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.
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Friday, May 22, 2015
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
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.
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.
Saturday, March 23, 2013
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.
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.
Friday, December 21, 2012
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.
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.
Monday, November 19, 2012
Tired
Shame, shame, shame.
It permeates me. The past few days have been those kinds of days where I just wished I didn't exist.
I'm tired.
I'm lost.
I am ashamed.
It's very difficult to accept "I love you" from anyone, when there's not one single redeeming quality you can see about yourself.
My last session was beyond humiliating. So much so, that I almost didn't go today, which Michelle noticed.
"I'm glad you came today," she said, knowing a million parts of me were pulling me away, telling me to run.
Sue William Silverman wrote a number of books and is also a friend of mine on facebook. She's a very brave woman - she put things in her memoir about being molested and abused by her affluent father, and followed it with a sequel about sexual addiction and finally "Fearless Confessions" - a book about how to write about these things. Quite the appropriate title, I think.
How horrible it is, to tell. How frightening. Not just the details and grit, but what's going on inside you. The reality of your every-day breaths. Every thought that stabs you with how indecent you are, unworthy you are, useless you are. It's all this fucking game you play, to make everyone happy...to make everyone love you...even if you don't believe they do, you can at least see what it's like.
I believe Bill... but that's a double-edged sword.
I believe that he loves me, but I don't feel I deserve it. That hurts. I want it, but I am so afraid of it.
Life just sucks these past few days.
I am tired.
It permeates me. The past few days have been those kinds of days where I just wished I didn't exist.
I'm tired.
I'm lost.
I am ashamed.
It's very difficult to accept "I love you" from anyone, when there's not one single redeeming quality you can see about yourself.
My last session was beyond humiliating. So much so, that I almost didn't go today, which Michelle noticed.
"I'm glad you came today," she said, knowing a million parts of me were pulling me away, telling me to run.
Sue William Silverman wrote a number of books and is also a friend of mine on facebook. She's a very brave woman - she put things in her memoir about being molested and abused by her affluent father, and followed it with a sequel about sexual addiction and finally "Fearless Confessions" - a book about how to write about these things. Quite the appropriate title, I think.
How horrible it is, to tell. How frightening. Not just the details and grit, but what's going on inside you. The reality of your every-day breaths. Every thought that stabs you with how indecent you are, unworthy you are, useless you are. It's all this fucking game you play, to make everyone happy...to make everyone love you...even if you don't believe they do, you can at least see what it's like.
I believe Bill... but that's a double-edged sword.
I believe that he loves me, but I don't feel I deserve it. That hurts. I want it, but I am so afraid of it.
Life just sucks these past few days.
I am tired.
Monday, November 12, 2012
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.
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.
Friday, November 9, 2012
It's okay? Really??
My name is Cristina Johnson
Oh what a day today has been. I was dreading my session with Michelle. I had a specific thing to talk to her about: That "feeling" of "breaking a rule" when it comes to loving someone.
As I walk in, she makes no qualms: You look like hell.
And I did. I have cried every day since Saturday - good cries and bad ones - and my mouth is so sore with fever blisters. "Yes," I agreed. "I look about as good as I feel."
"So what's going on?" she asks, her typical starting phrase.
I was afraid to tell her. How strange, I think now. How strange that I was afraid to tell her (or anyone, really) that Bill heard back from an employer here in CT and there's a good chance he could be home for Christmas.
I was scared, so at first, I didn't tell her. Instead, I told her about "the rule" and asked her what she thought about it.
"Where does it come from?" I asked. "Does the fact that Hannah and I are incest survivors have anything to do with it?"
Oh no...she won't let me off that easy.
"Where do you think it comes from?"
I said (cleverly avoiding my own responsibility for the answer), "Well, Hannah says she thought it might have to do with not believing we deserve it."
She said nothing, just kept watching....oh she doesn't let me off easy.
"But I don't think that," I finally said.
Her eyes widened and she said, "You just threw me. This is a different 'you'," she said. I would expect Hannah's kind of answer from you.
"No, no," I said. "I mean, I don't believe it consciously, anyway. And I don't believe it for Hannah or anyone else."
We spent a few moments batting back and forth about it and she finally - thankfully - helped me weed through the marsh of my mind.
"When people go through trauma - especially complex trauma like yours and especially when it includes the people who were supposed to protect and love you - it turns your perceptions upside down," she explained.
I'll sum it up:
Love always hurts. Duh. I know that. Anyone with any experience in it, knows that. But for me, as a child, the only two times I didn't do what I was asked (oh, so benevolently) to do by my father, I was either (1) sodomized or (2) strangled and suffocated. That's why it only happened twice. I learned to never tell him no. It also happened through the rapes...the many times when, if you cry or show any emotion or physical pain, they hit you. This taught me unequivocally, that love equals punishment.
"Who is going to punish you?" she asked me.
This is where it got tough, and I shrugged, rather childishly, looked sideways to the cream-colored carpet.
"My facebook friends?" I offered.
"What do you mean?"
"They'll ostracize me and chastise me and judge me."
"Right which would be excruciating for you, since you just went through that."
"Yes," I admitted.
"Who else?
I began to tear up, I whispered, "You?"
"Why would I punish you?" she asked, incredulous. "Now, now we're back to the Cristina I know," she said half-jokingly. "Listen, unless you have a gun and you're ready to use it on yourself, none of the decisions or choices you make are really my business," she said lightly. "What do you want?" she asked. "What does Cristina want?"
I was afraid to answer...still.
She wouldn't let up. "It's okay. Whatever you want, is okay. It doesn't matter what anyone else says, it's what you want and if it's not self-destructive or hurting others, then it's okay!" she stated.
This was when I told her about Bill and the job and I read to her the end of my last blog, crying as I read the words...remembering the feelings I had that day...remembering the power of them.
"So who would disapprove of that? Obviously Cindy approves and Trevor definitely approves. So who would disapprove?"
I, again, said "My facebook friends, you (meaning, her), Bill's family..." I cried. I cried not just because of these fears, but also because I was so afraid in that moment.
She said: "My husband is my best friend and I have to tell you that if I had to walk away from every family member and friend for my marriage, I would do it without question." She said she was telling me this because relationships are personal and because some need distance, some need closeness, some need to be shut off completely.
I ached with this resounding joy in my heart....I could feel it throughout my body, that I'd just kind of gotten permission to love. To love Bill. To want him here. To miss him.
Other things were discussed but this was the most important. I left with a sense of purpose and resilience and I felt elated to have these words echoing in my mind: "It's okay for me to love Bill? Oh my God it's okay? It's okay??"
I later went to see my medical doctor and he kind of hurt me...made me feel like a worthless piece of shit (which isn't really his tendency, just my own issues) but even that - even though I sat there crying as he was telling me I was beyond his scope of care - I left almost bouncing. "I have permission to love him! It's okay for me to love him!"
Nothing about this whole situation has made sense to me until now..... it's so much of that tangled barbed wire I speak of inside, that I have to untangle, but I found a loose end, and I ain't lettin' it go, not til I figure out how to untangle it. I don't want to lose this feeling. In fact, I want to expand on it. I want it to grow and bleed into everyone and anyone in my life. I want to not fear loving them.
But Bill.... Bill I love you. I always have. I miss you.
Oh what a day today has been. I was dreading my session with Michelle. I had a specific thing to talk to her about: That "feeling" of "breaking a rule" when it comes to loving someone.
As I walk in, she makes no qualms: You look like hell.
And I did. I have cried every day since Saturday - good cries and bad ones - and my mouth is so sore with fever blisters. "Yes," I agreed. "I look about as good as I feel."
"So what's going on?" she asks, her typical starting phrase.
I was afraid to tell her. How strange, I think now. How strange that I was afraid to tell her (or anyone, really) that Bill heard back from an employer here in CT and there's a good chance he could be home for Christmas.
I was scared, so at first, I didn't tell her. Instead, I told her about "the rule" and asked her what she thought about it.
"Where does it come from?" I asked. "Does the fact that Hannah and I are incest survivors have anything to do with it?"
Oh no...she won't let me off that easy.
"Where do you think it comes from?"
I said (cleverly avoiding my own responsibility for the answer), "Well, Hannah says she thought it might have to do with not believing we deserve it."
She said nothing, just kept watching....oh she doesn't let me off easy.
"But I don't think that," I finally said.
Her eyes widened and she said, "You just threw me. This is a different 'you'," she said. I would expect Hannah's kind of answer from you.
"No, no," I said. "I mean, I don't believe it consciously, anyway. And I don't believe it for Hannah or anyone else."
We spent a few moments batting back and forth about it and she finally - thankfully - helped me weed through the marsh of my mind.
"When people go through trauma - especially complex trauma like yours and especially when it includes the people who were supposed to protect and love you - it turns your perceptions upside down," she explained.
I'll sum it up:
Love always hurts. Duh. I know that. Anyone with any experience in it, knows that. But for me, as a child, the only two times I didn't do what I was asked (oh, so benevolently) to do by my father, I was either (1) sodomized or (2) strangled and suffocated. That's why it only happened twice. I learned to never tell him no. It also happened through the rapes...the many times when, if you cry or show any emotion or physical pain, they hit you. This taught me unequivocally, that love equals punishment.
"Who is going to punish you?" she asked me.
This is where it got tough, and I shrugged, rather childishly, looked sideways to the cream-colored carpet.
"My facebook friends?" I offered.
"What do you mean?"
"They'll ostracize me and chastise me and judge me."
"Right which would be excruciating for you, since you just went through that."
"Yes," I admitted.
"Who else?
I began to tear up, I whispered, "You?"
"Why would I punish you?" she asked, incredulous. "Now, now we're back to the Cristina I know," she said half-jokingly. "Listen, unless you have a gun and you're ready to use it on yourself, none of the decisions or choices you make are really my business," she said lightly. "What do you want?" she asked. "What does Cristina want?"
I was afraid to answer...still.
She wouldn't let up. "It's okay. Whatever you want, is okay. It doesn't matter what anyone else says, it's what you want and if it's not self-destructive or hurting others, then it's okay!" she stated.
This was when I told her about Bill and the job and I read to her the end of my last blog, crying as I read the words...remembering the feelings I had that day...remembering the power of them.
"So who would disapprove of that? Obviously Cindy approves and Trevor definitely approves. So who would disapprove?"
I, again, said "My facebook friends, you (meaning, her), Bill's family..." I cried. I cried not just because of these fears, but also because I was so afraid in that moment.
She said: "My husband is my best friend and I have to tell you that if I had to walk away from every family member and friend for my marriage, I would do it without question." She said she was telling me this because relationships are personal and because some need distance, some need closeness, some need to be shut off completely.
I ached with this resounding joy in my heart....I could feel it throughout my body, that I'd just kind of gotten permission to love. To love Bill. To want him here. To miss him.
Other things were discussed but this was the most important. I left with a sense of purpose and resilience and I felt elated to have these words echoing in my mind: "It's okay for me to love Bill? Oh my God it's okay? It's okay??"
I later went to see my medical doctor and he kind of hurt me...made me feel like a worthless piece of shit (which isn't really his tendency, just my own issues) but even that - even though I sat there crying as he was telling me I was beyond his scope of care - I left almost bouncing. "I have permission to love him! It's okay for me to love him!"
Nothing about this whole situation has made sense to me until now..... it's so much of that tangled barbed wire I speak of inside, that I have to untangle, but I found a loose end, and I ain't lettin' it go, not til I figure out how to untangle it. I don't want to lose this feeling. In fact, I want to expand on it. I want it to grow and bleed into everyone and anyone in my life. I want to not fear loving them.
But Bill.... Bill I love you. I always have. I miss you.
Thursday, November 8, 2012
It's Complicated
My name is Cristina D. Johnson
I was talking with Hannah last night via text, as we do almost every night. I was also talking to Bill, simultaneously - also, as every night.
I've cried, I think, every single day since Saturday, when Bill showed up for my birthday. Sometimes it's just a little cry, sometimes it's a sobbing, snotty cry. Sometimes it's just a quiet, keep-to-yourself cry...today it was an all-out, shaking, confused, terrified, time-for-a-klonopin-and-a-beer kind of cry.
My eyes hurt. My nose hurts. My lips hurt. (My lips don't hurt from crying, though....f'n fever blisters!)
Anyway, it was interesting to get validation from my 18-year-old protege' ...so young in her years, yet in many ways, so, so wise.
I was talking to Bill, as I mentioned. I took him to the airport Wednesday. My adoptive mother - Cindy - went with me (Bill asked her because he was concerned about me being alone, once I dropped him off). The ride home was relatively quiet, although we did talk a little bit.
But as soon as she was out of the car and I pulled out of her driveway on my way home, I cried all the way. Snow and rain began to beat the windshield as Winter Storm Athena rolled in. It seemed suitable, given the circumstances.
I must first, I suppose, try as best as I possibly can, to sum up what makes him so spectacular. First of all (and anyone who has ever met him, will attest to this), EVERYBODY loves Bill. Everyone. I've never seen an exception. His energy is calm. He is so laid back, so "chill" and open-minded. So, so calm. Just being around him and breathing him in, is soothing.
While he was here, we:
I'm sure there are many more things...many more.
I talked to Bill - told him this - and also told Michelle (my therapist) that there was this moment. This moment when it just hit me "I love you!" - it was the moment I saw him standing there in the front yard with roses on my birthday. When I felt every cell in my body explode, when I couldn't control my screaming and my legs couldn't move fast enough and I couldn't wrap my arms around him quickly or tightly enough. When I couldn't even speak, when my legs wanted to collapse...that was that moment, when it hit me, "Oh my God, you love him."
Of course, I've always loved Bill (don't forget we went through a lot over the past 10+ years) and when we dated before, it was just about the same - a few differences, but he was always consistent and loving and attentive.
Throughout my relationship with Gary he was my sounding board and although he never said a bad thing about Gary, he was always there to listen. Of course, now, it's different. Now he admits all along that he knew Gary wasn't right for me, but he waited...he waited for me...
I don't know what to think of that...
So back to the conversation with Hannah....
I told her, as I cried, (paraphrasing), "I feel like I'm bad if I love him. Like I'm being bad."
"Yeah, like you're breaking some rule or something."
"Yes! Exactly!"
It is a child-like feeling. You don't want anyone to know that you love someone....you don't even want to admit to yourself that you might love someone, so much that just a mere memory of his face, brings tears to your eyes that just won't stop falling. I'm afraid to tell anyone....why?
Where does this come from? And what does the fact that Hannah and I are both incest survivors have to do with this 'rule-breaking' thing?
Bill, through the conversation, said, "It's okay. I want you to question it. I want you to be sure about everything. I want you to question everything and be sure it's what you want," because, well, that's how Bill is. But he didn't really understand - probably can't understand - what even I and Hannah fail to understand.
What is this unspoken "rule" we hold ourselves to? Do not love. You cannot love. It's against the rules!
Where does this come from?
Today, I panicked, full-blown....oh God...that fear of that "rule" combined with this desperate need to see him again, have him touch my face the way he does, hold my hands the way he does, make me laugh the way he does, treat Trevor the way he does.... with so much love, appreciation and devotion.
I love him...I am afraid.... I love him....I miss him...I am afraid...
I want him home.
I was talking with Hannah last night via text, as we do almost every night. I was also talking to Bill, simultaneously - also, as every night.
I've cried, I think, every single day since Saturday, when Bill showed up for my birthday. Sometimes it's just a little cry, sometimes it's a sobbing, snotty cry. Sometimes it's just a quiet, keep-to-yourself cry...today it was an all-out, shaking, confused, terrified, time-for-a-klonopin-and-a-beer kind of cry.
My eyes hurt. My nose hurts. My lips hurt. (My lips don't hurt from crying, though....f'n fever blisters!)
Anyway, it was interesting to get validation from my 18-year-old protege' ...so young in her years, yet in many ways, so, so wise.
I was talking to Bill, as I mentioned. I took him to the airport Wednesday. My adoptive mother - Cindy - went with me (Bill asked her because he was concerned about me being alone, once I dropped him off). The ride home was relatively quiet, although we did talk a little bit.
But as soon as she was out of the car and I pulled out of her driveway on my way home, I cried all the way. Snow and rain began to beat the windshield as Winter Storm Athena rolled in. It seemed suitable, given the circumstances.
I must first, I suppose, try as best as I possibly can, to sum up what makes him so spectacular. First of all (and anyone who has ever met him, will attest to this), EVERYBODY loves Bill. Everyone. I've never seen an exception. His energy is calm. He is so laid back, so "chill" and open-minded. So, so calm. Just being around him and breathing him in, is soothing.
While he was here, we:
- Played in the leaves they raked in the yard (he got me good, dumped a whole load on my head)
- Danced in the front yard, to nothing but the wind
- Played cards and chess with Trevor almost every night (a real treat for Trevor - he adores Bill)
- He fixed all my storm windows (I couldn't get most of them closed)
- Put together my new office chair (no way I coulda done it)
- Looked at my car (I am apparently leaking antifreeze...he tightened the hose clamp, for now)
- Went to Aggie's Village Restaurant in Ivoryton - just down the street. Sat at the little bar and had breakfast together. Ordered almost exactly the same things.
- Sat outside on the porch, wrapped in blankets
- Cooked dinner together (twice)
- Went to Oliver's Tavern and restaurant on his last night here - ordered exactly the same thing, except I got bleu cheese and he ordered raspberry vinaigrette. (I have to point out that as we were sitting down, he stood there, and I asked, "what's wrong?" and he said, "I'm trying to decide if I want to sit next to you or across from you." So I moved over and he snuggled in next to me because sitting across from me was too far).
- He helped Trevor to earn money he needed to buy a couple things he wanted
- Cleaned up after me when I threw up (not alcohol-related), washed the clothes (twice) and cleaned out the washing machine.
- Went to the laundromat with me, helped me do the clothes
- Took out the trash
- Cleaned up while I was at my therapy session
- Sat on the couch, with every candle and incense lit, just talking after Trevor went to bed (we did this a lot)
- Went to Yankee Candle and he bought me another candle and himself a tart warmer with some great tarts, plus treated me to some, too.
- Bought Trevor a winter coat
I'm sure there are many more things...many more.
I talked to Bill - told him this - and also told Michelle (my therapist) that there was this moment. This moment when it just hit me "I love you!" - it was the moment I saw him standing there in the front yard with roses on my birthday. When I felt every cell in my body explode, when I couldn't control my screaming and my legs couldn't move fast enough and I couldn't wrap my arms around him quickly or tightly enough. When I couldn't even speak, when my legs wanted to collapse...that was that moment, when it hit me, "Oh my God, you love him."
Of course, I've always loved Bill (don't forget we went through a lot over the past 10+ years) and when we dated before, it was just about the same - a few differences, but he was always consistent and loving and attentive.
Throughout my relationship with Gary he was my sounding board and although he never said a bad thing about Gary, he was always there to listen. Of course, now, it's different. Now he admits all along that he knew Gary wasn't right for me, but he waited...he waited for me...
I don't know what to think of that...
So back to the conversation with Hannah....
I told her, as I cried, (paraphrasing), "I feel like I'm bad if I love him. Like I'm being bad."
"Yeah, like you're breaking some rule or something."
"Yes! Exactly!"
It is a child-like feeling. You don't want anyone to know that you love someone....you don't even want to admit to yourself that you might love someone, so much that just a mere memory of his face, brings tears to your eyes that just won't stop falling. I'm afraid to tell anyone....why?
Where does this come from? And what does the fact that Hannah and I are both incest survivors have to do with this 'rule-breaking' thing?
Bill, through the conversation, said, "It's okay. I want you to question it. I want you to be sure about everything. I want you to question everything and be sure it's what you want," because, well, that's how Bill is. But he didn't really understand - probably can't understand - what even I and Hannah fail to understand.
What is this unspoken "rule" we hold ourselves to? Do not love. You cannot love. It's against the rules!
Where does this come from?
Today, I panicked, full-blown....oh God...that fear of that "rule" combined with this desperate need to see him again, have him touch my face the way he does, hold my hands the way he does, make me laugh the way he does, treat Trevor the way he does.... with so much love, appreciation and devotion.
I love him...I am afraid.... I love him....I miss him...I am afraid...
I want him home.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Relationships and PTSD/DID
My therapist and I have talked about relationships...how you're always in a relationship, whether with your partner, children, neighbors or the grocery store clerk. These are relationships.
In having these discussions, we've talked about regulating emotions - something that's super hard. I wish I had a map, or some way to draw a picture of how it works.
I can have a relationship with someone and if they're doing things that hurt themselves, I try to be a good friend to them, I try to help and support and encourage. On some level, there's compassion and understanding and it doesn't put me off. I don't take it personally, for example, if someone cuts. I know it's part of their journey and struggle. I just try to be there for them.
I can also have that same relationship and have them do something that frightens or angers me and I shut down. It goes through my brain, processed immediately - instantaneously - and I completely shut down.
Intellectually, I am realizing, "Okay people are fallible. Everyone makes mistakes." but this part inside of me that's shut down is saying, "No, HELL no! DANGER! DANGER!"
I recently had a falling-out with a friend. A good friend. A good, good, good long-time friend. And the timing was really bad, too, because I was "mourning deeply" (as my therapist put it) the loss of my relationship with Gary and all the friends that went with it.
It affected me so badly, that I essentially cut everyone off. I really didn't want to talk to anyone, although I did briefly. For days, though, I screened my calls and was relatively unavailable. I mean, if it could happen with this person, it could happen with anyone!
But because we're so close - and always have been - we're kind of talking about it. Kind of. I'm trying to be different, trying to handle things differently than in the past where I would simply walk away....fast.
I'm trying to use my intellect, rather than my emotions....people are fallible, it's not fair to blame him, it's okay... but the dialogue inside is so much different. The fear of abandonment; the fear of hurt and pain...the story that plays in your head your whole life about not being good enough (all on the heels of a very loud and clear such message from Gary and his friends). It hurts and even if I recognize the irrationality of it, I don't know how to fix it.
Regulating emotions. I've written about it before....it's a struggle. The emotions are so intense.
That's why relationships - at least for me, and I'm sure, many other incest survivors - are so intense.
To my dear friend: I love you. I always have and always will. I'm so sorry that I am so damned difficult. I know I am fortunate to have you in my life. There is absolutely nobody in this world like you and I know you love me... I'm just afraid and trepidatious right now.
All my love.
In having these discussions, we've talked about regulating emotions - something that's super hard. I wish I had a map, or some way to draw a picture of how it works.
I can have a relationship with someone and if they're doing things that hurt themselves, I try to be a good friend to them, I try to help and support and encourage. On some level, there's compassion and understanding and it doesn't put me off. I don't take it personally, for example, if someone cuts. I know it's part of their journey and struggle. I just try to be there for them.
I can also have that same relationship and have them do something that frightens or angers me and I shut down. It goes through my brain, processed immediately - instantaneously - and I completely shut down.
Intellectually, I am realizing, "Okay people are fallible. Everyone makes mistakes." but this part inside of me that's shut down is saying, "No, HELL no! DANGER! DANGER!"
I recently had a falling-out with a friend. A good friend. A good, good, good long-time friend. And the timing was really bad, too, because I was "mourning deeply" (as my therapist put it) the loss of my relationship with Gary and all the friends that went with it.
It affected me so badly, that I essentially cut everyone off. I really didn't want to talk to anyone, although I did briefly. For days, though, I screened my calls and was relatively unavailable. I mean, if it could happen with this person, it could happen with anyone!
But because we're so close - and always have been - we're kind of talking about it. Kind of. I'm trying to be different, trying to handle things differently than in the past where I would simply walk away....fast.
I'm trying to use my intellect, rather than my emotions....people are fallible, it's not fair to blame him, it's okay... but the dialogue inside is so much different. The fear of abandonment; the fear of hurt and pain...the story that plays in your head your whole life about not being good enough (all on the heels of a very loud and clear such message from Gary and his friends). It hurts and even if I recognize the irrationality of it, I don't know how to fix it.
Regulating emotions. I've written about it before....it's a struggle. The emotions are so intense.
That's why relationships - at least for me, and I'm sure, many other incest survivors - are so intense.
To my dear friend: I love you. I always have and always will. I'm so sorry that I am so damned difficult. I know I am fortunate to have you in my life. There is absolutely nobody in this world like you and I know you love me... I'm just afraid and trepidatious right now.
All my love.
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
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.
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.
Thursday, August 9, 2012
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.
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.
Saturday, July 7, 2012
Warped Love
I talked with my therapist yesterday about love. About my warped sense of love. About how I don't understand it. How I can love others, but never believe anyone loves me. I don't think this is uncommon among incest survivors.
It came up because I was willing to do anything to make Gary love me - the same as with my father...and I did. As he molested me, I was making him love me, even if it hurt me.
I told her, during my many rapes, I would somehow fantasize that each man would look into my crying eyes and decide that he loved me. This only compounds my shame. Wanting to be loved by my rapists.
This was reinforced so many times, I cannot count.
So now, it's no wonder that I'll do, be, say, act and otherwise show anything I can, just to be loved.
And it's always aimed at men - always has been. Never women or friends; they can't "love" me like ...well, you know. I suppose this is because it started in my formative years with my father.
I know, intellectually, that I have to learn to love myself. This seems like such a monumental task. Huge.
I don't know how to do it. I don't know how to look myself in the mirror and say, "You're beautiful and I love you." I don't know how to think of myself in terms of self-love - how could someone who's done the things I've done, possibly love herself, whoever "herself" is?
So, instead of looking inside for that love, I've always looked outside which just leads to more reinforcement of how unlovable I am.
Gary's rejection; Her rejection; Everyone's rejection (because of Gary telling everyone about it) just reinforces how unlovable I am because there's no love inside myself for me.
Just this self-loathing. Disgust. Shame. Guilt.
Oh my God the shame - that word again. It creeps up almost every blog.
I suppose feeling it and being aware of it are steps towards healing but what a God-awful feeling. Like someone's ripped your bones right from your body and you're nothing but an empty, deflated shell.
The constant barrages of being put down or hurt by him, leads to those text messages I've blogged about. The betrayal I see, I don't know how to respond except in anger because he's telling me - again, in my language - that I don't matter and I am unlovable. I do get bitterly defensive and angry and say things I would normally never say. It's totally a defense mechanism. It's saying, "Fuck you! I won't let you have this power over me! I'm going to hurt you as bad as you're hurting me!!"
Yesterday my therapist explained that he is not the kind of person I need in my life right now. I need people who are understanding, patient, compassionate, loving and supportive. Not the kind of people who do the things that Gary is doing. Heartless things. Careless, reckless things.
She is right.
I deserve better. I deserve these things.
But where do I begin?
It came up because I was willing to do anything to make Gary love me - the same as with my father...and I did. As he molested me, I was making him love me, even if it hurt me.
I told her, during my many rapes, I would somehow fantasize that each man would look into my crying eyes and decide that he loved me. This only compounds my shame. Wanting to be loved by my rapists.
This was reinforced so many times, I cannot count.
So now, it's no wonder that I'll do, be, say, act and otherwise show anything I can, just to be loved.
And it's always aimed at men - always has been. Never women or friends; they can't "love" me like ...well, you know. I suppose this is because it started in my formative years with my father.
I know, intellectually, that I have to learn to love myself. This seems like such a monumental task. Huge.
I don't know how to do it. I don't know how to look myself in the mirror and say, "You're beautiful and I love you." I don't know how to think of myself in terms of self-love - how could someone who's done the things I've done, possibly love herself, whoever "herself" is?
So, instead of looking inside for that love, I've always looked outside which just leads to more reinforcement of how unlovable I am.
Gary's rejection; Her rejection; Everyone's rejection (because of Gary telling everyone about it) just reinforces how unlovable I am because there's no love inside myself for me.
Just this self-loathing. Disgust. Shame. Guilt.
Oh my God the shame - that word again. It creeps up almost every blog.
I suppose feeling it and being aware of it are steps towards healing but what a God-awful feeling. Like someone's ripped your bones right from your body and you're nothing but an empty, deflated shell.
The constant barrages of being put down or hurt by him, leads to those text messages I've blogged about. The betrayal I see, I don't know how to respond except in anger because he's telling me - again, in my language - that I don't matter and I am unlovable. I do get bitterly defensive and angry and say things I would normally never say. It's totally a defense mechanism. It's saying, "Fuck you! I won't let you have this power over me! I'm going to hurt you as bad as you're hurting me!!"
Yesterday my therapist explained that he is not the kind of person I need in my life right now. I need people who are understanding, patient, compassionate, loving and supportive. Not the kind of people who do the things that Gary is doing. Heartless things. Careless, reckless things.
She is right.
I deserve better. I deserve these things.
But where do I begin?
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