Strength

Sometimes I think strength is misconstrued

Some ascribe it to one’s attitude

Some would say get over it

Others would say, take time…heal

I battle inside

Wondering what strength is

They say ‘you’ve already conquered’

‘you’ve made it through,’ they say

“The battle is already won”

But it’s not because, for me,

The battle’s just begun

The repercussions of a supposed win

Eat me alive, from within

So which way does one go?

Eaten alive, just to survive?

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

Apply salve to the wounds

Through the need to cry, heal, move forward?

Go to work, get a job, be productive?

Sit alone, cry and be self-destructive?

Nobody knows, but many think they do.

Walk in others' shoes.

Truth is nobody knows strength

Only their own strength

their perceptions of others' strengths

Nobody really knows.

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.

Bloody Salt

Unheard and unheeded
Lonely drops of salt
Turn inward
To tears of fault
Turning to blood
Infused with toxicity
Self-loathing
For unknown
Reasons, beyond understanding
The unspoken need
For love
Never received
Constant need
For worth
Proof of worth
Beaten and swallowed
In salty blood tears
Never revealed
Unseen...
By the very one who cries them

Only One

I've had about 30 hours of sleep in the last 36 (thank you Nyquil). The few hours I've been up, I've been lost. I took the Nyquil after deciding last night that I was going to commit suicide but then, using a tactic I've used before, told myself I would wait until tomorrow and if I still felt the same, I would do it then. As I lay down, restless, anxious, angry, hurt....I fantasized about ways to do it. I have a lot of pills I can take. I sometimes hoard them...."just in case." But I know from experience, that overdosing doesn't really work and best scenario you end up with smiley shoes on the fourth floor of some cold, God-forsaken hospital for three days until you say the right things to get out. So I thought of other ways, in addition to the pills. I thought of the order in which I would take the pills. I thought of ways to build a "tent" for carbon monoxide poisoning. Perhaps a bag over my head, too. I would close the bedroom door. Trevor would never know. Nobody would find me until I was gone. Maybe I'd use my old, illegal, beat up car and drive somewhere and hide. But then I thought maybe the cops would see me and pull me over. Then I'd really be screwed. I even tried to figure out ways I could smuggle in my meds in case I did get arrested but that wouldn't work either: The meds would need time to kick in, plus they'd find me before I could die. I fantasized about using a big black sharpie to write "DNR" all over my arms and chest and even my forehead. I figured I'd probably have to do it on paper and then trace it since doing it in the mirror could prove difficult.

Every purpose I had to live, is leaving or dying. My fault for putting purposes on people, instead of myself, most would say.

But most wouldn't know I am no purpose. I have no purpose. I know, I know....and I've heard it all. My existence alone, changes the world. Yada...yada...yada...

Appeasement does not work for me.

All the work I've done on myself has been so honest and intentional.

But for naught.

I still have my pills hidden. (I hid them in case my therapist instructed my friend to hide them from me). I still have not gotten them out. I still haven't entirely changed my mind.

I have therapy tomorrow.

I have almost nothing to say.

I am so numb. So, so numb.

Voiceless, wordless, needless.

Nothing. Obviously.

Like stone

1:30 in the morning;
Another bad dream
Arise you idiot
I silently scream

Shake it off--
My logical voice.
My God, how I try
too much noise

I sit visiting the dark
At my beat-up desk
Mentally wiping
The hurt from my chest

I try to read or breathe
Watch a film til it's done
Nothing works
And 4:30 comes

I take Nyquil
Just to quiet my head
But the dream remains
As I lay down in bed

The lump is there
The struggle is rough
The first sob escapes
Silent but tough

I will not cry
I think in my mind
Another sob
And another behind

Tears fall like pebbles
Tiny dings as they hit
Soaking my pillow
Making my hair stick

I beat myself up
Fool! Idiot! Baby! I hear
But they keep on,
More and more tears

Another bad dream
Same four nights in a row
Set on repeat
I cry to my pillow.

Anything

I will do anything
To get out of this skin
Change my voice
Make myself thin

Be sophisticated
Be untamed
A socialite
Or just unnamed

I'll curl my hair
Or leave it straight
Wear pearls and lace
Or cut my own bait

Cook like a chef
Or go out to eat
Rub your shoulders
Massage your feet

I would do anything
To get out of this skin
The possibilities, endless
Don't know wh where to begin

I'll beg forgiveness
Hide the secret resentment
Never cry before you
Bury my lament

Or cry if you want
Let you save me
You be the hero
If it's what you wanna be

I'll be successful
(Though it won't last)
I'll try again
And I'll hide my past

Leave you out
Or let you in
But only if I
Am out of my skin.

Shadow

She stares at me
a stranger in the mirror
She is there
but I'm not here

A veil hangs
betwen who she is
and who I am
who I see

It's not me
not me that I see
some other person
some other story

Her pain isn't mine
her secrets, her own
I close my eyes
And she is gone.

-C

Tears

Tears fall without a sound, but scream so loud.

Today I cry for those who hang their heads. For those who cross the street, when they see people coming. For those whose voices are gone, replaced by what society demands of them.
Today I cry for the silent shame that weighs like an anvil on each shoulder of those who society pretends don't exist; the forgotten, unnamed, unlovable, unwanted. The faceless, the poor who "don't matter" and whose worlds simply do not and have not ever existed beyond the TV screen of 3,000 square foot homes with 84" screens.
Today I cry a deep, aching cry for the fear that is always felt, but never revealed and the anger that cannot be felt, but often comes out at the worst times - usually aimed at oneself.
I cry because I am so scared. So scared.
I cry for those who - like me - feel alone because we create our prisons. We have these prisons that both keep us captive, and keep us and everyone else safe.
I cry because it is a lonely, dark place. But it is our place.
Our only place.
I cry for those who - like me - have medical issues that go unattended because we cannot allow our bodies to be exposed. We'd rather bleed in pain, than be violated again.
Paralyzed by fear, I sit here in this room I've tried to make "home" and I know it is not - nor has it ever been - "home," and I try, with frustration, desperation and utter overwhelm to figure out what it is I am supposed to do now. What do I do next? I wish someone was here.

Ice Cubes? Really??

Saw my "new" therapist today. This was our second visit. I knew - during our initial phone conversation when we set up our first appointment - that she was not right for me. She became "concerned" when I told her I get afraid and overwhelmed when I meet new people/doctors/social workers/etc. and that I would take a clonazepam before I came.

So you're concerned about me taking an anxiety medication for...anxiety?

Strike one.

When I met her, there just was no chemistry and I knew - by the way she talked and approached certain things - that she was not the caliber of help I need.

I had recently had a meltdown, in the bathroom. I collapsed on the floor, sobbing, angry, flooded, lost, confused, overwhelmd and I reached in the drawer and pulled out a razor and compulsively began slashing at my legs (this was about four weeks ago).

My (new) therapist, upon hearing my telling of this meltdown, suggested the next time I want to cut or self-harm, to try using an ice cube.

Great idea! I'll make sure and store some in the bathroom drawer!

Today she told me I need more intensive treatment than they can offer and she is going to see what she can find for me. Outpatient. I told her I won't do inpatient. I have my reasons, and there are many.

Vomited again this morning while brushing my teeth. Cannot adequately define the grotesqueness of this. She asked me why I think that happens.

!?!?!

Seriously?

Jesus.

I also told her I take offense to the term "Mental Illness." I do not have a "Mental Illness," but a Mental Disorder, with a bunch of sub-disorders (if you will) as a result of complex, repeated childhood trauma. I am not mentally sick (which is what an illness is). I am mentally debilitated at the moment due to circumstances beyond my control and for which my brain has developed coping and survival mechanisms out of sheer need and necessity for survival. I'd hardly classify that as a "mental illness."

Anyway that's just me ranting.

I'm being pulled in so many different directions that I can't find myself. That's what I told her and she understood that.

She told me I should do what I have to do, to take care of me.

That's a tough one.

Peace?

Had another nightmare last night - of him. Woke myself up screaming. God I wish he knew how horribly he hurt me. I wish he could feel the fear - even if just for a moment.

I recently met a woman who told me her father, too, had molested her but that he did 10 years in prison for it and died recently - in December.

"It was the first time in my life I've ever felt peace," she said. "Not that I wished him dead, just it was the first time I ever felt peace."

It made me cry. Her mother had been a staunch supporter of her through it all and I wondered - marveled - at that. Wondered what that would be like.

But then I kind of lost it and I realized I won't ever know when my father dies. How long does that mean I have to wait for peace? And what about the others? I won't know when they're gone. I cried for two hours over this. Sobbed.

Is that when you find peace after all this? When they're all cold in the ground or sitting in an urn on a mantle somewhere?

Knowing there's a rapist around every corner in every walk of life, will there ever be peace?

Forgiveness/Judgment

Just finished watching "Woman Thou Art Loosed: On the 7th Day" and I'm still aching. I wish everyone knew what it felt like. I loved the part where she says she feels like a visitor in her own home. It's the only thing I've ever felt and as soon as she said it, tears began to fall. Oh I know that feeling. In fact, it's the only feeling I've ever known. I don't know what "home" is supposed to feel like.


I don't want to give too much away about the movie but I know - and have lived - that life of trying to leave your past behind. I still live it. Some of the things said in the movie almost pierced me. Forgiveness - when they uttered the word - repulsed me, and still does. That's my anvil to stay chained to. At least for  now.

For now, there is a fine line between "I forgive you" and "there's nothing to forgive." The line is so fine, that I cannot even stand on it. It exists within me somewhere, blurry and intangible, unrecognizable. The disconnect too profound, forgiveness of what? Something that happened to someone else? Forgiveness of things I cannot remember or feel or acknowledge?

Maybe forgiveness is difficult if you blame yourself - if you think everything that happened to you is your fault. Then you have to forgive yourself. But then, what if you don't believe it - cognitively....don't believe it was your fault? What if you're purely intellectual and scientific about it, rather than spiritual/karmic about it?

So many blurry lines and unanswered (and un-answerable) questions but I like that movies like this, make me think, really think. I like that they make me ache - remind me that something inside me is still alive.

Only recently have I discovered so many secrets. God...so many secrets. Secrets kept from me and, thus, kept from every- and anyone in my life.

So everything seems like a lie. Even sacred things. Just all seem like a lie.

But then some things come into clearer focus and they seem true. True with a capital "T."

Someone I once trusted and confided in - told a little about my past - turned on me and called me a whore. The word hurt by itself, but it was - in this instance - said over online chat in big, bright bold letters (as big as the letters could be made): "WHORE."

I've never forgotten that. He said it multiple times but he finished with those big, bold, capital letters: "WHORE" and now it's etched in my mind. I was, and am judged. I don't know how to forgive that.

I wonder how it feels when you forgive. There are things in my recent past that, when they flash in my mind, cause me to flinch and sometimes physically make me sick. I can't get past the nausea or the jolt enough to forgive. So...how does that work?

Addendum:

It is things like this that make me want to cut or give me the compulsion to drive that razor as swiftly as I can across my arm (or legs or whatever). The deep-down, soul-shattering belief that words like "WHORE!" and "FAKE!" define you when all you've ever tried to do is outrun them. Those words. Those horrid, horrid words. Adjectives better assigned to animals, by animals. This was instilled in me - this filth, this agony, this self-image that I am and will forever be a whore and nothing more. Yet... those who you let in, those you dare to trust - even just a little - inject you with the needle of judgment and you are thrown back into this darkness that is the vision of yourself. Your Self. Whatever (and whoever) that may be.

How can I forgive those who belligerently and deliberately throw these daggers? I am expected to. They expect me to forgive and forget.

But I can't.

I'm still trying to figure out the things that give me those labels to begin with.

Meanwhile, I must be punished or at least reminded that I am alive.

He/they doesn't/don't understand. They never, ever will.

Emptiness (Poem) (possible trigger)

How can empty
get any more hollow?
There are no seeds;
no strings to follow
The darkness gets darker
no moon, no stars
you talk to loneliness
show your scars
but none other can see
nor hear the shrieks
from a deadened body
from whence blood leaks
at the whim of despair
the quick slits release
drops of blood
moments of peace
a ghastly reminder
we still survive
crimson droplets
prove we are alive
the reaper grows near
whispers your name
begs your surrender
to the monstrous pain
Consulting with loneliness
you quietly lament
secretly wishing
with honest intent
natural causes
will take you away
a coward to the end...

...so it seems, anyway.

(C) Cristina D. Kuptzin-Johnson, 2013

The Photographer and the Doberman

I sent this to the Sidran Institute in the hopes they might use it...pass it on to some of their providers.

There are many "professionals" out there, who do not know and cannot fathom how to handle an "incorrigible teenager" who doesn't fit neatly into their DSM diagnoses and treatments.

I hope it helps someone.

True Scenario from a Real Former ‘Incorrigible Teenager”

I am 13 years old. I have survived on the streets now for about two years, during which time I’ve been beaten, raped, stabbed, shot at, bought and sold. Before that – before I can remember – I was repeatedly sexually assaulted, raped, beaten, humiliated, abandoned and hurt. I have suffered multiple STD’s that have gone untreated because I refuse to be ‘locked up’ so I just keep running away. I do not trust you. I do not trust anyone. Especially the police and especially the system.

What pisses me off the most, is when a caseworker or social worker or psychiatrist comes at me as if they know me. As if there’s some anecdote in their fancy scholarly books that describes exactly what it feels like to be penetrated by a man whose penis feels it may well split your body in two or how it feels to suckle your father’s penis when it is supposed to be a bottle in your mouth.

These people who may very much be well-intended, are too pushy and you are the very ones I will hate. I mean hate. I hate you because you don’t know me. You can’t know me. Yet, you pretend you do and you act as if you have all the answers. You come at me with machine-gun questions and I have developed my survival skills to the point where I can answer every rapid-fire question with the perfect answer. Exactly what you want/need to hear.

Because I am a survivor.

Plus I know, if I don’t say or do whatever it is you expect for me to say or do, you will strap me down, stick a needle in my ass while men stand on watching, without regard for the nothingness that is me. What little dignity there is – if any – is dissolved in that moment. Or you’ll stick me in a group of other “incorrigible teens” who are supposed to share their stories but who, like me, are probably just saying everything you need to hear. Giving you ‘just enough’ so you can write on your notes that so-and-so is being cooperative and appears to be making progress.

And then so-and-so will go into some foster home somewhere and run away again because so-and-so, knows nothing else. There is no home for dirty little girls like us. We foul up everything and everyone we touch. We are cloaked in disgust, semen, disease. Our scarlet letter is “W” – stands for “whore” – because that’s all we have ever been. That’s all we’ve ever been good for. These horrid, wretched, ugly bodies that we hate so much that we cut, starve, stab, burn and otherwise maim because we hate them so badly.

But….

There’s another scenario that I want to share from my own personal experience.

Through dozens and dozens of foster homes and group homes, being a ward of the state, belonging nowhere, having nobody, I chose solitude and trust was something I never knew. Ever.

But there was one group home where I met a woman. She was a counselor there. She was also a photographer.

Unlike the other counselors who tried to tell you your problems or ask invasive questions, this one did not. She asked nothing of me. She didn’t try to get close to me or push me. I will use an analogy.

I am the beaten, dog-fighting Doberman, abandoned for losing a fight. I’ve been trained to hate, to fight, to bite.

This counselor sees me, frothing, angry, bloody, mistrustful, and she says not a word as I stand snarling at her from the corner of the room.

She basically ignores me and goes on to piece together the fancy contraption that is her complex camera. I, being the raging angry dog that I am, see her sit down in a non-threatening manner, and my chemistry changes. I see no threat so I, too, sit down, but my eyes remain fixed. I stay prepared – ready to jump at her throat with one false move.

But she continues on with her task. She lifts her camera to take a photo, and my head pops up with the movement. What is she doing?

She is pointing the camera in the opposite direction, away from me. Not even looking at me. Not even acknowledging my presence. I lay my head back down on my bloody paws, and watch vigilantly.

She takes a few more pictures, and then she starts to speak – almost to herself – “Too fuzzy,” or “Wrong lighting,” or “Wrong lens” or “Damn, that was off-focus.”

She pauses, looks at me and I raise my head again, suspicious.

“You know, I think I need to get a new lens,” she says to me. “This one is starting to get foggy and I think I got some sand in it.”

I cock my head to the side. I don’t know what she is talking about but at least she is not coming near me. I am curious. Why isn’t she?

She does this day after day, every day. Never imposing, always calm, always with her camera. Sometimes she brings me pictures and she asks me my opinion. “Do you think this one is too much?” she asks me.

Eventually, I move closer. Just a little.

And closer.

Just a little.

She takes her camera apart and puts it back together again. She switches the lenses and the flashes. She even takes my picture and then shows it to me.

I move closer. Just a little.

She shows me the picture of myself. She tells me it’s a great shot. She doesn’t patronize me and tell me I’m beautiful or gorgeous or pretty or anything else. Just says, “It’s a great shot.”

She does not know me. She cannot know me. And she makes no pretense to. She is simply calm and consistent. She shows me the buttons on her camera because now I have moved close enough that my nose almost touches her thigh. She does not try to touch me. Just continues to show me her prized possession.

Soon I feel this desire to show her something of my own. To give something of myself to her, even if I am not sure she will take it, nor what she would do with it.

So, one day, she comes and she sits in the doorway and I scoot a little closer. I rest my scarred nose on her thigh. She does not touch me. Instead, she smiles at me, accepting me.

She still asks no questions. “How did you get this scar? What happened here? What about your parents?”

Nothing. She simply sits there, being who she is, and allows me the space to be who I am. She was the first and only person I ever dared trust.

I was taken away from her – moved to a new place – but I won’t ever forget the gentle, non-invasive way she reached me, deep inside. At least, deeper than anyone else ever had. She gave me herself, instead of expecting me to give myself to her.

I will never forget the photographer at Babbler State Park in Missouri.

Strands of Trust

Trust begins as a thread of glass. The smallest, most fragile glass your mind can conger. To compare it to a strand of silk, torn from a robe or that of a spiderweb, would not only be too cliche', but also inaccurate.

You see, the web of a spider can be repaired and the thread of silk can be re-tied.

But the long, slender, fragile length of glass that represents trust, shatters into a thousand pieces and cannot be repaired. Sadly, it takes very little in these formative stages, for this shard of trust to disintegrate as if it never existed. It falls into darkness and dissolves there, never to be retrieved again.

This, however, is only how it begins. Begins as a small strand of fragile glass from one heart to another. Sometimes, of course, the strand never forms. The trust is broken before it is even created.

There is really no limit to the number of crystalline strands of trust one can have, although some do intersect and combine.

As time passes, this fragile strand of glass trust, thickens with consistency and patience; love and attention; compassion and caring.

As this happens, this strand of trust strengthens more and more. So that slight transgressions might create hairline cracks or cause little chips in what is now a thicker band of  glass trust. Fragile, but still in tact, if just a little worn.

As time continues, this trust begins to calcify and what was once smaller than a grain of sand, just like that grain of sand slowly emerges and evolves into something larger, harder and less breakable.

The difficulty and problem with this is that trust can be built - albeit with some hard work and a lot of patience and "I'm sorry's" - but then, when one who has calcified that trust, who has built a solid, sturdy band of trust, hurts you deeply, the trust won't break. And so you keep allowing it and allowing it and allowing it. You must deserve it, right? After all, this person built this trust. I know this person. They wouldn't hurt me unless I did something wrong.

This trust - this solid, calcified trust - is toxic and painful. The reverberations this band of trust echoes, shatter other, small, fragile forming bands on trust - the ones as thin and fine as a hair.

Trust is fragile. Until it is solidified. Then it is destructive.

Jarda

The first time I met him, he wore a fancy suit. Not like a tuxedo, but one of those top-of-the-line suits that you know are tailored to fit. He was clean and confident.

He came in to speak to me after they did an intake evaluation at the PHP in Middletown. They want to know all about whether or not you drink or do drugs or have appetite problems, constipation, diarrhea, headaches and of course a family history of mental illness. They check you basic vitals: blood pressure, temperature, heart rate, respirations.

I pretty much lied the whole way through. Didn't want to be there. Was scared to death. I hate hospitals. I hate groups.

And I hate psychiatrists.

I tested him - as I test everyone - immediately. He came in with his suit and clipboard and sat down, said my name.

"How are you feeling today?"

"I'm in a fucking PHP. How do you think I feel?"

He laughed. But not a vicious laugh. More like a "touche'" kind of laugh.

He crossed his legs as he sat across from me. Asked me questions. I answered them all.

He asked what work I did. I told him I was a journalist.

"You must be very intelligent then," he said.

"Yes I am," I responded without hesitation. "And I don't like you."

He gave me that same soft laugh.

"I am a nice guy. You will see. I would love to see some of your clippings," he said.

Hah. Test number one.

In the days that followed, it never came up again. He failed. He said he wanted to see but never asked again.

But one day, as I remained closed, distant and removed from this stupid group program, he came and pulled me from the group, as he does with various "patients," throughout the week.

He took me to his office.

From wrist to elbow, my arms were slashed. Healing, but still slashed. I made no attempt to hide them. Everyone had seen them by now.

"How are you doing?" he asked.

"Fine."

"Tell me, Cristina," he said with his beautiful Jamaican accent, "Why did you cut your arms?"

"To show Gary and Tony how hurt I was."

He dug and wouldn't stop. He kept pushing.And for every question he had, I had a quick response.

Until the end when he said:

"So who, really, were you trying to show your pain to?"

I felt myself curl up inside. I can think of those old "firecrackers" they used to make called "the snake." You light them up and they curl and twist into a charred piece of nothing. Ash.

I curled up like that inside. I whispered, "Mom and Daddy."

He told me about the mountain I must climb. He asked me, "What is the easiest part of climbing a mountain?"

"The beginning," I answered.

"True," he said. "What else?"

"The end," I shot back, regaining my composure.

"You have a huge mountain to climb. You are at the bottom. You want to run up it, get it over with."

I sat halfheartedly listening but by this time, had gained some sense of respect for the man who had - through all my belligerence aimed right at him - remained calm, steady and assured.

"What is the hardest part of climbing a mountain?" he asked.

"The middle."

"Ahh," he said with that lulling accent. "You are very intelligent.

He moved from his seat at his desk and sat down at the round table in the room, close to me. His expression changed. His demeanor changed. He softened.

"You are going to get to the middle of your mountain, Cristina, and you are going to want to go back down. You are going to want to give up. What do you do?"

"Stop. Rest."

"Yes. Exactly," he said.

Then he stood and I stood and he said: "You have a very large mountain to climb, filled with pain."

I was rattled inside.

He gestured to my arms and he said, "And that is a lot of pain."

He's the only one ever, ever in my life, who seemed to see into me. He seemed to understand. I had been wrong about him. (I did confess to him, my "test" that I'd put him through. I don't recall his response but it was very viable).

I called him the other day. Begging to speak with him. But I hung up before he came to the phone. I didn't know what to say.

I am afraid.

I am lonely.

I feel so abandoned and confused.

Dr. Carl Jarda.

I wish I could see you.

I don't think she believes me

My name is Cristina D. Johnson.

I  don't know that I have ever experienced someone not believing me and the things I have gone through and am now experiencing.

I feel that way about Michelle, now.

I made an appointment with her because I have to.

But I feel sick about it.

I called her the other night. I left three voice messages (because there's a limit to the amount of time you have to leave a message) so I called her. I don't remember everything I said.

I cut that night.

I got scared. I panicked. I thought someone was in the house. That's the last thing I clearly remember. Everything else is kind of a blur.

Anyway, I don't believe in her and I don't believe she believes me.

What kind of therapeutic relationship is that?

I had another appointment Monday with a different specialist - Judy. She diagnosed me with PTSD (again). She also talked me down from my "DID is bullshit and doesn't exist!" mantra. A little bit, anyway. She wants to do further testing.

I wish I knew the things I left on Michelle's voicemail. I have not heard anything back from her.

When I was a kid, it never occurred to me that nobody would believe me if I told. I just didn't tell because....well, I think because I didn't want to get Daddy in trouble. I don't know. I don't remember any threats except once and that was when I was older. Nothing like, "I'll kill your mother"....did he ever say, "Nobody will believe you!"? I don't know...maybe.

But for whatever reasons, I didn't tell.

And now, I have told Michelle - some of it - and I feel like she doesn't believe me. That hurts.

Wanting to cut

My name is Cristina Johnson.

I can't stop rocking. i am surrounded by things...things... things...

The dresser is Broyhill. As is the nightstand. Top-of-the-line, I suppose.

Snowball, the polydactyl cat, sits on my dresser, staring at me Behind her is a mirror and dangling necklaces and bracelets that I never asked for and, which, never suited me.

I am not suited for jewelry.

I've talked to several people tonight, trying to ground myself. I came here - to my writing refuge -hoping to relieve myself of this need for self-punishment, but so far, it hasn't worked.

Howie, Bill, Cindy, Hannah........ well, not Bill, reallyk. He's tired. He works a lot.
I cut myself a lot. I injure myself a lot. But I am careful about it. I protect my youngest son from it.l

He doesn't want to know any more than what he asks and that works for me. In fact, if I try or wanted to explain to him about my past he doesn't want to hear it. Same as my daughter.

Perhaps that is right.

It is unfortunate that my oldest knows so much.

Tonight I want to cut so badly. So badly.

People wonder why. They can't fathom why one would cut themselves, harm themselves, starve or binge themselves.

It serves so many purposes.

To be alive. To see your own blood, means you're alive. To suffer, means you're alive. To hurt yourself, means you are alive.

Even if, inside (or, perhaps because inside) you feel dead.

Proof that you're alive...............

Is DID bullshit?

My name is Cristina Johnson.

Last night was the first good night's sleep I've gotten in weeks.

I have tried guided meditations, hypnotic sleep meditations, binaural waves, and Schumann resonance. I have done everything to avoid taking the Trazadone (50 mg) I was prescribed.

Still nothing has really worked. Anxiety is the problem. It keeps me awake. I wish it were easy to describe. Maybe to a mother. They would understand that irrational jolt of anxiety that goes through you as you imagine the worst case scenarios a thousand times in your mind, within milliseconds.

Laying in bed at night, that's what it's like. Like electricity; A bolt of lightening and you have to, once again, try to focus...focus on the breath...count the breaths....hold your breath and count...and release...

And it works, until the next bolt of lightening.

Oh God I have no money. Oh God I have to leave the house tomorrow. Oh God my rent is due. Oh god I need a spare tire. Oh god the cat has worms. Oh god, what will I do for dinners next week? Oh god what if that  taxi cab driver comes back to my apartment and breaks in and rapes me?

One after another after another, it's like someone hitting you on the base of your skull with a two-by-four; it doesn't knock you out, but stuns you and you have to take several minutes to gather your bearings. (Trust me, I know what it feels like).

So I was grateful for one good night's sleep. I had no dreams that I recall. A blessing.

Probably because yesterday I saw a new "provider" - as they call them in my insurance network - who was supposed to be specifically for medication management but who, surprisingly, was familiar with - and had even worked with - people with DID.

Nothing was barred as I grit my teeth and ground in my heels against the diagnosis. "It's bullshit," I told her. "Can't be. It's bullshit. I just think it's bullshit."

She then gently told me of her first experience  dealing with a DID client. She had been in training at the time. She's had several such clients since.

She told me the typical DID case is the result of repeated, prolonged trauma before age 5.

Well, that suits me.

But still I wanted to kick and scream.

And yet....

I was validated.

"It's clear you have PTSD," she said.

Yeah I have heard that before. My entire life.

But I managed it.

DID....well that's different. It's crazy. It's nuts. It's insane.

Right?

I left feeling achingly validated but still confused.

She wants me to see a specialist who specializes in cases like mine: a history of complex trauma.

I'm open to it, but not holding my breath. My insurance is state insurance and most "specialists" don't take my insurance. I can't even walk outside. God. How could I go to work?

Actually the truth is: I could go to work.

I would work my ass off, make a great impression, be the best person on the job. And it would last - maximum - six months. Such as is my history.

Oh man it seems I don't even know myself.

I don't know.

It's just ....KIND OF nice to be validated. Again. Even though she didn't diagnose me with DID, she said she wanted to do further analyses. I'm okay with that, if skeptical. Over the past few weeks, I have dismissed DID as a diagnosis, despite the multiple times I was diagnosed with it but you must understand it was a psychological "rage" in the 80's and early 90's so I disregarded the first time. The second time I tried keeping an open mind. Still;.... Still... Ugh....

Online, some of the support groups and message boards and discussion groups I joined....the members just seem to jump right in and say, "Hi, My name is <so-and-so> and I have <three-five-ten-20..._> alters. My youngest is "Jimmy" (or Jamie or Annie or whatever) and they like ...ice cream...teddy bears....IDK..... who fucking knows but it's like they just take this horrid, horrid Dx and embrace it and run with it. Like it's an excuse to be crazy. Am I crazy? Are they crazy?

I mean yeah crazy shit happens to me but I'm not a dangerous psychotic.- except perhaps to myself at times - but I can't imagine ever hurting anyone else. Ever.

DID. Crazy shit.

My current therapist - the one who I vaguely remember saying (through a haze) - "You don't have PTSD," is a struggle.

It makes me wonder how much of anything I have ever told her, she believes.

The fear of any child, I suppose, who has been molested. I can't tell because nobody will believe me.

I feel that coming from Michelle. Irrational or not.

Just like I told my latest appointment for med management - Judy.

"I may cognitively know that my reactions are irrational, but something is broken - something broke - and I can't un-break it. I don't know how to not break it."

Her response:

"I would imagine that's always been the case for you. I would imagine you always shut down and shut out."

It was good to be understood, even if I don't understand it myself.

Judy was confident and calm. She seemed to know what she was talking about and dealing with. Even told me about her first encounter with DID. I listened but....still leary.

Sometimes I miss Gary....times like these. Times when someone steps in who understands and who may be able to give him insight. Maybe...maybe then he would have understood. Maybe then he wouldn't have done the things he did. Maybe then, he would still love me.

Then again, maybe he never did.

Maybe he simply can't love.

I don't know.

I saw his name again on Facebook the other day. For three days I was reeling...nearly de-friended the person who posted it. Not because she did anything wrong but because I can't see his name. I can't bear it. I am terrified of seeing him. I saw a white van the other day.... I panicked.

I hurt him.

But oh... Oh he hurt me so badly. Intelligent. God he's so intelligent and yet, so stupid. So foolish. Uneducated and uniformed.

And I love him.

And I love Bill.....

Bill is gone now. He's in PA working. Helping as much as he can.

I asked my adoptive mother the other day, after Bill left to go back to his little motel room, "Why does he do this stuff for me?"

"Because he loves you," she said.

And I just can't wrap my head around "why."

Why?

Why?

I watched a movie the other night called "Gardens Of The Night" and at one point the girl - stolen and sold into sexual trade, trained to believe her parents had abandoned her and were dead - was told her parents were alive and wanted her. She said: "They don't want me...they can't want me...you don't understand...I've done such horrible things..."

I cried...

I know that feeling.

How can anyone love me? Nobody knows all the "dirty."

Nobody.

Perhaps nobody ever will.

So confused.

Blame, Love, Hate

My name is Cristina D. Johnson. Forgive me as I ramble.

Over the last few weeks, I have delved deeply into the dynamics of my relationships - past and present. I have, in earnest, examined my role in these relationships, whether casual or not, and how I - myself - contributed to their demise.

And it was, indeed, a demise.

From jumping out of moving vehicles (a feat which I learned very young and did many times, escaping from the grips of "the system".... back then they didn't have automatic locks) to jumping INTO moving vehicles, I have done many things, to hurt many people.

I have tried to redeem myself, as I have come to recognize some of my transgressions, realizing they - my partners in these relationships - were the victim of me. Imagine. Me. A perpetrator of some sort. Never perverse, mind you. Nothing like my own transgressors but still.... perpetuating hurt on others, without awareness. Not that unawareness is an excuse - it is not, because their pain was (and, perhaps is) real - however, I was unaware of this pain I may have caused.

I knew no other ways.

I suppose people have loved me. I don't know. I don't know. It's hard to say, really. How can I say, when my one, true love - my first love; my father - was so destructive, so evil? That was my first love and I loved through hell. I loved through pain, torment, fear.... I loved him so much. So much, that I would do all I could - anything - to stop his pain. That was my first love.

Shattered, in most regards, yet still here. Haunting and taunting. Only now, now I am aware of this toxic love....this shameless, childlike love, which I cannot drain from my veins, no matter how many times nor how deeply I cut. This love is still there. This idolatry. This idealization. The perfect man... Daddy.

I stand on this fence, balancing clumsily with love on one side, hate on the other. The banister on which I have always stood, is comprised of hate, love, blame, confusion....

Will I ever know love, when I see it?

I know pain when I see it. I have seen it in the eyes of my children; whether of my doing or others'. I know what pain looks like. What does love look like?

And yet...

The dichotomy is this:

I hurt others, yet I withhold myself from others, because others have hurt me.

What a vicious, vicious circle.

When others hurt me, it is reason to submerge. When I hurt others, it is because they have - by my own perceptions which are, admittedly, distorted - hurt me first. Or perhaps they pose the threat of hurting.

Love, I suppose, in any form, any relationship, all relationships poses this threat. This threat of harm.

But isn't it strange that I would fear harm from love, when I have only known this one TRUE love, and never allowed for any other?

The gates are closed; the windows locked. There is no way in. Yet, I protect as if there is.

And I blame.

I believe there is nobody who can love the way I can.

This is because of the profundity of my love of Daddy. I know what it is to love through heaven: the heavenly sound of his music,  his voice, his hair, his arms - so strong - his poetic muse, his verbal prowess and intellectual fortitude. And I know what it is to love through hell: his kicks, punches and blows, his throws and holes in the walls and his tears, his painful, painful tears. His sexual perversions and humiliations. I know - God I know - what it is to love so deeply that no manner of sin or sainthood could shake it.

I carry it now. Still. This infallible love for the first monster to ever take my heart. Crush it. Embrace it. Frighten it. Shatter it. Put it back together again. All through the eyes of a child.

And in no part of me that I recognize today, can I find a place to blame him for my own sicknesses. My own shortcomings. My own transgressions against those who may - or may not - have loved me.

They couldn't have loved me as much as I have loved, for they did not stay. Right?

Yet.... is it not because of me and my own words and actions, that they left? How can I hold others to the standard of a child who adores the man who twists and mangles everything within her, down to her very self?

Love.

I know unconditional love. I am living it. I always have.

For those who wish to leave me,  I feel angry.

But at the same time, I do not blame because love and hate are so closely related.

They say, "You only hurt the ones you love."

This means - to me - that only the ones who love you, can be hurt by you. The rest, could care less what you do or what happens to you.

I wonder, to this day, is he okay? Where is he? Will I ever see him again?

I also wonder, will I ever be free of this dichotomy? Will I ever not see him in my mind? Will I ever feel anything close to the love I felt for him?

Trying to love, trying to give, for me....

It's like trying to fix something without the proper tools.

I let people down. I hurt them. I test and try them and I don't know how not to do this.

So I shut down because I will not be the monster that is Daddy.

Until I learn something new, someone new, some new way or thing, I will simply not be. I would rather be nothing, than be a monster, even though I have seen myself as both many times in my life.

This world is crazy.