Honesty in Therapy

My name is Cristina D. Johnson.

Most people with my diagnoses (PTSD/DID) and/or history (Complex Trauma), have a tendency to jump from therapist to therapist. They get to the "meat" of the issues or start touching on something sensitive - or their therapist will - and they hit the road. No f'n way man, I ain't goin' there.

It hurts to be honest. It's terrifying and - I say terrifying because I can't think of any stronger words - to say to a therapist, "Yep you're right and that hurts because it's true."

That happened to me during my last visit. She did something that stirred up the mud and muck inside. She reached deep, deep, deep inside where I won't look, can't look, and at the time, I didn't tell her. Couldn't tell her. I believe I told someone else, at least a little - I don't remember who - but I couldn't tell her. It was an unfamiliar, frightening maternal thing. I've never gotten to know my mother - never wanted to - and want nothing to do with her. I've also always maintained that I don't care about her, don't love her, and never needed her.

I canceled my session with her on Sunday night. Sunday night was suffering with suicide ideation - bad. I wanted a gun...Swore I would buy one. I went to bed, woke up emotionally and mentally hungover. As if there were this huge grey cloud over me, surrounding me. I was still shaken, still hurt.

I was told some things by my son (again), how I need to stop taking my meds and "get over it," among other things. I finally shut his phone off. He hasn't paid the bill and he's 25...shouldn't even be on my plan.

Anyway all kinds of things happened, and my last session was part of it. It stayed with me and I've held it, like trying to hold your breath as long as you can. It's stayed with me and I see her tonight because she called me and rescheduled for today at 5:30. She warned me before that she's a "nag" and won't let her trauma patients go that easy. There were other parts of it. One big one being an issue between Bill and I and I was feeling trapped and controlled. That set me off, big time and just brought out my fighter. Not pretty. And at the same time, figuring why the hell should I be alive? I was a mess.

Now I feel afraid to talk to her - afraid of what to say... I don't want to feel what I felt during our last session and I don't know how to broach the subject...or if I even should. Not yet, anyway. Not ready.

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.