's pain. That's anger. That's part of grieving."

I started to cry.

I think I started to cry because a part of me never wants to admit I ever loved him. Good riddance. You were no good for me. You sucked. Etc. It's so much easier to be angry.

But once you get to the tender spots, the pain is there.

I had a heavy session today and it left me feeling kind of drained, berating myself...angry at myself, questioning myself and every relationship I've ever had of all time.

I have to say this is hard - this is hard for me to write. Hard for me to admit to and one of those things that I haven't yet had the chance to ponder. That's the problem (or has been the problem) with this whole "healing process": things are so crazy and out of whack and there's so much to do that when I have one of these spellbinding, earth-rattling, nerve-cracking, tear-jerking sessions, I don't have time to sit on it and really reflect because I'm so worried about everything and everyone else.

So I'm writing about it here, being painfully honest.

We (Michelle and I) talked about Gary and Bill.

When I went into my relationship with Gary, I'd expected something different than what I got. We didn't always have bad times. Sometimes, we "got" each other and those were really magical moments. Sometimes....sometimes it was a beautiful thing. One time in particular, it was one of the most beautiful things I'd ever experienced in my life (he'd know what I'm talking about but it's too personal to go into). My point is, that it wasn't always that bad, although it was always unstable.

I had a picture of Gary in my mind; a picture he put there, the day we met. I thought, "He's the one. I could do this. I could spend my life with this man because he'll teach me things. We'll go to museums and operas and plays...." I truly loved him. I still do in a far away, aching place. In the most authentic part of me, I want nothing but happiness and peace for him.

I idealized him, as Michelle said.

Now, she says, I demonize him.

I suppose there's some cognitive truth to that, although I have my own little pocket of broken secrets in my heart....utter pain and disbelief. I'm still so crushed, so hurt. I cry now, because of the deliberate nature of some of what happened.

"Maybe it wasn't deliberate," Michelle offered. "Insensitive, cruel, cold, callous? Yes. But deliberate? Maybe not."

I argued this - pointed to several things that were done that were deliberately hurtful. So painful.

Then the conversation turned to Bill. I sighed a heavy sigh.

Bill and I dated for three years. He was always good to me, always. Consistent, charming, loving, affectionate, passionate, honest, loyal.

We split up because we valued our friendship - that was in 2006 - and remained roommates and best friends. In 2007, I started dating Gary.

I told Michelle how it seemed like no time had passed when I most recently saw Bill. Same Bill, same friend, same everything, except a little stronger and a little more driven.

"What's wrong with Bill," she asked? I had a hard time coming up with an answer.

She proved her point.....

The black-and-white view I have of relationships and how it's always, always, always been that way: demonize or idealize. There is no gray.

This pains me. It hurts me so much because now I feel like I'm broken somewhere and I don't know how it happened or what caused it and I just feel like a total fuck-up. I looked back at the relationships in my life and it's always been that way - even with (I cringe to admit) my own son, Tony.

I told her about when I ran away - I was 11 when I hit the streets; 12 when I hit the truck stops - and somehow in my mind, I thought (even at that tender age) "I don't know what I'm looking for but I know I'll know it when I find it...and I know it'll be in a man."

Through every rape and beating, I believed something would happen and magically, somehow, this person hurting me would stop and realize what they were doing and realize - yes, I need rescuing, not beating, not rape, not abuse or neglect or judgment. Somehow this man would love me.

All my life...and I cry here now, sitting here, thinking about all the black-and-white relationships, all the idealizations and all the demonizations....Oh I'm so sorry.... I didn't know.

Yet I can't take all the blame. Or can I?

Like a record, playing in my head, "What's wrong with you? What's wrong with you? What's wrong with you?"

Oh this hurts to admit.... this hurts. This hurts to own and it hurts not to know what to think or do or say or believe. I don't even know what to believe. Can't even trust myself. How can I trust myself?

How many people have I hurt? Certainly there are those who've hurt me, but how many people have I unintentionally hurt by my idealizations and vilifying?

And at the same time there's this part of me that argues that I have a sort of old-fashioned part that wants to be a caretaker - I can cook and clean and do laundry. I can do all those things. I can "mother" and I don't mind it - I'm good at it. I'll show you....I'll show you I'm worthy....

Of being rescued?

Maybe?

For you - Gary - It's not all your fault. I loved you so much. I believed in you, perhaps too much and I'm sorry for that. But you also hurt me, so deeply. Perhaps not deliberately, as Michelle pointed out, but God... now I'm lost. I don't even trust myself.

For you, Bill - my best friend ever - I love you and I am so grateful to you and for you. I am afraid.

For you, Cindy - I've marveled at your wisdom and insights these past few months and I've needed the validation you've given me.

For you, Ron - Thank you....you know for what.

My head is spinning. I am so confused and I hurt. I hurt deep in my heart. I feel like such a failure. Like why didn't I catch this? Why didn't I know this? I could have fixed this? I could have been far ahead of the game if only I knew this about myself..... why? Why? WHY?

It's the same thing I've done my entire life.... (ugh I hate this part): waiting to be rescued.

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.

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.

Grieving A Break-Up

I suppose we all grieve differently.

I've been grieving for weeks over this break-up. Crying - sobbing. Avoiding. Numbing. Rage. Denying. Trying to change it.

And finally acceptance, but not without some strong feelings of betrayal and questions of why.

He says he has to go through the grieving process after I'm gone. I suppose... although I told him it just seems like he wants me to be gone...will be happy when I am out.

That's how it comes across, anyway.

Weeks of watching him go out and party and talk with friends...share my intimate details...while I sat here or at my sitting spot, grieving - even being chastised for it.

But I've grieved and I don't even think I'm done yet.

A friend asked me if she thought we would ever get back together and I said that I didn't know... the one thing I can't get past is the walking away when I needed him most. Giving up so quickly, saying and doing all the wrong things to someone (me) who needed so much patience and compassion.

Of course, I made my mistakes too, but my friends assure me (as does my therapist) that these "mistakes" are part of my healing process.

They say divorce is the second most stressful thing to go through in life; second only to someone dying. I disagree with that. I've been through divorce.

Going through the process of healing from incest and rape is by far the most painful thing I've ever done. Accepting my diagnoses; looking inside at myself; And even though I have friends that are helping me, I still feel this sense of alone-ness; like I can't burden them. It's kind of like, "Just let me do this work and you'll see the outcome...I'm afraid for anyone to see."

We  move - my son and I - this weekend, to our new place. I am petrified and excited; hurt and elated; nervous and confident; hopeful but so, so angry at myself for being a failure... for never being enough. For letting him down.

Blaming myself. Cursing myself for sharing so much - too much - of myself. I should have known better. I never should have let my guard down; never should have expected him to be able to handle the stress and pain that comes from this process. I cringe when I think of the secrets I've told him, knowing he's told so many people about so much of my personal life. I absolutely die inside, wishing I'd never uttered a word.

It's easy to blame the girl who cuts and suffers from suicide ideation who's in therapy and on medications. It's easy to blame the one with the obvious problems. And it's perfectly rational that she would grieve in the ways she does....right? No....not right. I grieved the loss of him with words of anger and betrayal. Utter disbelief. And even envy.

I blame myself for this... this guttural reaction to the pain I was going through. Oh God the agony of being so fucked up that he can't even love you... nobody can, especially now. Now that everyone knows. Everyone knows. I am so ashamed.

Is that part of grieving? Being ashamed?

My emotions are all over the place, although - because the move-in date is nearer - my energy is picking up and I'm feeling a little more hopeful, my emotions are still so crazy.

So much I wish I could change.

So much that I know will change.

Just listen

I recently said in jest, that if I ever wrote a book for partners of incest survivors, I would entitle it "Bill"

Bill is a friend of mine. We've known each other over ten years.

He came to visit - just left about an hour ago, actually. He showed me a lot while he was here. I cried and cried and he listened. He hugged me, told me he understood and just...listened.

He didn't judge or offer advice; he didn't look at me funny or anything. He just listened. When I would gag (I gag a lot lately) he would ask me if I was okay. He wasn't pushy or arrogant; just concerned. Truly concerned.

He let met talk as long as I wanted to talk and then he validated me. He told me good things about myself - things I haven't heard in a long time, and things I need to hear.

For two nights, he let me stay with him (completely platonic, btw, because we are just friends) but even he saw the difference in me, when we neared this house, and as we drove away.

My nerves here are just shot. My heart broken and he listened to me pour it out... He never said a bad thing at all; just listened.

I realized it was the first time in years that I felt listened to and acknowledged. It was the first time in years that I felt I mattered - that I was important...that I'm worth someone's time. I'm worth someone's compassion.

He came for a couple of reasons but partly because he wanted to get a feel for what I need as I go through what I'm going through and I think, what he saw, was this crisis on top of a crisis. He calmed me down, told me he would help me... soothed me, promised me everything would be okay. He was honest - told me I didn't necessarily push people away, but that I definitely do test them. But he didn't say things like this in a condescending way, as if he knew some better way to be. It was a decade-long observation that he made, and that I accepted as true. Because it is true.

I didn't sleep too well those two nights, despite being away from the house, but I wasn't as sick as I have been, either. And I smiled. And I laughed, too.

I stuck my feet in the water at the dock...so did he. Something I haven't been able to do in years, without fear of ridicule or judgment.

We went today to see Cindy. She cut off all his hair (it'd been growing for three years - he had a ponytail!) so we went there and Cindy, too, echoed so many of the things that Bill had said.

It was ....something.

I can't describe it.

It was something indescribable to be sitting between two people who want me to heal. They want me to heal and not only that, but they want to help me through it. They don't want to leave me or run away. They want to understand as much as they can. They don't push or pull - they've been so gentle and so kind and I don't have any words. Just tears.

Mixed tears.

Tears of appreciation, and tears of longing.

Appreciation for what I have; longing for what I've missed all these years.

That ticker in my brain that keeps going, "You were never enough for him...." over and over.... it's all your fault, all your fault....

But now I have these people who are being authentic and kind and they're telling me they love me and they don't expect anything in return....just want me to heal.

This makes my heart ache. It makes me question everything I know and believe about myself. Everything I've always believed about myself.

It's not fair, what I'm going through.

And it's not fair that people gave up on me. I am worthy of being listened to until two in the morning if necessary. I am worthy.


Neither of them have shunned me for my suicide ideation or cutting; neither of them have chastised me for feeling so ashamed. Neither of them have put me down - not in the least. They lift me up. It is a little frightening, especially given the recent circumstances and how everyone just gave up.

They are helping me... sometimes just by listening.

Warped Love

I talked with my therapist yesterday about love. About my warped sense of love. About how I don't understand it. How I can love others, but never believe anyone loves me. I don't think this is uncommon among incest survivors.

It came up because I was willing to do anything to make Gary love me - the same as with my father...and I did. As he molested me, I was making him love me, even if it hurt me.

I told her, during my many rapes, I would somehow fantasize that each man would look into my crying eyes and decide that he loved me. This only compounds my shame. Wanting to be loved by my rapists.

This was reinforced so many times, I cannot count.

So now, it's no wonder that I'll do, be, say, act and otherwise show anything I can, just to be loved.

And it's always aimed at men - always has been. Never women or friends; they can't "love" me like ...well, you know. I suppose this is because it started in my formative years with my father.

I know, intellectually, that I have to learn to love myself. This seems like such a monumental task. Huge.

I don't know how to do it. I don't know how to look myself in the mirror and say, "You're beautiful and I love you." I don't know how to think of myself in terms of self-love - how could someone who's done the things I've done, possibly love herself, whoever "herself" is?

So, instead of looking inside for that love, I've always looked outside which just leads to more reinforcement of how unlovable I am.

Gary's rejection; Her rejection; Everyone's rejection (because of Gary telling everyone about it) just reinforces how unlovable I am because there's no love inside myself for me.

Just this self-loathing. Disgust. Shame. Guilt.

Oh my God the shame - that word again. It creeps up almost every blog.

I suppose feeling it and being aware of it are steps towards healing but what a God-awful feeling. Like someone's ripped your bones right from your body and you're nothing but an empty, deflated shell.

The constant barrages of being put down or hurt by him, leads to those text messages I've blogged about. The betrayal I see, I don't know how to respond except in anger because he's telling me - again, in my language - that I don't matter and I am unlovable. I do get bitterly defensive and angry and say things I would normally never say. It's totally a defense mechanism. It's saying, "Fuck you! I won't let you have this power over me! I'm going to hurt you as bad as you're hurting me!!"

Yesterday my therapist explained that he is not the kind of person I need in my life right now. I need people who are understanding, patient, compassionate, loving and supportive. Not the kind of people who do the things that Gary is doing. Heartless things. Careless, reckless things.

She is right.

I deserve better. I deserve these things.

But where do I begin?

Friends and Supporters

I've found, through the process of this break-up and the horribly humiliating behaviors I have exhibited, that I have friends and supporters who are there for me, no matter what. This is difficult to fathom, difficult to accept.

Especially when the ones you thought would be there, left so recently.

I struggle with this, yet I am grateful, too.

These people help me without expectation and they recognize my journey as my journey, not theirs. They allow me room to breathe; they let me call them at 2 a.m. with a nightmare; they don't judge me for doing whatever I can to get through this; they commend me for the work I am doing and have done; they encourage me because they see my potential and know I will, one day, have some great accomplishments.

One day, I will make a difference.

These supporters and friends have not bashed me when I was at my lowest, nor have they talked about me behind my back. They have honored my need for privacy - for now - until I am ready to divulge what I am and have been going through. And I will one day.

One of them recently told me: "You have to open up - even if just a little bit - and trust someone." and I know she's right...it's just so frightening to me, especially now. With the exception of my therapist, opening up and being honest and vulnerable is like standing on the edge of an extremely high cliff. Stomach in knots.

I don't know how to trust... mostly, I suppose, because I don't trust myself. I don't trust myself because of the rotten decisions and choices I have made. The intention was always good, but the result always just reinforces the abandonment I've always lived with.

So this blog is for my friends and supporters, to say thank you. To honor you for being such amazing human beings. For helping me and seeing me through this, for listening and for learning and for understanding. Thank you for not pushing your own agendas on me, knowing that I have a huge agenda already and a great big "to-do" list, all geared towards healing.

Thank you for picking up the slack, when I can't carry the weight.

It's not easy to watch someone you  care about, go through so much pain. I know this.

Thank you for being there through it all.

Reluctant Homework

In the book, Resurrection After Rape, (you can download a free pdf of this book by clicking the link) the author, assigns the following homework:

1) If rape is a form of theft, what did it steal?
2) If rape steals something from you, what parts of you are NOT gone?

So I decided, reluctantly, to write it down.

If rape is a form of theft, what did it steal?

It stole my sense of self
It stole my future, what I could have been
It stole my ability to have relationships
it stole my sexuality
it stole my trust
it stole my place in this world
it stole my sense of security
it stole my freedom
it stole my belief in authentic love
it stole my vulnerability
it stole my innocence
it stole my family and any sense of what "family" is
it stole my ability to feel emotions or share them appropriately
it stole my ability to just be myself
it stole my purity
it stole my tears
it stole my voice
it stole my childhood
it stole my happy memories, all my birthdays and Christmases.
It stole my virginity.
It stole my beauty and any sense of self-worth.
It stole my ability to look at myself in the mirror, to dress myself or to fit in anywhere.
It stole my privacy.


If rape steals something from you, what parts of you are NOT gone?

My incest and rapes did not take away my inner strength or determination.
It all strengthened my intuition.
My tenderness
My compassion.
My awareness and alertness.
Willingness to learn and to change.
Willingness to make the world better, somehow.
I am a good mother.
I have patience.
I love deeply and authentically, when I love.
My loyalty and my thoughts and ideas.
I still write, because nothing can take that away from me.
I am acutely empathic.
I am a good teacher and speaker.


So, with all that said, I know there's more. But it's a tender place to touch.

Today, as I was driving home from running errands, I got enraged. Just out of the blue, rageful - it was all aimed at Gary. Started shaking, almost pulled over to take a klonopin. But then I just started crying and the question that kept running through my mind, really applies to both Gary and my father: "Why?" and from there it went directly to my father. "Why did you do that to me? Why did you do this to me?"

The answer comes back to me in my mind, in Gary's voice: "I didn't do anything to you."

Everything is so mixed up... Everything and I just hurt. So confused. So hurt.

I feel alone because of him. I feel alone because, once again, someone couldn't love me. It's not fair to say nobody loves me because there are people who proclaim they do but when he said he didn't love me anymore, the alone-ness hit me like a brick to my stomach. It was like being raped again. Being told to trust, encouraged to heal, open up, do what you have to do...only to be abandoned when it gets ugly. To be judged for the ugly. Ridiculed publicly. Publicly humiliated. My privacy spread out like a billboard. My shame exposed to the entire world.

So my rage - this god awful rage - is aimed at him and those who believe him, when it should be aimed at the man who caused all of this to happen to me: my father. Daddy. And the many other men who used my body and beat me and threw me away.

I understand. I get it. But how do I do it? I feel so alone.

Compassion for Incest Survivors

Yesterday I went to my spot with the intention of getting some sun. It's by the water so you can sit on the dock, get a good breeze and get some sun. The back yard is like a jungle with no breeze - no way was I going out there.

I knew there was a possibility that Gary might go by on his boat, but I could handle it (at least that's what I told myself).

For weeks, we've had this argument about how my personal business is my business, and nobody else's unless I choose to tell them. He disagrees and has repeatedly said, "people are compassionate, they care...yada yada...." and has also said it's none of my goddamn business what he tells others.

So yesterday, I'm sitting at my spot, getting some sun and some of those "compassionate" people came and rafted up right in front of me. Three boats on which I used to party along with the rest of them (and usually cook something because that was my way of fitting in). Not one waved. Not one single person waved. Boaters wave at everyone. But not one of them waved to me, never mind said "Hi! How are you?"

I just sat there rocking and crying intermittently.

That's the damage that happens when people tell your private business - all the way down to "what is she going to do? [now that we're breaking up and I'm not working]" - which is nobody's business. It's my business to tell, not his, and the appropriate answer is "I don't want to talk about her."

Because he shouldn't. Not only because he shouldn't, but because he has no discretion at all and just tells everything.

People do not have compassion for survivors of incest. I talked with my therapist about this last Friday and she agreed - most people don't have the capacity to handle it. People in her professional field sometimes even have problems with it, although she did say most other incest survivors have compassion.

To me, it's common sense because I've experienced it my whole life - the looks, the awkward tension, the way they gradually back away as soon as they find out. And they definitely don't want to talk about it or hear about it. In this way, it is an us-vs.-them kind of world that he doesn't understand. Survivors of incest have certain things broken - often as very young children - that results in phobias and behaviors that others simply don't understand - can't understand.

Compassion would be finding out - asking questions and listening to the answers. It would be waving when you see one, instead of pretending they're not there and it would be getting their side of the story, instead of sitting in judgment and ridicule.

My problem is I tried living here - in this place, among these people. I believed I was making a better life for myself and for my son. I truly believed I was moving up in the world.

I was really just moving farther and farther away from my abuse. Hiding behind multiple masks doing, as my therapist said, whatever I could to be liked. Nobody here was really my friend, even though Gary has said for years that they were. It's quite obvious now, that they weren't and aren't.

All these years, I was trying to be something I'm not - faking it. Gary recently told me (in his defense of talking about me behind my back) "People see you no matter what mask you wear." and I wonder what he meant by that because during my last session I literally sobbed, wracking sobs, over my fear that people would see the ugly inside of me and she said, "Nobody knows but you."

That's not true anymore, though. Now it's true - my biggest, greatest fear, my greatest shame is now out there like a fucking newspaper for everyone to read, and he gets to be writer, editor and publisher.

So cruel, so heartless, so callous and careless.

I remember one time when he referred to a woman at the marina as a "Crack Whore" and I was astonished and I chewed him out for it. He admitted he was wrong to say such a thing but he did - he said it - which shows the level of compassion in this place where I was trying so hard to fit in.

It wasn't long ago that I ripped my necklace from my throat and threw it because I felt so stupid for "dressing up" - stupid, stupid, stupid, I kept telling myself. Who do you think you are, to try to fit in?? Everyone sees it! Everyone knows you're a fake! A FREAK! 

 I sat on the edge of the bed and cried, thinking all these horrible things about myself.


Gary got angry with me. No compassion, just anger.

That's how much compassion there is in this town...in this state...in this world.

Weakness Versus Strength

My "friend" said to me, "...I'm sick of your...woe is me" and "[Your] 'nobody gets it' is old."

This from someone who said "she gets it" for months, but after saying these - among other things - she clearly doesn't get it, and never did. I told her as much. Told her it was an insult to suggest she understood.

People in these little sheltered towns (and, I assume, all over the country and even the world) just think you're supposed to get up, get a job, get moving, move past it, get over it.

What that means is, put on the mask you've always worn, pretend it's okay, hush, hush, hush - nobody wants to hear your tale of woe.

This is the viciousness of the cycle of abuse. The taboo - the keep the secret. Don't tell anyone - act like everything is normal.

For me, nothing is normal - especially right now - and some would call me weak. I am weak. I am extremely weak right now. I can't focus on anything; I'm easily overwhelmed; easily triggered; can't sleep; feel exhausted; can't eat (get sick when I try to); just can't function. Can't even read a book - one of my favorite pastimes for years. Think this is fun? Being weak?

Or...

Is it being weak? Isn't being "weak" and being vulnerable, paradoxically strong?

Because I gotta tell you: Right now, I am the last person I ever wanted to be. I wanted to stay the way I was, with my happy face and my forward motion, fake though it may have been. If I could go back and just be in denial so everyone would like me, I would.

But to me, that is weak.

Pretending to be something you're not in order to hide the shame, the secret, the truth - that is weak. That is giving in to societal pressure. Pretending to be friends with people, pretending to be strong, pretending it didn't affect you.... that is weakness.

So, for my "friend" - and anyone else - who thinks I should just pick myself up by my bootstraps and get a job and move on, I say this: get educated and stop being fake.

Right now, in my life, I'm being as real and raw as it gets. I don't need peoples' advice who haven't been there and who do not know my history or the pain I am in. In fact, they don't even know the truth about my current situation....it's all one-sided. Solidly unfair, but it is, what it is.

I am being weak, yes, and it's about goddamn time. I've spent my whole life being strong, being whatever I thought others wanted me to be. Now I'm finding the real me - and that takes a hell of a lot of strength and courage. The nightmares, flashbacks, triggers, nausea - all constant. It's a horrifying experience.

And I'm doing it without those so-called "friends" - the ones who can't take the truth, who can't bear witness to my pain.

But at least I have real friends - the ones who know, who are willing to learn, who understand, who would never betray me. At least I have that and that's more real than every single fake friend in these towns.