Never Safe

My name is Cristina D. Johnson

From somewhere deep inside, tonight, I came to a realization: nowhere is or has been ever safe. In my "live blog," Is This Where It Starts?, I sometimes get stuck. I get stuck in my head - where I've spent most of my life, away from the reality of yesterdays and days before yesterdays, in denial of (or absolute unawareness of), sicknesses that riddled my life, my toddlerhood, my childhood; sexual perversions that twisted, tormented and distorted every sense of everything a normal child would have.

Yeah, yeah I get it. This has always been my mantra.

"But me. Well, I'm okay. I don't need fucking therapy," I'm known to say. "You're the one with the fucking problem," I often chastised and argued. "I'll send you back to your psych professor with your highfalutin' tail between your legs," I would challenge.

No...I have no problems. Never have.

Right?

No.....

Not to my knowledge. Or, should I say, not to my awareness. I simply was, who I was and at times in my life - here and there - I was good with that. Comfortable with that. Other times....well....

Mood swings.

I remember talking with Bill when I was living with Gary - the man I loved and intended to spend the rest of my life with. Still, we had our problems and I would lament to my best friend: Bill. He was always kind, considerate, understanding and - most importantly - honest.

He once said to me (paraphrasing), "Well your mood swings definitely kept me on my toes." (Bill and I were together either as friends, roommates, loves and partners or all or one over a period of about five years prior to my relationship with Gary).

Anyway, I'm veering off track here...............

There's an ache in me tonight. I can't vocalize it. Just like last night. We watched the film, Trust and I cried multiple times. Cried over the 'blame the victim' attitude of the unwitting father.

Cried over what I never had.... Cried over never mattering enough. Cried over never being able to say, "I love you daddy," with confidence and without fear. (incidentally, I also cried at the end of The Little Mermaid when she said, "Thank you, Daddy," for the same reason. I never got to say that nor did I ever have any reason to).


Tonight, we watched "Voices Within" which is based on the true story of Truddi Chase and the Troops - after the book, "When Rabbit Howls." This book I've read and if you can get past the first three or four chapters which can be a bit confusing, it's a profoundly informational and insightful book on the life (and inner life) of someone with DID (formerly known as MPD, or Multiple Personality Disorder). This is a must-read for anyone with the diagnosis or anyone who wants to know and understand better, the inner workings of the disorder.

Anyway, watching "Trust" and "Voices Within" last night and tonight, respectively, with each violent/sexual assault scene, Bill would ask, "Do you want to watch something else?" or "are you okay?" and to him I would say, "Oh yes. These are the easiest parts to watch."

This is true.

Rape, violence.... oh those things are just.... things to me. I'm so disconnected from these things that I feel nothing watching them. This sounds brutal and callous, I know, but it's really just another brilliant part of my defense mechanisms, built over a lifetime of abuse, abandonment and dissociation.

So I watch these scenes and it never occurs to me that I'm not feeling anything. I said this to Bill last night, watching Trust.

"Are you okay watching this?" he asks, as the scene goes to a motel room where a 14-year-old girl is being manipulated and sexually assaulted by an online predator who is at least 35 years old.

"Oh yeah," I tell him. "It's the parts after this that will get me."

And they did. The outrage of her parents. The support. The openness she had to counseling. The support. The SUPPORT she had. It literally tore me apart inside.

I watched while one of my favorite male actors - Clive Owen - portraying the father, made mistake after mistake through the eyes of a survivor. No, no no I wanted to scream (and even once said). Blame the victim. Big mistake. Oh God....

Yet that's what I do to myself. What I've always done. What society seems to demand.

Why put myself in the position to be gang raped by 4, 6, 8, 10 men? Why not go home? Why run away? Why did I stay on the streets? I was asking for it, right? So I shouldn't be mad. Right? I shouldn't be hurt or angry or scared or upset. I brought it upon myself. Rather I should just own my mistakes (those of an 11-, 12-, 13-, 14-, 15-year-old CHILD.

A CHILD

Tonight, I listened to a (poorly done but okay enough, I suppose) movie - Voices Within - and I was struck by a couple of things that were said but most striking, to me, was when she talked about how "the stepfather" came out of the darkness and if it wasn't dark, he made it dark.

Somewhere, deep, deep inside, far away, hidden, buried, a part of me felt exposed.

"It didn't matter where I was, he would find me," she said.

And in that instant, I realized - for the first time in my life - that I was never safe. Not inside, not outside, not in St. Louis, Pensacola, North Carolina, Louisiana.... nowhere. Not even with my mother whose husband - my stepfather - saw fit to molest me, too.

Rape and incest and molestation and beatings.... oh  those are norms.

I am so accustomed to it (whether emotional, mental, physical or sexual) that I disconnect and feel nothing.

That is my grooming.

And truly, nowhere is safe.

This is spoken from a far away place. Untapped, young, afraid, easily hidden like the way a turtle jolts into its shell the slightest tap on the head or perception of threat.

These parts of me that feel just disappear and I am left with an ache and a curiosity and a need to know, a desire to heal. A desperation. An internal cry, "Please please come out. Please, please talk to me. Please, please tell me what I don't remember. Please, please....please...."

I don't want to be crazy but the world thinks me so.

I am not.

Yet I cannot show my face, nor go into public, nor literally speak my truth until people know - we are not crazy.

We are survivors, trying so hard to fit in.

Trying so hard to give meaning to atrocities many never see and still others see and never speak of.

Oh my voice.........

Give me my voice.

I want to be safe. I don't want a gun or any weapons. I don't want some man to be responsible for making me feel safe. I want to shed this lifetime skin of constant vigilance; this pervasive awareness of the ugly in the world; this unwitting knowledge of the perversions that exist in reality that so many  choose to be ignorant of.

I want to be safe. I want to be free.

Untitled

Beyond mortified over the events of the other night, I spent yesterday feeling miserable on SO many levels and last night was unable to go to sleep, ended up on the couch.

However, I was proactive in getting our phones back. It didn't really occur to me until this morning. At least I accomplished something, despite my deep fear, although I wasn't able to speak to the Trooper (in person) without breaking down and stuttering.

Talking with the Trooper last night, we were informed that the location our phones were stolen from has had numerous complaints and is known as a trouble spot. Obviously we did not know this before we went, although we did know it could be a bit low-brow and certainly not the nicest place. Thankfully we know it now.

Today I awoke, still feeling sick to my stomach over the way the crowd there, handled the situation. I won't go into details but really there were two situations; one involving me, one involving someone else, both at the same time.

Yesterday I spent a lot of time and energy talking with the owner of the place (and receiving hate mail and comments from some of her "flock" [as I call it]) whose attitude reflects a lot of peoples' attitudes: get over it. I changed my profile picture to solid black - I did not want to be seen. I was terrified all day yesterday.

I was really hurt Sunday night. Deeply hurt by the actions of a number of people who would not listen when Bill tried explaining to them that I was having a panic attack.

Yesterday and this morning, I felt like sandbags were tied to my arms and legs. Heavy. Just so heavy.

But then I thought, isn't this what you're so against? Isn't this what you have wanted to try to help fix for so long? Isn't this why you chose to share your story to begin with? To stop this kind of stuff?

So now, still feeling heavy and hurt and bewildered and confused and a host of other things, I also realize it was a heavy dose of reality: people don't understand and those who might, won't ever admit it because incest and molestation and rape are all so taboo that they don't want to talk about it. I can guarantee at least one person in the mob that was attacking us had been sexually assaulted, considering the statistics, but more likely, there were several. Still, they participated in the verbal and physical brutality. Better and easier to run with the pack, than to show weakness, I suppose.

It seems to be almost a catch 22: the uneducated and poor (such as those where we were the other night), don't want to know anything about it (they have their own problems) and the educated and wealthy don't want to know anything about it because you should just get over it and get a job (besides, they have their own problems and it's easier to donate to Easter Seals or some Cancer organization than to help with child abuse and rape. You don't have to get involved).

Of course, there are exceptions.... I'm sure there are. I'd like to meet them.

My safety was taken away that night and as much as I missed singing karaoke for all these months, I doubt I'll be doing it anytime soon again.

Compassion. It's been sucked out of people by the condition of this world.

What a shame.

Latex Gloves

My name is Cristina Johnson.

Had a doctor's appointment today that I'd forgotten about. Thankfully I put it on my phone in my calendar. I'd be lost without my phone.

I'm always nervous when I go to see a doctor. Gary used to say I shrank down as if I were a child - especially when going to see a counselor and especially going to see a pdoc (mental health lingo for psychiatrist). Oh I always feel out of control. Probably because I'm completely at their mercy.

I had a bad night last night...really bad. I had an enormous and painful "fight" with my son, Tony, over texts. He was drunk and saying horrible things about me and about Bill and just being generally nasty and disrespectful. This, after he came to my house, spent the night up in my office, left it in a disgusting state and drank every beer in the fridge.

I woke up this morning hoping he made it to court okay. I was supposed to give him a ride, but I told him to find someone else and not to message me again until he got his facts straight. I'm sure he heard a bunch of bullshit from Leah when he went to get his hair cut by her (yeah, I gave him a ride there, too, despite the fact that I want nothing to do with her).

Anyway, so I get to the doctor's office today just on time (as usual - I'm rather picky about being on time). I sat in the waiting room, my purse bouncing on my lap because my legs were bouncing uncontrollably. Nervous.

When the nurse called me back, we went into a different room than usual which was fine.....

It was small and I started to feel that feeling - the nervous feeling you get just before a panic attack. You know it's coming and you don't know why but all the sudden I was trembling and crying and stuttering. I kept looking around...trying to find what triggered it.

I kept looking at the ugliest 3-D art I've ever seen. "Life is a bowl of cherries" it said, with a hideous rendition of fake cherries in a bowl, protruding from a hot pink frame, dotted with spots of orange. It was distracting me, but not in a good way.

The nurse went about her business, checking my vitals, my weight (lost 20 lbs, btw) and then handed me a tissue.

"The doctor wanted to do a [breathing test] on you, but we're going to wait okay?" she said gently.

I nodded. Wiped my eyes with a trembling hand and a wet, wadded up kleenex.

For a moment I was left alone, waiting for the doctor to come and that's when I realized what the trigger was:

On the wall there was a rack and in the rack, three boxes of gloves. Latex gloves.

The middle box had the blue gloves. The kind that police use and airport security uses and other unpleasant memories.

The two on the side held the white latex gloves.

I was immediately aware that was the trigger because when I looked at them again, I flashed back to being put in juvenile detention and the horrid things they do to you when you're sent there.

There's a required pap smear done, as well as anal and they spray you down with some kind of chemical to make sure to kill anything that might be on you. They make you bend over and order you to pull your buttocks apart....

Never realizing that you're crying inside - sure as hell can't cry outwardly - that you feel so violated, so horrified, so ...like your body is not your body.

My body has never been my body. That was taken long ago. I have trouble even to this day, showering or taking a bath.

This is part of my journey.....reclaiming my body, learning about it, despite my contempt for it as of now. Contempt because if I didn't have this body, maybe I would never have been molested or raped. It's illogical, I know, but it's beyond my mental control.

On another note, talked to Bill last night. He finished reading The Sum of My Parts by Olga Trujillo. It is by far the best book I've read as far as what I've gone through and what I'm experiencing. He asked me some questions about it and he got a much better understanding of what I am going through. I highly recommend this book to anyone who's been diagnosed DID, plus their partners.

It touched me that he read it. I asked Gary to, but he never did. Bill says Gary never wanted to understand PTSD or DID. I cried because he's right. Gary has no comprehension of how far back he set me on this healing journey. No concept, no clue. He would have, if he'd just wanted to know. Instead, he listened to everyone except me and now I'm still having nightmares about him and I can't see a truck or van like his without jolting inside as if firecrackers are going off in my blood cells. God...the powerful trigger he became is mind-blowing.

So good stuff going on, and bad stuff too. No therapy for two weeks is gonna kill me. The doctor didn't want me to leave the office without talking to Michelle (my therapist) but I told him she is not available. Once I figured out what the trigger was, I just let it run its course...let the memories flow...put myself back in the room with the gruesome bowl of cherries and breathed.

Good news is, I suppose, I'm no less healthy physically than last time. :)

My Fault; I didn't realize you were going to take advantage of me.

My name is Cristina Johnson.

I won't even go into the drama of this past week, although it brought me to my knees one night (Saw the ex's father...and a bunch of other stuff happened within two days...just brought me down).

But I am going to talk about the fucked up notion that women put themselves in the position to be raped/beaten/taken advantage of/etc.

******Trigger Warning******

When I was 12, I had a night of hell. I'd just hitchiked from Florida to North St. Louis - the only home I had ever known - on the streets.

First I was robbed and beaten by a group of guys who were clearly on (what was then called "whack" and is more commonly known as PCP). Fortunately, though they knocked me around in the slushy snow, took my coat, and my bags, they didn't rape me.

I was freezing. Winters in St. Louis can be brutal. And in the ghetto, they're dirty, too. Everything is grey, instead of white, like in the post cards. The dirty doesn't go away; it settles in the gutters like dirty crushed ice.

A small white car pulled up. He rolled down his window. I was wet and freezing. He asked, "Did they just rob you?"

I didn't know what to say so I stood there for a moment and he asked again, "Did they just rob you?"

When I didn't answer, he held up a gun and a police radio (or so I thought) and told me he was a police officer and to get in the car and he would help me find my things.

I got in the car.

He took me to a motel...attempted to rape me. Couldn't. He was too large for my little body, but that didn't stop him from repeatedly attempting until finally he put me back in the car. I don't know where he was taking me or what his plans were. Just knew he had a gun.

At one point, we turned down a dead-end road and were surrounded by a group of guys. I know some of their names to this day: Charlie, Mistreatie, Black, Anthony...there were others.

The "cop" stopped the car, realizing he was surrounded. He pulled out his gun. One of the guys was approaching my window, asking me to roll it down.

"It's okay. I ain't gon' hurt you," he said. "My name is Charlie. I know where yo stuff is."

I was scared and confused. I was in a dangerous situation. It was about 2 a.m. and I was exhausted, freezing and just plain confused.

Charlie looked comparatively harmless, considering what the "cop" had done (in hindsight, by the way, I now know it was a police scanner that he'd shown me and not a police radio).

Charlie was a light-skinned guy with a gentle demeanor. "I will take you to yo stuff," he promised.

So after a short stand-off, I got out of the car and Charlie immediately gave me his coat. I was almost instantly disarmed, although I was walking down the streets of the ghetto with six grown men at 2 a.m.

True to his word, Charlie took me to where one of my bags had been thrown in the gutter. Most of it salvageable and thankfully still had my makeup in it.

Charlie told me that I could sleep in his basement, if I needed to rest.

Up to this point, I'd been given no reason not to trust him so I let him lead me to his house. In the basement, it was cold but there was a back room and all the windows were boarded up. In the back room, there was a chair and a bed - that's all I remember - and he welcomed me to sit down in the chair, as he walked out of the room and closed the door.

I heard them whispering... I heard it. I knew it was coming...I could hear them outside the door and the only sensation I can recall is my arms resting on the arms of the chair, as if immobilized, utterly exhausted. I couldn't move my arms.

Charlie came in first. Threw me on the bed. Ripped off my clothes and hit me if I cried.

"Shut the fuck up, bitch!" he would snarl, if I whimpered.

He proceeded to rape me.

Although I'd been molested most of my childhood, I had not (to my knowledge) ever been penetrated.

This was my first experience.

He, like "the cop," was too big but it didn't matter...he forced it to happen and it hurt worse than anything I'd ever known. I lay there, praying to a God I didn't believe in, that he would stop moving. Just stop moving...please stop moving, it hurts so bad.

As he "finished" he called in the next guy but I clamped my arms around his neck, begging him not to get up. "Please no no no!!"

And he shoved my arms away and the next guy came and repeated Charlie's actions.

Each time, I clung to their necks, begging them not to get up. Begging.

As if I was asking for it, right? Laying in this dark, dingy basement, unable to fight off six attackers who did everything they physically could to my body as I cried and begged.

When they were done, they locked me in the basement and they did the same thing the next night....and the next night...and the next night...

Finally, one day, a little boy appeared in the basement. He was about five or six years old. He opened the door and came in and I felt such fear for him. Ironically, his nickname was "Daddy" I found out quite soon.

When I met "Daddy" I was afraid to leave the basement because I felt protective of him. I knew he was being abused and neglected and I knew his daily visits down to see me were a refuge for him.

The guilt I have carried over this ever since then, is tremendous. I, like most people, wonder, "why didn't you leave then, when you had the chance?"

I've hated myself for not leaving when I could.

But then something happened that changed everything....

After another round of rapes (they often brought more guys in), they brought Daddy in as I lay helpless on the bed. Helpless to do anything. They held my arms and legs and they lay Daddy on top of me, nude.

They pushed his buttocks to simulate sex and hooped and hollered and laughed as if it was the greatest thing they'd ever seen. No sex happened, obviously, but when Daddy looked up and saw me crying, while also hearing his big brother and his friends urging him on and telling him how good he was doing, the child was completely confused.

It was after this, that I was "sold" by Charlie to a pimp and endured another week of gang-rapes and beatings. Being primed to "go on the stroll." But that's another story.

*****End Trigger****

So I put myself in that position, didn't I? My fault, right?

Just like this weekend when a male friend came over and crossed a couple of lines. I was here listening to him tell me that he loved me, all the while putting Bill down (who I quickly and unequivocally defended). I told him repeatedly not to say those things to me but he continued.

He never touched me - just verbally was out of line.

Last night I was accused of putting myself in that position.

To me, this cut down to that 12-year-old. That guilt that sits there like a ball of  tar in your gut. The incessant chanting in your brain about how bad you are, how wrong you are, how you fucked up, how it's all your fault because if you'd done or if you'd done that or if you hadn't done this or hadn't done that, then this shit wouldn't have happened.

Right?

So it IS my fault??

Don't get me wrong. Cognitively, to a large extent, I understand no woman (or child or girl) deserves or asks to be beaten and raped. But cognition is far different than the emotional baggage of such a trauma. And when the same trauma happens repeatedly, you start to believe, yes...yes it must be my fault...

And then someone comes along and unknowingly or not, blames you for being taken advantage of.

There are absolutely no words for how lost I feel right now.