Cutting and Self-Harm

My name is Cristina D. Johnson.

This isn't an easy blog to write... it's full of stuff that nobody wants to talk/hear about: Self-harm.

I attempted suicide more than once in my life but more recently, in October (?) of last year and then March of this year. Tried overdosing. I'm not the only person who does this, who has my disorders.

Yesterday was a bad day for me. I was overwhelmed and buried, flooded and confused.

Yesterday was Gary's birthday. I cried most of the day.

That wasn't the worst, though...knowing he's celebrating his birthday with his new girlfriend and all the old friends I once knew. (I did call and leave him a voice mail, wishing him a tearful happy birthday).

I also went and got my driver's license renewed, and I got fuel for the house - for heat. Now, this might not seem like a big deal, but to me, it was shameful that it was a big deal. Like whoopy-doo...you managed to do something pretty much anyone in the world could do? I was ashamed for feeling I'd accomplished something. "I feel so stupid," I remarked to Bill in a text, but I couldn't elaborate on it. I just felt so stupid. Celebrate getting your license? You idiot...

I was also overwhelmed by increasing evidence of my DID. I'd apparently spoken to Bill on the phone and spoke in the voice of a child...whispering...saying "Shh! he's coming! Here he comes! Shh!"

This really threw me because I didn't remember it but when I put it together with all the other DID stuff that's happened, the mounting evidence that I suffer from this affliction makes me sick. Sick. I don't want to be that fucked up! No no no! But, alas I must admit I dissociate. A lot. In fact, I was with Michelle when I actually remembered that I'd gotten my driver's license yesterday.

There were a few other things but the worst came when I thought about going to court tomorrow. I began to panic, and I mean PANIC. What if they take me to jail? They'll take Trevor away! OH MY GOD!

I was inconsolable. I was making plans. I called Cindy, I called Bill I told Cindy where there's money so she could buy Bill a plane ticket home. "Please, please don't let them take my baby," I cried desperately. The feeling that was flooding me is indescribable. Trevor....Trevor is what keeps me going every day. He has no idea the strength he gives me. I don't lean on him, mind you. I know the harmful effects of that, but I look at him, and I watch him and I know he needs me and it keeps me straight, although there are nights when I can't be a "mom" and - because Trevor is so, so smart and we're so attuned to one another, he knows that it's a bad night for mom. He's autistic - supposedly incapable of feeling emotions - but with me, he gets it.

We've talked about our disorders. For many years I never told him anything but one day, he asked me about the cuts on my arms and I explained to him that it's part of my disorder (anyone with any experience with an autistic child, knows you can't bullshit them and just coming straight out with the truth [to their capacity] is the best way). He asked a few more questions. I don't feel he has a complete grasp on my disorders, but he understands more than any teenager you'll meet.

I don't know what happened but I cut last night... somehow it serves so many purposes. I emailed my therapist, told her I'd cut. I actually said, "I am emailing you to tell you that I cut tonight. The reason I'm emailing you is because I don't want to talk about it."

Incest survivors, particularly, are prone to self-harm and self-injury. It could be in the form of bulimia, hair-pulling, cutting, overdosing, alcohol abuse, or any other kind of self-destructive, self-effacing, self-abusive means.

There's all kinds of literature out there about it but I'm just gonna tell you straight out: It relieves pain. It releases a rage you're afraid to feel. To see blood or vomit helps you know you're alive - you're a living person, not a shell.

In reference to cutting, I've actually read that - in the schools nowadays - it's the new "anorexia" for teenage girls. Many girls cut.

But most cut in hidden places. I have one friend who cuts on her inner thighs. I've known them to cut on their ankles, their upper arms, their stomachs. Anywhere....anywhere, just to bleed.

Me, I've always cut my wrists. I had a short bout with bulimia and I was a hair-puller in my 20's.

There's another reason people do this: It's a scream for help. It's a way of saying, "I have this pain inside me and it's eating me alive but I can't show it to you or tell you about it." And they won't. They won't tell you about it.

Today, in therapy - though I had said I didn't want to talk about it - it was the elephant in the room. I know - because of the many moments of awkward silence, that she was giving me room, just in case I brought it up.

And I did.

There's practically no worse feeling than waking up with a couple gashes in your arms (one of them really needs stitches but you can't go to the emergency room for stitches on your wrist because most doctors don't understand that it's not a suicide attempt) and then knowing you scared the shit out of everyone who matters to you.

You feel like a loser, a failure, a mistake, hopeless, omg what's wrong with me?

Yet, there's also this strange fascination and even a sense of pride... you want everyone to see....but you want nobody to see.

Oh God if I could stand in the middle of the world on a huge podium and shout, LOOK! LOOK AT MY WOUNDS!! and somehow, magically, everyone would understand it's not a manipulative way of getting pity; it's not "for show" (as I've been accused of by my ex); it's not to show off how you've hurt yourself.

If I could show everyone these wounds and these scars, and somehow give a voice to them...let the wounds and scars talk for themselves... oh how I wish people would/could learn.

Gratefully, those closest to me (Cindy, Bill, Hannah, Howie) understand (and understood last night) that calling the police or ambulance is the worst mistake in the world. They understood I was overwhelmed. They know (a couple of them because they, too, experience this insurmountable pain and rage), that it's a temporary release.

I just want to note here, that I would never let Trevor see me cut and he does not know it happened, just in case anyone's wondering. He was safe in bed, asleep.

Self-injury is punishment for the "bad" that we are, because we did things. We performed fellatio on our fathers or cousins or uncles. We "allowed" ourselves to be raped. We created our own misfortunes and we must be punished. It's so, so, so much easier for me to turn my anger on myself, than it is to be angry at the father who beat, humiliated, tormented, molested and abused me (and my brother). Being angry at him is just unheard of.

In therapy today, I finally broke down and cried.

"Why do I do this?"

"What?"

I couldn't respond. She gave me a minute as I held my wounded wrist (covered by a long-sleeved shirt) to my face, wiping my tears, staring out the window.

"Why I cut. Why do I hurt people I love? Why do I cut and then tell everyone? Why do I cut?" I asked.

Very gently, very calmly, she responded, "If all your scars and your wounds could tell me their story, what would they say?"

Oh dear God what a great question.... and one I must mull over. It was frightening to even answer it to her.

Cutters are not losers. They're not idiots or manipulators. They know exactly what they're doing, even if they don't always understand why.

Next time you see a slit wrist, just know it has a story to tell.

Honesty in Therapy

My name is Cristina D. Johnson.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Confused in the Kitchen

My name is Cristina D. Johnson and this is just a run-down of how I'm feeling right now.

I'm feeling exceptionally depressed tonight. Thankfully it's not accompanied by that dastardly suicidal ideation curse.

I feel inept, to help someone who is dear to me. She needs so much support and help and needs to believe that people love her, but I feel like a failure in that regard. All I have are texts and occasional phone calls to comfort her through a situation most people would never know. A situation even  I don't know and cannot comprehend. There is absolutely no consoling her and there's nothing more I can do, although I've sworn to do all I can... is that enough?

My son attacked me last night. Bad. I had to turn off my phone, I was so distraught. I burnt Trevor's dinner but was able to play it off, thankfully, and he ate every bite. It was my special treat to him for being so helpful and understanding while I was sick.The dinner was ruined - for me, at least inside - although I managed to keep a smile on for him. He deserved it. He's a super child and even though he never says it, he loves me.

Relationships are burying me, as well as my schedule. I was standing in my kitchen tonight, just vacuumed the living room, and I was suddenly lost. I realized the date. I started getting flooded with overwhelm....when do I have to do what? I am confused. I stood there utterly confused and that made me feel ashamed. "Normal people don't do this. Get over it," I scolded myself. A residual effect, I'm sure, of my son telling me I was throwing a pity party for myself. He was taught that by people who don't know pain and he ran with it. Oh God if he only knew....if he only knew what it's like to stand there in the kitchen, alone, afraid...afraid to do anything...and not even able to keep track of the things you have to do. Like you're missing part of your brain. Like there's something wrong with you! You should be FINE! Get over it! Get over it!

Yeah this is a real fucking picnic, son.

And relationships....
I miss Bill desperately, yet I also know his absence helps me because it forces me to not be distracted from the agony (AGONY) of my ordeal with Gary. Today, yesterday, the day before...I cried...I cry almost daily, realizing things...looking back on things. Not just things Gary did, but things I did as well...but mostly how, in the end, I was just garbage which told me a whole lot, about the entire relationship. I was so blind. I was so stupid. I neglected to protect Trevor and the few times I tried, I was shot down for it. But God forbid I rock the boat, right? (No pun intended). I still wear the ring he gave me. I don't know what to do with it. I also have the pet pillow he bought me - a pink unicorn. "Here. It's the antithesis of everything you've ever believed about yourself," he said to me. I took this as a sign that he was with me, was trying to help me, wanted to go through this with me.....would not leave me.

What do I do with these things? The pictures? I wonder what he did with all the pictures. Oh we had so much fun that day, taking pictures...I have the envelope with what's left of them in it. Plus I have two framed pictures. Two 8x10's. What do I do with them?

I also wear the ring of a man who terrifies me. He's tall, powerful, and frightening. I have had it for years. I took it off for awhile, but put it back on about a year ago. Our relationship went sour....he's my adoptive father. Back then (about five years ago), things got really bad and he became a huge trigger for me. Now he and my adoptive mother are back in my life, although he, not so much. More my adoptive mother, Cindy, who's been like an angel...more than I  could ever ask for in a mother.

And Bill....
God.
Nobody who knows us and our relationship would ever say anything BUT that we are soul mates. But I'm so terrified - still so wounded from the brutality of my last relationship - that I don't trust myself. For five years, Bill waited for me. Our relationship was always pure, always loving. He has been with me through everything, done everything. And now he works a thousand miles away, to help me and Trevor (and himself), but mostly me because of his growing understanding of how important stability is to me - something I repeatedly told Gary, but which went entirely ignored. Now I have this wonderful, faithful, loyal, honest man who adores me, helping me, believing in me and encouraging me....learning so he can help me and I am terrified. What if the same thing happens, as what happened with Gary? I didn't expect it from Gary, but it happened. I don't know.... I just don't know. I know that now - tonight - I am lonely and I miss Bill.

I got a lot done the past few weeks. Things have been moving forward with the help of Bill and Cindy yet somehow, tonight, something has a hold on me...like a shadow or a ghost and I just can't shake it.

Tony...My Tony. This is the thirty-thousandth time he's broken my heart.

Probably won't be the last, either.

Hopefully tomorrow will be better.

Almost Suicide

"Almost Suicide"...suicide ideation..It happened to me last night. Only, there's way more to it than that.

Last night, I was experiencing this. I was triggered - I know I was triggered because I don't remember half of it now - but I know it was my ex boyfriend who triggered me. An argument ensued. I'm reading over some of the text messages sent. He said I was sleeping in "HIS bed" - which is actually a sleeper sofa in my room. But I think that was only part of the trigger. The big trigger was going out. I was planning on possibly  going out with a friend to a place me and my ex often went to, to sing karaoke. When I told him this, he said he wouldn't go. I think this was the biggest trigger.

After my flashback the other day, the big flashing red neon sign in my life is "SHAME!"; since that flashback, I can't even brush my teeth without gagging. I put my partial (tooth) in and gag every time. I take my meds, and almost vomit (actually did vomit this morning).

So feeling like he was ashamed to be seen with me in public (he's said as much), triggered me further and I was out of control. I know- from the texts- he said I hit and yelled at him, but I defended myself saying I'd shoved him. It's not uncommon for him to blow things WAY out of proportion. He always, always exaggerates. I couldn't tell you what happened but I do remember leaving. I took all my pills with me, so desperately broken-hearted that he would go to "our place" and piss on it like that. So hurt. In one text, I said "Go out to your precious bars and, like always, pretend I don't exist. Because I don't."

Anyway at some point I sent him a threatening text message about suicide.Something about drink all your happy drinks with "our friends" (your friends) I'll be dead - something like that.

We talked about this weeks ago - about how a person can be talked down, how I can be talked down, and need to be. This is what you do with someone who feels they can't take anymore. You show love, concern and you talk to them. Yes it takes time, but that's what you do.You're gentle and kind and you just care. Just talk to them. I know this from both my own experiences, and experiences I've had with others.

People suffering from suicide ideation do not want to die; they want a reason or reasons not to die. Mostly, I believe they just need to feel loved, like they matter. It takes a lot of emotion - authentic emotion - to do that. It takes time. It takes attention - honest attention.

So last night, I reached out to a friend of mine but my texts weren't going through to her, for some reason.

Meanwhile, my ex calls the police. Smart move, asshole. Make me feel MORE shame. Create a circus - have friggin state trooper cars surrounding me, picking at my stuff, asking me questions, as I sat parked by the water. They didn't even want to let me take my car home (insisted I go home - the last place in the WORLD I wanted to be). Humiliating. I told them I was not going to be trapped in that house without my car. Told them they were welcome to follow me home.

So I came home, he left. Went out to his precious bar, as if his work was done. He called the cops. I told him he was a coward and even used the "P" word and yelled at him for forgetting our talk - that I'd told him I could be talked down. He forgot. Not only did he forget, but he did the stupidest thing he could've done.

As if - AS IF - I would EVER tell the cops (or anyone with the power to lock me up) that I'm suicidal? People with suicide ideation aren't  STUPID, they're HURTING and they're AFRAID and they're most likely TRIGGERED.

I told the cops everything they wanted to hear. How do I know what they needed to hear? Because I was raised in the system and I know all the right things to say. That's how. And if - IF - they had taken me to a crisis center, I'd have done the same thing there - I'd have told them all the right things. Just because I'm depressed, triggered and hurting, doesn't mean I'm stupid.

But my trust in my ex is gone. It was already broken, now it's completely gone. I see him as an emotional coward, unwilling or unintelligent or both, to talk me through a crisis, despite my telling him that's what he should do, if it ever happened again. But he's so wrapped up in himself and his "stuff" ....I never mattered. That hurts. I am still bitterly angry as I write this. So deeply hurt. So deeply wounded. I didn't matter enough for him to listen. I didn't matter enough for him to talk to me. I'm sleeping on "his" bed (the sofa sleeper) - as if I'm just some stranger who hasn't spent the past five years with him, supporting him, caring about him. Instead, he had to call the cops - have someone else take care of his problem.

Don't do this to people who you love, who are going through suicide ideation - in fact, you don't even have to love them; just care enough about another human being to take time out of your life to talk to them - they just need to matter, just need to be heard. The worst thing you could do is call the cops or a hospital and have them locked up. That just compounds the shame they're already feeling.