Ponies, butterflies...and shit.

Life is shit.

That's it, and it's true.

Sometimes I want to feel (what I suppose would be) the satisfaction of stabbing an idiot with an ink pen or have the guts to walk straight across traffic, into the median of an at-least-four-lane highway and scream obscenities at no one in particular, yet everyone all at once.

Life is shit.

"Teddy" isn't real and he does not talk to you. One day you'll learn neither is Santa real, any more than the Easter Bunny or the tooth fairy who somehow stuck some spare change under your pillow without moving you, yet a slight thump in the night makes you scream because you swear there's a monster in the closet (speaking of which, don't worry about letting your feet hang off the edge of the bed there's no monsters or sharks or anything under there that'll eat or grab your feet).

If you're lucky, you'll have been a wanted baby, and by "wanted," what I really mean is, "desired and planned by two people madly in love who die together in a hospital bed like in that best-kiss-ever movie." If not, chances are you were either an "oops" baby or they truly meant well, and believed they'd spend eternity together or they were selfish assholes who gave birth to you. (There's another set of people who are extremely young and naive' and know they will be able to handle raising a baby. It's not that they're selfish; just that they have issues and need someone to love, who'll never leave them. They just don't know it and probably never will).

Life is shit.

By the age of five you'll probably have been to the hospital or doctor's office for jumping on the bed or some other thing created with children's safety in mind. You'll either bust your head or break and arm or sprain a wrist. This will happen throughout your childhood, though, as you grow into your awkward pree-teen and teenage years, it will become more common any time you're near or with the opposite sex (unless you're homosexual, then it's the same sex). Invariably, you'll hit your teeth with the edge of a drinking container; you'll trip over a crack in the sidewalk; you'll bump heads when you go to kiss; you'll get naked in front of others, perhaps streak through the street or go skinny dipping, and someone will take your clothes, leaving you helplessly embarrassed.

Life is shit.

Your first time having sex will suck (no pun intended). If your'e a guy, you will probably orgasm before it's ever out of your pants but you'll play along and probably do one of two things: (1). you'll make something up or (2). you'll continue "fooling around" (what adults call "foreplay") and eventually be able to perform after a few more minutes, only that will last less time than it takes to enter a girl's vagina. If you're a girl, it hurts whether he's gentle or not. It is absolutely not like the movies. If you're at an average age (preferably at least 16 but nowadays as young as 12), take my word for it: don't look at it. If you look at it, you'll scream because there's no way that thing can fit inside your thing.

Yes it can and yes it hurts and yes, you'll likely bleed - if just a little - even if you've had experience with the finger before.

Life is shit.

You'll get your period while wearing white shorts in gym class or on the bus in the summertime, way too long before your stop. The cramps will feel like a hydraulic jack inside you and more than once, you're guaranteed to bite someone's head off (a warm heating pad and a good book helps, fyi, and sometimes you just need to spend a day sleeping).

You'll get a boner when Ol' Mrs. [Insert ridiculous name here] mentions anything that reminds you of sex and (God forbid) anyone saw or knew, you'd be teased about having a hard-on for the ugliest teacher in the entire school for the rest of your life. It's a given.

If you're lucky, you will be among the few who do not contract at least one sexually transmitted disease because, let's face it, condoms aren't always feasible and there's really no "good time" to put one on, once the ball is rolling... so to speak.

Life is shit.

You're going to drop your cell phone in the water more than once because "the first time was an accident and you weren't paying attention" but the second (third, fourth and fifth) time(s), it'll be because you continually believed it was simply a matter of not paying attention. This is true but not paying attention is what we do, so save yourself (and parents) some headaches and simply don't drink that Red Bull anywhere near the laptop or other electrical items.

Life is shit.

There's always going to be some girl at the prom who has a better dress than you; one who's more popular than you; one who's skinnier and/or prettier than you; one who's got the best hair; one everyone loves. There's also the one everyone feels sorry for and hangs out with or buys birthday presents for, just because of that. Incidentally, this one is usually the one who's terrified of you (unless it's you. Then you know who I'm talking about).

There's always going to be the guy who has it all. The one with the perfect hair; the one with the bigger penis (you know, because you looked one day with a fake sneeze at the urinal in 9th grade and, [although you never told anyone I mean, how could you, right?] the image will haunt you for your entire young adult life). There will always be the guy who has the newest car, the best computer, the sickest tattoo and the prettiest girls. Also, the penis fear thing will grow worse (no pun intended) as you overhear girls discussing the importance of size.

Life is shit.

People you love will die unnaturally and unpredictably. You'll sometimes be tough when inside you're crumbling and sometimes you'll crumble when you watch a Disney film. You'll refuse to cry in front of any other guy, but the other guy feels the same way...he just can't stop it and you awkwardly can't blame him because in some way you're going to envy him, even if you'll never show it.

You're going to experience at least one moment you'll regret the rest of your life: The moment you followed the leaders and made fun of/humiliated/hurt someone or something else. There'll be many moments of regret, but this one really sticks with you as if you've maimed a fluffy kitten.

Life is shit.

Parents fight. Parents hurt. Parents abuse. Parents divorce. Parents die. Not all of them (and most of the time, not all at once), but it happens. And if/when it does, some part of you will blame yourself and nothing anyone can say will change that until you grow up and realize the idiocy of blaming yourself.

Life is shit.

You're going to resent (unless you're real hard core, then you'll despise) anyone who believes other than you. At the very least, you'll quietly dispute them with disdain. You'll be indoctrinated in some way or another - most likely by your parents, grandparents, neighborhood or church. Possibly all of these. There will be the opposite side and they feel the same about you. Neither of you will know how to debate or have intellectual conversations about welfare or the state of the nation/union/world and you may even end up in a fight or two over it. (Seriously....People have died for Yankees vs. Red Sox arguments when lager and a pool cue were involved).

You won't always know what to say to someone who confides in you they've been raped or are being abused. You won't know when to "tell" and when not to "tell" and it'll drive you crazy, no matter which one you do, so the best thing to do is the one that helps the other person the most.


 Life is shit.

You're going to miss at least one extremely important, monumental thing in yours or your friends' or your parents'/cousins'/siblings' lives. At least. Probably a dozen. I'm being generous. Truth is, you just can't remember to be everywhere and do everything all at once.

You'll probably see a school counselor or private therapist at some point in your life, whether voluntarily or not, who will tell you exactly what I just wrote in the last sentence of the last paragraph. Still, those later-in-life therapists are usually necessary, even if you don't go to one.

Just think about doing it.

Trust me.

Life is shit.

Some sicknesses are invisible and the greatest wounds are usually internal (and not of the bleeding kind). This is part of why we abuse each other: because we don't see the hole we're shoving our thumbs into like a skewer to the eye. We hurt each other because we choose to be ignorant and unlearned about other cultures, religions, races and creeds and, instead....well, refer to paragraph above. You're not right. I'm not right. Nobody's right. We all simply have our indoctrinations. The lucky ones have a more complex doctrine with more information and education, but really they're not right, either (trust me, I'm one of them, and I know there's not a single one of us who has it right nor will we ever as long as we live on this earth).

And, though life is shit, there is this:

The smell of fresh cut grass; butterflies of magnificent, vibrant colors; star-spattered skies, bigger than anything you'll ever see; breathlessness from beauty of all kinds; synchronicity; seasons; the ocean; human resiliency; nature; the vastness of our own ignorance, which makes for titillating experiences when we first see or experience any of these things; the tininess of our personal world.

Our memories.

Love.

I wish I knew who to credit but I don't remember where I read or heard it (life is shit: the memory begins to fade and your skin will begin to wrinkle so get that tan if you want. It doesn't matter in the end), but when in doubt, consult your death bed. What will you think when you look back on [whatever] moment and made [whatever] choice? Will you hold regret? Will you be glad you did what you did? Will you wish you'd done something entirely different? What does your death bed say to you?

Life is shit.

But really, Life is all we've got.

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

Between knowing and accepting

I recently had a harsh reality slap my face. I am not sure what hurt most...that I fell for this incident or that I came to a solid conclusion as a result or that I ..........

I was so hurt; used by someone to hurt someone else.

The kicker was this: I was helping because I was asked to. Someone I've never really known as a mother, reached out to me. I felt like I had a chance to prove myself to her. That's the truth.

That's the truth.

Then I did what I was trained to do as a life coach. I asked the proper questions so she could find her own answers. I was honest with her and I felt proud that she was recognizing me - ME - of all people as some source of help when my entire life I've been nothing. Less than nothing to her (despite her claims otherwise. Actions speak louder than words and her actions have contradicted her words for my entire life).

I fell for it.

Being used to hurt someone else I love, made me very, very angry.

It also fortified the disdain I've felt for this stranger I'm supposed to call "mom" or "mother."

But in the end, the worst part of it was the realization of my desperate need to have been loved and nurtured and worth something to her. I didn't know that need was there and had dismissed her entirely as a broken, manipulative user - someone I would never be.

I did not like her. I definitely didn't love her.

But I guess deep inside somewhere I never touched, I needed her to love me and I needed to matter but when I was two years old she left and we (my brother and I) were in foster care. Didn't know where she'd gone. My father was in prison. Family tried to locate her but she was nowhere to be found.

To hear her tell it, completely different story in which (of course) she's the victim but I know she was on drugs. I've heard many things about that time but I do know my brother and I did not experience the nurturing and love we should have. A lot of drugs. A lot of sex as infants.

The truth is out and has been, but I've not been surprised.

What surprised me most was the realization I needed her acceptance.

Now I am confused and floating in this space of uncertainty.

"When all that I've known is lost, and found..."

That's it. Limbo. Or, according to my therapist, "liminal space"

When I was little, I revered Florence Nightingale. I wanted to be her. I spent hours in front of anatomy charts and I remembered every bone in the body. I started learning every muscle, too.

I read her books. I wrote. I got published. "Mom" missed all that.

I had little to no encouragement for my passions. I was a walking zombie. Devoid of any direction except to be good. "Be good."

I wasn't "good."

I never was good.

Nor was I ever good enough.

This is called a "breakthrough."

And it hurts like a javelin shoved through my skull, from head to toe, split in half.

It also makes me afraid to move forward, but I know I will.

This was the least of my pains. The other stuff....I am afraid what "breakthroughs" will be there.

No Safe Place. Heartless man.

Bill got home earlier than normal last night, after his drive from Coatesville. It was so good to see him. Over the previous 24 hours, I had gone through this sort of emotional awakening that both hurt, and felt  good, reveling to me things I secretly hold inside. I don't care, yet, to share, but it was a profound experience and very emotional.

I wasn't really quite sure how I was going to handle seeing him when he walked through the door; just knew I wanted to look into his green eyes. That's all I wanted.

I felt good. I felt safe. We embraced and I felt something I haven't felt since I last  felt it with him. It was a closeness and a trust. Something I've never shared with anyone. It was confusing and exhilarating at the same time. Part of me felt alive, trustful and adventurous. I felt like I had when I had met him almost 11 years ago. There was someone here who I knew, who knew me, who I trusted.

At my suggestion, we decided to walk down to the Ivoryton Pub and have a couple of drink before dinner. It's been so long - so long - since we went out anywhere. Finances didn't allow it and time just seems to melt away but we were both excited to get outside the walls of this apartment and explore our new neighborhood.

We went to the pub. Previously, we had questioned whether or not we wanted to go there because they proudly have a rebel flag flapping over their door, next to the American flag so it made us wonder about the clientele. Still, we decided to give it a shot.

We went in and I played a game on the Megatouch. We met the bartender - Donna - and each ordered a Corona with lime. Donna was very pleasant and the atmosphere was friendly. Seemed a lot of people knew a lot of people. We met a guy named Marcus who talked to us briefly about his work at the Ivoryton Playhouse. He was nice.

We went out back for a cigarette -Donna asked one of the waitresses to show us the path leading out to the smoking area- and we had a cigarette. We came back in and put $5 in the jukebox. There was a pretty good selection. We were enjoying ourselves. We ordered two more Corona's as we took our seats at the bar. We accommodated a couple who had come in and needed another stool so we moved down so they could sit together. All-in-all, everything was going swimmingly.

Then, we decided to go have another cigarette.

As we walked down the path towards the smoking area, we passed the kitchen. We paused a moment and I saw George Lincoln. He was a casual friend of mine and Gary's. Nothing close, mind you. I mean I don't recall seeing him at any parties or having him on the boat but we met sometimes when we'd go to the Pattaconk and he was bartending. We felt bad for him when he lost his job there. George was slow, but he was nice. He always knew what Gary wanted to drink so really, he was among those who were Gary's friends, and I was just Gary's girlfriend.

So I said hello to him, told him it was good to see him. Asked him how he was doing. Joked around a little with the kitchen staff, asking what the best thing on the menu was. All told, the interaction was about three or four minutes and I told George, again, that it was good to see him.

We went out and had our cigarette. We came back in.

We sat down and we were going to order one more thing (our music was playing) and Donna suddenly came up to us and said she was told she's not to serve us anything more.

There was no explanation. We asked why. Asked what was wrong.

She said she  didn't know, just that the manager had said we weren't to be served anymore.

I knew immediately why.

George.

And Gary.

And his rumors and lies.

I felt so foolish. I had put on make up and dared to venture out, trying to meet new people in the neighborhood, maybe even develop friendships or acquaintances but instead, I was singled out because of vicious lies and rumors by a man who ....oh Don't get me started. I've been very, very kind when it comes to the things I could say and/or do to make his life hell.

But still, the damage he did to my life here - even as I've tried so hard to build something safe and secure for me and Trevor - is irreparable. And he could care less. He thinks it's some big joke. And those who listen, those who believe him, are fools.

He's a cruel, cruel man who did horrible things to me and to my son and like an idiot, I stayed. Some people witnessed it, many did not.

He's very clever.

Up to this point, my fear of going outside, of being seen, of going anywhere, was based on the rumors he told others. Up to this point, it was under my control because if I didn't want to be seen, I didn't have to be. I could lock everyone out, hide. Stay away.

But this one time. God dammit this one time, in my own neighborhood, where I've tried to move on and build a new life and truly heal....

This one time, he brought it into my home. He attacked me through his viciousness and vindictiveness vicariously through his "friends" who believe everything he says.

Well done, Gary. Just remember, I won't ever touch or harm you - I loved you - but karma will, even though you don't believe in it. You believe in nothing, except your own inflated ego and that, too, will destroy you. I needn't do a thing.

We had our two corona's and we left, me crying, sobbing, collapsing, in total disbelief.

Suddenly, this was no longer home.

There's never been home. I've never been home.

I thought I was building a home.

Now I want nothing more than to disappear.

Having my secrets - my past, my issues, my pain - broadcast to every town within 50 miles invades every sense of self I have, which is very little. The work I'm doing to help myself and all the pain I've gone through with every memory and all the things I'm working on for myself, seemed to just be for naught.

Because last night, Gary came back and made sure - vicariously - that I would never belong here. I would never have friends here. I will never belong here.

This will never be home.

Now, more than before, I don't want anyone to see me. I ripped off my necklace and felt so stupid, so stupid. How stupid for me to think I could fit in anywhere. And a rebel-flag-hanging PUB of all places!
 

Big loss

I remember when I was young, when I would write, I would be glad when a tear fell on the ink and smeared it because that way I knew whoever read it, would know how much pain I was in when I wrote it.

I still have quite a few old letters and poems with tear stains on them.

Times have changed, though, and nobody can see these tears and the keyboard doesn't stain if you cry on it - just stops working.

The past few days have been so hard. I did have a good - if nerve-wracking - time Sunday when my son came over for my youngest son's birthday, and we had guests. I was really nervous, but it went well.

The hardest part has been that I had a falling-out with my therapist. But instead of just ceasing to see her, I thought about it - thought about what she'd said to me that shut me down immediately and truly hurt my trust - and I wondered if it was me....was I just overreacting? Maybe I was sabotaging my relationship with her, the way I have with just about anyone I've ever had a relationship with.

So I owned this and, in an effort to rectify the situation, I sent her an email. It would have had tear stains on it, if it were written.

I told her about why the things she'd said had hurt me so badly and scared me so much. Those closest to me read the email and also knew how distraught I was over the session.

I think a couple of them even contacted her, when she did not respond to my email.

Two days later, I got a very brief, distant, removed and formal kind of "If you'd like to make an appointment, just give me a call," response.

I bawled.

I just kept thinking, "She called me 'honey'".... And "She held my bleeding wrist..." and "she wiped away smeared make up from my face out of kindness..."

How could she be so cold?

I don't understand, now. I got frantic. Now I am sadder than I have been in a very, very long time.

Prior to this happening, I had said some horrible things to two of the most important people in my life. I hurt them deeply. There's no excuse, truly, but I was just completely out of my mind. Too much at once going on and I snapped. I felt like a monster. I felt horrible. I wanted to die. In fact, I wanted to die worse than I remember ever wanting to die.

Then this happened...with my therapist.

Now I don't know what to do. I don't know what I would even say to her. Could I trust her again? I keep thinking it's my fault because I'm too much. I've always been too much. I'm too much. It's my fault.

I learned so much with her. She helped me see so much. I considered her a friend. Maybe that's what was wrong. But I needed that. I needed to feel that kind of connection, but within certain parameters, obviously.

She probably doesn't even think about me. Probably doesn't even know that I think about her incessantly, wishing to God she knew and understood...wishing I believed she knew and understood. But now it just seems like I said or did something wrong and now... now she's gone.

Gotta wipe some tears before the spacebar quits working.

Regret

It's chilly up here - but it's clean. There are no cigarette ashes everywhere. It smells of the hazelnut candle I lit an hour ago, and the opium incense - my personal favorite - that I lit about thirty minutes ago. The windows are pathetically "covered" - that is, the plastic I attempted to cover them with for the winter, is now hanging down, loose from the top. The blue painter's tape I used in an effort to save the paint on the window frames, didn't do the job. But it's dark - the lights are off - and I cannot see this eyesore.

It's solitary here. I have the door closed and I hear nothing but my edited version of ATB's "Trinity" on repeat. I made it repeat the woeful center part over a dozen times. I was proud of this, actually. I'm good at editing videos and music and photos. I'm actually better than your average person.

The song suits me right now. I am sad.

Not sad. Sorrowful.

I think there's a difference. At least, it feels like there is. Sad is, I suppose, something you feel when something happens. Sorrowful, for me, is this feeling inside that aches so deeply and causes these tears that aren't blatantly sad. They just  fall, each one as if it has a story to tell and - if the story isn't told - then perhaps the next one that falls, will tell it. They keep coming and, with them, flashes of regret, pangs of pain, dulled only by my own self-criticism.

So the tears stop - just for a moment - until the ache pushes them up and out again.

I think....

I think about how afraid I am to go out.

and why

Why?

Why.... because maybe someone will see me. Maybe someone will see me. Maybe they'll see this horrible ugly I hear and see every day.

I've learned over the past few months that I - in my life - have had two choices: I could pretend this horrible ugly didn't exist and I could fight (in any way possible or necessary) anyone who called me out on it (ie "classless cunt" as my ex referred to me [yeah, pretty classy, huh?] or "white trash" or "trailer park trash" or other derogatory comments) or I could hide behind a mask. Either way, I was in denial of these self-loathing whispers, constant in my ear. Constant in my mind. Constant in the mirror.

Thinking...

I can't please anyone.

Nobody.

I don't know how.

I thought I did......

I thought I knew how but now, that's stripped from me in so many ways.

Now I know that sex doesn't get you love, even if my mind tricks me into believing it again and again and again. Being a good cook, doesn't get me love.

But my mind tricks me over and over and over.

Laundry and being a good mom. Cleaning.

Being quiet. Subdued. Unspoken, really.

But not enough to let on, that you really are unspoken and silent.

Just enough.... just enough...

But nobody will ever be ..........what I've always looked for.

I am 42 years old.

What a sad joke that my life is right now. I feel old and tired. Exhausted, really. Too tired to lift anything. Too tired to go anywhere. Too afraid to talk about it. Who do I call? Who do I talk to? Who do I tell all this to?

These secrets.... they're mine.

I know I'm not alone. I know others have exactly these same secrets. Secrets about themselves, about men and relationships, sex, love.... love....

Shame....

Thinly veiled....

I wish.... so much.

wish he knew..... wish he knew.... wish he knew..... and him and her and him and them...

Wish they knew.....

Oh how I wish....

Another tear.

It's full of regret. Full of shame. It hits my stained white t-shirt, that I wear only when I know nobody's coming around and I'm going nowhere. Usually when I clean.

It hits a half inch from where the last one fell. And the one before.

I am afraid to be thankful, so I stand back and stare in awe, without touching. Without tainting. I want it to stay perfect, so I don't go near.

I hide.

Like a coward, I hide. Unlike the tough girl I've always been.

I hide.

But I feel and I've felt.

So deeply that it feels like gouges in my soul, filled only with confusion and disorientation and uncertainty.

Regret.

It feeds that voice that says, "It's your fault. It's all your fault. Nobody can love you."

I did everything wrong. Always. I always do. I push them away. I hurt people.

Yet..... I cannot fathom hurting anyone.

Never. God.....

I never want or wanted to hurt anyone.

And yet, I feel like a monster.

So I cannot be seen. I don't want to be seen.

Let the tears come here - in the attic, amid the scents of hazelnut and opium, behind fallen plastic and haggard painter's tape. Here, up high, where nobody can see.

Tomorrow I will be fine.

Tomorrow I won't cry.

Tomorrow, I won't wear a stained white t-shirt.

Inside Out and Backwards

My name is Cristina D. Johnson.

Another nightmare... about Gary.

Times like these I wish there were some way to convey how deeply he hurt me, to him. I know - or I have to believe - that he's not an all-out monster. I want to believe that it would somehow matter, that he would somehow "get it" and.... I don't know.

Easier, I suppose, would be convincing a rock or talking to the cat who would undoubtedly turn abruptly away and shove her backside towards me in an urgent call for massage.

No, he'd never get it and I don't suppose he would ever want to. I suppose if he ever really wanted to "get it," he would have when we were together.

I know a lot of this is transference. He happens to be the poor sap who simulated my father so well in so many ways that my brain has these wires crossed now, and I can't figure out how to uncross them.

Mixed messages. He gave me horribly painful mixed messages and that is why these nightmares won't go away. That, and he verified a truth for me that hurt, even though I know it to be true and always have: there is an "us versus them" in this world. And it's immensely painful.

With the typical interaction, I am safe behind my wall, viewing very cautiously with an Eagle eye, watching every single move, motion, word, action, reaction, expression.... everything. I seek inconsistencies. I look for reasons not to let people in. I do not do this with malice; just self-preservation, like a deer who runs into the woods, so as not to be seen or a bobcat who peers every direction before coming into the open.

I spot inconsistencies like a hungry wolf spots a rabbit and this keeps me safe. It works in two ways:

One, it tells me with pinpoint accuracy who to trust and not trust.

Two, it makes the blows of that person(s) anticipated and, so, they don't hurt as much. I can - for the most part - let their angry, judgmental, uninformed, unkind words/actions roll off my back like water on a duck.

But then there are the less-than-a-handful of people who I allowed "in" and when I say less than a handful, I am not exaggerating. I can think of only four who were so close to me, they were beneath my skin, running in my blood. I saw no wrong in them. I trusted them with my entire being.

The first was my father. Naturally.

Also my ex-husband and my oldest son (long story) and, finally, Gary.

These people managed to come behind the curtain. I embraced them and trusted them.

My father's transgressions were many but my love for him never died. My adoration and need for him survived the pain he caused. Today, there is still a sickening need for his love.

My ex-husband did a number of hurtful things to me. He was (and still is) a very cocky, arrogant man; the kind of man who is unkind to waitresses and poor people. A stereotypical southern man's man. Years of infidelity, abuse, and a host of other toxic elements of our relationship did not sever my love for him. It was not until - just like Gary and my father - I realized he was deliberately hurting me, just to get a reaction, that something inside of me broke. I could almost feel it physically - like the snap of a rubberband that's been stretched too far. Just snapped shut. He knew, that day, it had happened. He knew me so well, that just by the look on my face, my cold countenance and the way I looked at him and said, "You deliberately hurt me," that it was over. Our marriage was over.

My son... as a child bride, I had a painfully inaccurate and askew view of him. He was a protector, rather than my son. I would be remiss if I did not say I know this is wrong and inappropriate and in my conscious mind, he was my child - someone to take care of and teach and guide. But subconsciously, unbeknownst to me, I had developed a dependency on him and through years of turmoil (his and mine), he never failed to be loyal. When he grew to be a young man, things changed and he began to make mistakes that - at least once - garnered my rage at the many pimps, gangsters and rapists I grew up with. This was transference, again. Wreaking havoc in my life. But like the son he always was, he took my heated words and let them scorch him, without saying a word back. When the day came that his loyalty was tested and he left, I was devastated beyond words. This was the same betrayal I felt from my father.

And finally, Gary.

I didn't let him in right  away. It wasn't for years, actually. And, in truth, I questioned whether the relationship was viable in the beginning. But my determination won out and I stayed, telling myself - and him - that my past did not affect me any longer.

At the time, it was true.

In the end, when he urged me to seek help through therapy, I was leery, but I was also weary and I agreed. I went to see his therapist. Mistake number one, I suppose.

Ultimately, after months of swearing he loved me and would never leave me, it happened. I was in utter disbelief. But that's not what causes the nightmares.

The nightmares come from the correlation between the way Daddy hurt me, then loved me and the way Gary hurt me, then loved me. I begged him - Gary - not to do these mixed messages. If our relationship was over, fine but please....no mixed messages, no deliberate hurt. Please.

I may as well been begging the sun not to rise.

I can't know what his reasons were but for whatever reason(s), he needed to be in charge, needed the power to hurt me, and needed to use it. I don't know what he gleaned from it except to save his own skin. It went like this:

He would come home, be nice to me, then suddenly kick me (figuratively speaking), walk away and leave me there crying over what'd just happened, then go out and tell others that he didn't know why I was acting the way I was acting.

Over and over again, day in, day out, night after night, this happened until the mere sound of his footsteps caused me so much anxiety that I would gag (which eventually turned into vomiting). I felt like a prisoner. But then he would do something kind - and make sure everyone knew he'd done it - only to turn around and kick me again.

Mixed messages. For someone with PTSD and DID this is horrendous. But for someone with PTSD and DID who dared to let you in and trusted you, this is beyond horrific pain. It's astonishingly unbearable. It was very much like being raped over and over again. Like being locked in that basement when I had nowhere else to go and tormented. How much this resonates with my childhood abuse cannot be overstated.

I tried explaining, but he didn't care.

I didn't understand and I am still in such guttural pain over it that nightmares pervade my sleep.

Disbelief and pain; anger and fear.

Some might ask: What about Bill?

I've never let him in, because of the phenomenal person he is. Paradoxical, I know, but true. Why let someone as wonderful and beautiful as he, in my ugly world of muddy water, gutter snow, biting cold and darkest dark? Why subject him to it?

He's been the best friend I've ever had. Why risk losing him? Why risk showing him?

Everything is backwards. Everything is inside out.

My tears fall inside. Tears over Gary and what he did to me. This wound he ripped open even further and now it hemorrhages and I can't stop the bleeding, no matter how hard I try.

I am not angry at him, though I am angry at myself.

With him, I am hurt and confused. Shocked.

Scared.

When will these nightmares go away or, at least, move aside so the true shadows, ghosts and demons can be released?

Summer... ever the same?

I should be festive.

I should be happy.

I should be content.

There are so many better things in my life now, than there were just six months ago, a year ago. Five years ago, perhaps.

I've discovered some true friends. Sadly, this discovery led me to the awareness that true friends are rare so it's a double-edged sword. I suppose, for me, it's weird because I don't really know "real friends" - I've never allowed myself to have them, even if they were there.

I've had people - strangers and those I know and people in between - contact me because of my writing and tell me thank you....thank you for sharing your story and your journey. Thank you for giving me the courage to speak out. Thank you for saying what I've never been able to say. They tell me they relate on some levels they relate (which, in my opinion, at least, is them saying yes....I, too, have been sexually assaulted).

I've been encouraged by a number of people - too many to list - to keep writing, keep telling my story.

I have a fantastic therapist who I see (usually) twice a week - although this week was disrupted because of the Newtown shooting and she was recruited to counsel there. Our sessions are a good balance of one heavy, sobbing session, followed by two or three light-hearted, discussions, followed by another snotty, slobbering, bawling session.

I've been more honest with myself than I've ever been in my life. The things I see hurt. The things I feel - or am starting to feel or sometimes feel or whatever - are devastating. Feelings..... Oh man.

Even with someone like Bill - someone who's been there for over a decade. Someone who is more authentic, kind, gentle, patient and honest than anyone you'd ever know... even with Bill I remain guarded.

Which really says a lot about me, to myself. Because I logically know there is no reason to fear him....yet I do. Actually, I don't fear him, I fear feelings.

Feelings like I'm having right now as I listen to Tonight I Wanna Cry by Keith Urban.

During the last several weeks at Gary's house, this song was on repeat because the words fit so well. I was so alone. There were pictures of us everywhere. He was gone. Gone with "our friends" - out partying, talking about me, telling people about my "issues" - "issues" for which I carry such deep, deep shame and guilt. Issues that were private.

I felt so much at that time. So much, that just listening to this song again, brings it back to me, as if I were still sitting there in the basement, alone, afraid, panicking. So alone. So scared. So devastated.

I remember his touch - before everything fell apart. I remember his quirkiness and things he did that made him, him. I remember his kiss. I remember his hands.

Mostly, though, I remember how we just scrambled along together, completely clueless and aimless, unsure - in unfamiliar territory. Neither of us knowing how to feel.

Really feel.

It wasn't until the end that I felt the most profound feelings. The hurt....God. The fear... My God.

There was complete and utter loneliness. Darkness.

He left me. I was dumbfounded.

I understand, in hindsight. I know why, yet it also plays on my own self-loathing. Logically, I understand a man like Gary couldn't have endured this journey, even if my heart wanted him to. But emotionally, I was so vulnerable - too vulnerable, too needy.

He couldn't carry that, and I understand.

But at the time, when I could do nothing but pop another cap off a Corona, escape to the river, listen to music...anything...anything to numb, to escape.... I couldn't stand him being there....couldn't stand him not being there.

Desperate doesn't begin to describe it.

So I wonder, if - as I listen to this song now, and these feelings erupt in my chest like a bomb going off - will Summer ever be the same?

Will August ever be one of my favorite months again? A time to sit in the sun, soak in the rays and the warmth of the sky. Stick my feet in the water.

Will I ever be able to look at a dock or a boat or a jet ski or a 'raft-up' again and not want to break down and cry or crumble completely inside.

There's some part of me inside that looks at those in my life now and I think, yes...yes I can make new memories. I have always told my children that: Make memories. Nobody can take them away from you.

What do I do with the ones that hurt?

Will they ever go away? This kind of hurt, I mean?

We all go through break-ups. I've been through break-ups before.

This one hurt. Really bad. Really, really bad.

I'd chosen, for the first time ever in my life, to stay - to dare to hope and to dare to trust - and it was the wrong person. I know, I know...it's been said a million times by as many people but this is my life and my story and my journey and my pain.

I've wondered, does it mean I still love him? Does knowing, that if I were to see him right now, I would shatter again, mean that I still love him? How is it holding me back?

How do I let go of my fear and let down my guard, when I still choke on my own tears, as I remember those horrible, painful, lonely, terrifying nights alone in the basement?

I wonder if he learned as much from me, as I did from him.

Is it really possible to always love someone, even when they're not in your life? Really?

And, if so, is it possible to love someone else?

How does that work?

How do I do this?

One thing I know is this: Those who saw my suffrage and my agony, are still with me. Gentle, tender, loving, guiding, non-judgmental, giving and compassionate.

So what is wrong with me?

I am on the fence with the whole "feelings" thing. Sometimes - well, every time, really - I feel something, I don't like it. Part of the journey.

He was part of the journey. Still is, in a lot of ways.

I want to cover it up with new memories but I know  that's not the right thing to do. Rather, that's what I've always done.

It takes real conscious effort to sink into that despair and confusion and let it flow. I still don't know how to do it....but I'll figure it out.

And one day, maybe, I'll be able to thank him, instead of all the other feelings I have right now.

But for now, I will turn off this song, enjoy good company and let it sink back down under the surface.... save it for a time when I know what to do with it.

For now, I will try.

Relationships and Reenactment: I Married My Father

My name is Cristina D. Johnson

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

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

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

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

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

"Where does my story start?"

"Where does it end?"

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

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

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

"Daddy, and then the rapes."

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's segmented. Fractured.

First I must talk a little about reenactment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which leads to the next lifetime.

Gary.

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

Me too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or, re-began.

Bill came.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So that lifetime is ...ending?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shouldn't I be being abused right now?

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

It brought me to a new lifetime.

Us Versus Them (and other things)

My name is Cristina D. Johnson

Had a good session today. And by "good," I mean: I cried.

To me, crying feels almost as good as sneezing.

There was a lot to talk about and even though I've been seeing Michelle for several months, I still struggle opening up.

We talked a lot about Bill, who is home now. Interestingly, I have shut down. While I've spent months talking to him and he's been so loving, supportive, giving and wonderful, now that he's here, my body has shut down.

To be quite honest (skip this part if you don't want TMI), I asked Michelle, "Can I be frank?"

She looked around the office as if to say, "Uhm..hello, you're in a therapists office. This is about the only place in the world you can be frank."

I told her I've had intimacy issues with Bill - not because of Bill, but because of me. Bill is particularly....gifted, let's say, in this department, however I have been unable to fully participate. And, by fully participate, I mean: we've never had intimacy issues - EVER - and now all the sudden I'm having these issues.

So anyway, she said she is not surprised to hear this because - with the latest issues I've been having; nightmares, losing time, panic, etc. - it would seem that we are touching the tip of the iceberg, so to speak, and tapping into deeper things. She acknowledged (which I believe fully) that our bodies store things subconsciously and because we're getting closer to those more painful things from my past, my body is just shutting down.

I cried and I agreed.

But then we talked about something that's been eating at me more than realized...

I was invited to an event at June's Outback Pub in Killingworth. So were over 900 other people. My son works there, too. That's a slight stressor in itself since our relationship has gone through so many changes over the past year. But that isn't the problem.

The problem is that Gary was also invited. I found out through facebook that he, too, is on the list of invitees and this, I told Michelle, is weighing heavily on me.

This is when we started talking about "us versus them" and I told her I'd struggled with it..I haven't gone out (as in, out for drinks), since moving here and I only went out once since breaking up with Gary. I told him multiple times during that painful process that he'd ruined my life here. And he had. He did. I can't go anywhere to sing karaoke. I can't go to the old places I used to go to because he made sure to ruin me everywhere he could, for the sake of making himself look better. Whatever. That's fine.

But Junes, well, I figured it was a safe place to go, plus I'd have Bill with me and (I am hoping, hoping, hoping) a few other friends, plus my adoptive parents. They're going to have karaoke, which I haven't done in months and miss terribly. It's my therapy, outside of therapy. It's the only place I've ever had a voice.

I had it in my head that I would go and just be me. Just be there with Bill and my friends and just have fun... and sing! I want to sing a new song; a song for Bill. A song that I've practiced for weeks because it's so fitting for our relationship. Oh I was so excited about it.

But Gary, see, never goes anywhere alone. He brings all of the "thems" with him. The "thems" that he swore to me never existed when I would talk to him about it.

Oh yes, there are "us's" and "them's"

The "us's" are those of us who have been raped, molested, brutalized, and abused. We are the ones who feel like everything ugly shows and there's nothing about us that anyone could possibly love. There's something inherently wrong with us, because if there wasn't, then none of that stuff would have happened to us. The "us's" believe the "them's" are stuck-up, snobby, snooty and will never get it. They're dispassionate and out of touch with reality. Not all of "them" are like that - some are just devoid of any connection to it at all and it's not that they don't care, it's just that they don't acknowledge that.

That's the kind of "them" that Gary is.

So I told Michelle I was terrified of showing up with the intention of seeing my son, having a good time and singing my new song to Bill, only to find Gary showed up at the ONE PLACE that he didn't destroy for me. The ONE PLACE I feel okay going to.

Please, don't take that away from me. Please just let me have this....this one night.

So much more going on, so much happening it's like being caught in a whirlwind that's about to turn into a tornado.

You're swirling around and things feel out of control - and they are - and everything feels uncertain but you know you're about to get hit with a bunch of shit...heavy, hard shit and it's gonna hurt.

One thing about the "us versus them" mentality that I said to Michelle was, "It's a mentality I've had all my life. Or, well, at least since I got old enough to understand society--" and she cut me off.

"Cristina, honey," she said. "You've been living an 'us versus them' life your whole life. It has always been 'us versus them' for you. It started with Cristina and [my little brother] against your parents."

I nodded, silent, and quietly cried. I let the tears fall, and let acceptance slowly creep into my cerebrum. I will need to give some more thought to this.

If any of my friends read this, I'd love to see you at June's on the 9th. I miss having friends; I miss singing karaoke; I miss going out and not being so isolated and having friends there, helps me feel less afraid. So, if you read this, join us.

-C

Intensity in Love

My name is Cristina D. Johnson.

My session, today, was heavy. I was already shook up when I got there. I got some news and instantly started shaking, crying and got a headache, simultaneously. Funny thing is, it was good news, but it was so damn overwhelming. So I showed up to see Michelle very shaky an disoriented.

"Let's take a minute," she said, "Take a couple deep breaths."

I tried...felt silly. I always feel silly when someone says, "Breathe....take a deep breath..." (I even feel awkward doing it for the doctor, now that I think about it. Weird).

Anyway, as I predicted, she asked what my take was, on the dream I had about my father. I told her I was completely, absolutely lost. I had no idea. This surprised her.

The session kind of went all over the place - she triggered me once....one of those snapshots, like a lightning-fast emotional response to something she said, and then poof it was gone.

"What did you say?" I asked her.

She looked at me confused. I was confused. I started crying. I was reminded of something, but couldn't remember what I had been reminded of. It's so strange how those flashbacks work.

"What did it bring up for you?" she asked.

"I don't remember. What was it you said?"

She said she was talking about making mistakes ....

And I snatched a kleenex from the box on the table, where she'd set it for me. "He was so cruel," I whimpered. "So cruel." I started shaking.

"Punishment...that's what it brought up. There were no mistakes. You couldn't make mistakes," I told her, but without the emotional connection. I shed a few tears and it was gone. All that was left was the memory, devoid of any attachment. "He once punished me for holding the cat wrong."

Then we talked about re-parenting.....Cindy is doing a marvelous job at this. "Ron won't be able to re-parent you," she said. I suspect this is because of the extent of the abuse I went through with my father. Plus Ron also, unfortunately, has some of the same traits as my father....tall, powerful, and he has a way about him that's very much like my birth father. I am trying to work past that....as is Ron, to his credit.

And then...the most painful of all: the dream.

First she said she was very surprised that no therapist had ever spoken to me about sexual dreams about fathers who molest their daughters. "It's very common," she explained.

She also told me it's not uncommon to experience arousal when being molested. It's a physiological experience that the body cannot control. It's clearly more obvious for boys/men because, well, you know...it's obvious if they're aroused. But not so much for girls.

"I don't remember ever feeling aroused," I told her. "The only good feelings I recall are those of knowing that I was doing something right...doing something to make Daddy happy....Never do I recall being aroused."

She said we (women) often pile junk on top of it: how gross and disgusting and despicable it is, how wrong and dirty and we have so much piled up on top of it, that even if we were aroused, we wouldn't know it.

Which brought us to the dream. She said the dream was symbolic and - in her opinion, based on what I told her - had nothing to do with my father, and everything to do with Bill.

For me, the most difficult aspect of that dream, was the strong emotional attachment I was feeling towards my father as I initiated sex. The feeling of this very powerful love, was identical to that which I feel for Bill.

We talked a lot about this, about my authentic fear of this love for Bill.

"What are you afraid of?"

"I don't know. Doing something wrong? Saying something wrong? Being hurt. Being abandoned."

But there's more to it than that, even. Kind of like Cindy is "re-parenting" me, Bill is giving me this love that I've never had before and I am terrified of it...not used to it...

"You know," she said, "It takes a huge amount of courage for you to love him....to let him love you that way."

I cried...this heart-wrenching, desperate cry. Aching inside. So confused. So afraid. Hopeful but terrified.

The only other time I ever felt such intense love, was when I loved my father. Feeling that intensity is blindingly terrifying.

Yet....if I let it happen...if I just let it run it's course, I will (or should) re-learn love. Healthy love, instead of the toxic, abusive, painful love that I hold inside as a norm. This fearful, punishing love that sticks to me like velcro.

I wonder....

I wonder if I left Bill years ago, because of this intensity, in favor of a more superficial relationship, that would spare me from loving so deeply.

Thank you Cindy....Ron...Bill......

Bill.....thank you.

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.

Good feelings that hurt

My name is Cristina D. Johnson

I have so much to say tonight. I hope I don't ramble. I had a very exciting session today.

Something really huge happened Monday, but I didn't realize it at the time. In my blog, "To Show or Not to Show," I wrote:

"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."

This session brought up something very deep, that I wasn't expecting, but being willing to explore it, I looked within myself and started questioning why I felt that way. Why I reacted like that internally, though I didn't say a word. That session affected me so deeply, in fact, that as soon as I got home, I vomited. It was that powerful.

I talked with Cindy at length about it and then later, talked with Bill but it was right before dinnertime, just after he'd gotten off work. I said to him in a text, that I loved him - I truly love him - in a place that hurts. He couldn't have known this, but I was speaking from that wounded place - that place that feels this intense feeling. But since he didn't know, his response frightened me and shut me down. I almost went to bed but instead, this time, decided I would tell him.

And we talked about it at length....I told him I have this huge, huge wall but there are pinholes in it and every once in awhile, he or Cindy will reach through it and touch that part of me. It's very childlike and afraid.

It's also very frightening to feel so I am always on guard - always have been - and I'm only now realizing this.

The next day, I wrote "Tenderness Kills," and I wasn't going to post it on my facebook page like usual, but I did send it to my therapist. It's always been easier for me to write than speak. I never heard back from her so I was very nervous to go see her today.

"So, tell me about your email," she said after our opening pleasantries.

I told her, as I was writing it, that I envisioned a child, cowering, always afraid...always waiting for the next foot to fall.

So she asked me about that...and I explained.

Family meetings.

These were meetings held every day where Daddy and his wife and her two kids (ages 13 and 16) would meet in the family room with my brother and I. We were five and six years old. Each time, Daddy would have us stand in front of him and he would  tell us all the things we'd done wrong that day. He would then make us take off our clothes as the rest of them looked on, and he would put us over his knees and beat us with a wooden spoon. He would then tell us to get our clothes and go to our rooms. We could hear the others snickering behind our backs. Perhaps the worst parts of these meetings was when Daddy would cry, making me feel as if I were the lowest life form on earth (he also did this when he molested me, and I would do whatever he wanted, hoping to stop him from crying).

I told her about my mother's lying - so many lies - and how, when I tried to tell her about my abuse, she said to me, "Oh that's nothing. You should try...." and then she went on to tell me some story of her childhood, completely invalidating me. That was when I was 12 and I never talked with her about it again.

I lived on the streets and in the system from age 12 until I ran away and got pregnant at 15. I was kidnapped, first though, at age 11. When we lived in North Carolina with my father, he strangled me and smothered me as he molested me. He beat us and constantly stormed around, punching holes in the walls or breaking furniture. He was unpredictable and frightening (except for most of the times he molested us when we were younger).

"So no wonder you envisioned a child cowering," Michelle said. "It seems that's all you've ever done."

"Yes, it is," I agreed.

As we began to talk more about this "part," I became increasingly excited to have an explanation for what had happened the night of our previous session so now, hopefully I won't confuse the reader by going back to Monday night, when I'd told Bill what I had.

Part of me shut down with Bill's response to my profession of love for him.

But I emailed him - it was too much to say in texts - trying to explain it. All cerebral, but with this new awareness of this FEELING that I didn't realize I had.

The rest of the night, we texted back and forth but I remembered very little of it the next day. I discovered the next day I'd emailed and called my attorney, I'd opened a window and I'd gotten coffee ready to be brewed. I did not remember any of this. This is where  DID comes in. If you understand the Internal Family System's Model, there are three "types" of parts: Managers, Firefighters and Exiles.

Managers (to cope) are the "parts" that handle day-to-day stuff, keep things in order, get groceries, pay bills, etc. They manage.

Exiles (hurt)are the "parts" that hold very powerful, intense emotions - pain, rage, fear, shame, among others - and are usually young parts, stuck in a place in time where they are still being abused.

And the Firefighters (compulsive) are the ones who come in when the exiles are starting to emerge and the managers can't handle it.  The Firefighters either watch over and soothe the Exiles or they hush them by any number of means, including binging, cutting, distracting, drugs/alcohol, shopping, etc. There's a whole list but when the "system" (the term used to describe the multiple parts of someone with DID) becomes disrupted, the Firefighters step in and take over.

This is what happened Monday night: First the overwhelming session with Michelle, then the issue with Bill - all surrounding this young, wounded part of me.

One of the Firefighters said, "Oh no, no way" and I think has always said, "Hell no. Do not be tender to me!" because this other part - this part that loves so intensely, is very authentic and young and open.

So if I go by the Internal Family Systems model, it would seem that I have an Exile that is beaten down, terrified and wants to be loved, that's being protected by a firefighter that's saying "hell no, stay away!"

But now that I understand it more, it makes more sense and I feel like there's going to come a time when I can talk to that part - or those parts (?) - and soothe them myself.

I never truly understood why it hurt so much  to hear my grandmother say, "Oh honey, I'm so sorry," when she came to the police station and found me beaten and bloodied after my kidnapping. In my mind, for all my life, I've always felt that it was the worst possible thing she could have said to me.

Now I know why: Don't be kind to me!

Of course, there were constant reiterations and reinforcements of this belief....going through so many rapes by men who said they were there to help me; being molested by men in the system; being attacked in hospitals. Why would a child expect kindness or tenderness after that? Why would I expect (or feel comfortable receiving) kindness or tenderness. For years, a soft, tender touch would make me cry. I still sometimes whimper.

Over the past few months, I've felt that terrifying feeling for Bill and for Cindy. Through those pinholes.

I want to explore it more...open them up....break down that wall....

I'm both afraid and excited about it.

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.

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.