Between knowing and accepting

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

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

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

That's the truth.

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

I fell for it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wasn't "good."

I never was good.

Nor was I ever good enough.

This is called a "breakthrough."

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

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

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

Ouch...

My name is Cristina D. Johnson.

Today was a tough, tough day.

I even considered voluntary hospitalization today because I was so afraid and because I literally felt as if I was losing my mind. For those who know me, this would tell them I was in a really bad place today. Hospitalization is an abhorrence of mine. I have been traumatized via hospitalization too many times to count. To consider it voluntarily, is like moving the Lincoln Monument.

Today, I came up here - to my writing room - and I cried. I came up here so nobody would hear me and because there was nowhere else to go. I felt ashamed. Today I came up here and I cried a deep, aching cry. I needed Michelle. I dialed her number several times and hung up. Finally, up here, I dialed it one last time and I heard her voice - her voicemail - and I left a message.

Although I felt such shame for such a heart-wrenching cry, I calmed a little after hearing her voice, even if only a recording.

Yesterday's session left me rattled and shaken. Today, I watched Law and Order, Special Victims Unit, Season 9, Episode 15.

That was it.

I have never, ever had a problem watching violence and rape in movies. I mean, there are some things that are too grotesque for me to watch, but violence and rape, I have always been able to handle. It's never made me emotional.

But this episode, well...it was chock full of triggers.

rape
child of the system
arrested for drugs without actually being involved
abuse of authority
lock up
orange jumpsuits
big, thick, brass keys
woods
machete's
the showers

I can't even describe how many things were there...how true this episode is to the experience.

However, that said, I watched the whole episode untouched, unmoved.

Disconnected.

Until the end. The very end.

The victim - an SVU detective - is asked, directly, "Did he rape you?"

and my soul felt like it was shot out of a canon into and through moments in time...dozens or hundreds of times when I couldn't answer that question.

The assault scene was difficult, but I managed it.

It wasn't until that question was asked: "Did he rape you?" that I was hurled into a blackened, charred history of uncertainty, childishness and terror.

And I felt it.

For the first time in my life, I felt these bizarre feelings. These intense emotions and I was bombarded with the question of "Why?"

Why? Why? Why?

I think about others and I think about children and child abuse and I am astonished by what is done to them but never have I been able to look at myself and feel, "Wow, that hurt. Ouch."

I wish I had written earlier but my mind was shattered. I wish I could have seen Michelle earlier. I wish I could have talked to her. I was riddled with emotions that were pulling me so deep, so deep. Deep into something I have never felt and it frightened me.

Bill and I talked the other night about how frightening out-of-body-experiences (OBE's) are, and it was like that today. Exactly like that. I felt like I was losing myself. Drowning. I couldn't see. I couldn't think. Every bump made me jolt in my seat. I was terrified. I fantasized about going to my neighbor, going anywhere...but then it felt like my body was tied down to an anchor and I couldn't move. I was crushed and crushing...I was immobile and absolutely confused and terrified.

I ran through my mind so many different times in my past. Was that rape? Was this rape? Was it rape if I didn't say no? I didn't say "no" because I knew I couldn't say no, but does that mean yes? Is that rape? If he didn't penetrate me, is that rape? Did I ever fight back that hard?

I bent my brain desperately reaching for memories, trying to recall moments when I fought. There are times when I know I did. Times I remember.

The man who nearly strangled me to death. I remember I must have fought because he wouldn't have strangled me if I hadn't fought, right? I don't remember how I came to be at the place where we were. Was it a motel? An apartment? I don't remember a kitchen. I remember the television and the nightstand and the rotary phone. I am confused. I thought - because I was street smart - that he was one of those that was full of piss and wind and he wouldn't kill me. I could mock and intimidate him. I could beat him at his game and he wouldn't hurt me.

I thought...

But he almost killed me.

In the end, he didn't (obviously) and in the end, I was right: he was malleable. I remember laying there - I was around 13 - and he was limp, flacid. Pre-semen hung like sinew from the head of his dark penis and I knew he was infected. I made fun of him and told him he couldn't rape me because he couldn't even get it up because he was diseased. I knew, somehow, this would work.

And it did.

I remember I tricked him. I convinced him that I cared about him and that I would come back when he had healed himself of his disease. Probably syphilis or gonorrhea. These were rampant in those days.

And...I remember that I fought the men off who attacked me when I slept.

Did I scream? I don't remember.

I know as one sat on my chest, his testicles against my neck and he kept  trying to shove his penis in my mouth, the rest were ripping off my clothes and I was kicking and fighting and I didn't mean to but I kicked on in the nuts and he said to me, "Don't ever kick my nuts you white bitch!" and he slammed me in the mouth with his fist. They threw me out into the snow and I was wearing very little. I was frozen. I was 12 or 13.

I must've fought, right?

There must've been sometime in the past when I fought....

I said "no" to Daddy twice...twice...

The first time, he hurt me sexually. The second time, he smothered and choked me.

Did I learn to not say no?

I am so confused and hurt and bewildered.

The feelings I felt as I sobbed, briefly, today...I should say "allowed myself to sob" today...

These feelings were too much. Too hard.

Too much.

I wished Michelle were here. I wished she could see it so she could tell me what was happening.

I wished I could just do it all right then in that moment. I thought, god please let this be all I need to feel, to heal.

But I knew - and I know - that wasn't it.

There is more.

I shut it down. I am good at that.

This pain...this is worse than anything I have ever known, yet it is the track on which my train travels and I cannot move forward, without the track.

I won't get off track. I may stop or stall, but I will not get off.

It kills me - some part of me felt stolen today - but I will stay on track.

I will do this. God help me, I will.

Inside Out and Backwards

My name is Cristina D. Johnson.

Another nightmare... about Gary.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The first was my father. Naturally.

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

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

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

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

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

And finally, Gary.

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

At the time, it was true.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I tried explaining, but he didn't care.

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

Disbelief and pain; anger and fear.

Some might ask: What about Bill?

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

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

Everything is backwards. Everything is inside out.

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

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

With him, I am hurt and confused. Shocked.

Scared.

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

On Honesty...

My name is Cristina Johnson.

I've also been known by other names, some fictitious; some the result of marriage; some variations of my real name; and one because of my legal adult adoption (which always gets me double-takes. Yes, I was adopted at age 36. This is a story in and of itself, so I will save it for later).

Through the past six months (give or take), I have endured excruciating pain and heartache; disappointment and betrayal; upheaval and uncertainty; shattering revelations and painful truths. I've also experienced the.... no, "agony" isn't the right word.... let's just say intensity of reliving things my consciousness has cleverly (and intelligently) hidden from me for most of my life. I use the word  "intensity" because no other word seems to fit. Intensity such as these things brought me to my knees; rattled me to my bones; made me a completely different person with completely different views - sometimes for the better, despite the pain. At times, suicidal. Other times, like a child. And still, other times, angry enough to be motivated. It has shown me a world I never knew existed - a world within myself - yet is also shared by others, even if in secret shame.

The author, Sue William Silverman wrote two books about her horrific experiences as a victim of incest and rape and her resulting struggles: Because I Remember Terror, Father, I Remember You and Love Sick: One Woman's Journey through Sexual Addiction.

To me, she and other authors who have revisited their terror, nightmares, sensory flashbacks, suppressed memories, self-injury, confusion, struggles and countless other repercussions of incest and rape (of all forms, including SRA [or satanic ritual abuse] and other ritual abuse), in an effort to not only heal  themselves, but also to expose this silently destructive taboo, are the epitome of courage. (Sue went on to write Fearless Confessions: A Writer's Guide to Memoir). Incidentally, I own all of these and more by other authors.

I spent a long time learning the intellectual aspects of my past. The neurological, psychological aspects. I understood the cerebral parts - the black-and-white aspects. Further studying led me to the spiritual and physiological sides of it, which were equally mind-bending.

But it wasn't until I experienced the most painful break-up I have ever experienced, that I was hurled helplessly into the emotional aspects, unwillingly, unwittingly, and completely unprepared. Nobody told me it would be like this. Nobody.

And the truth is, nobody could have. I wouldn't have believed them. Wouldn't have accepted it.

When told - for the second time - that I had D.I.D. (Dissociative Identity Disorder), I became angry. I said to the therapist - a specialist in complex trauma - "No way." I stared in disbelief, each time she brought it up. I would gape and get angry. "There's no way I'm that fucked up!"

But inevitably, as the symptoms worsened, I had to yield to the pain that was glaring at me, daring me to deny it. Daring me to pretend. Daring me to challenge it.

There it was. And I got worse.

Foremost in my mind - perhaps as a clever way to avoid my own struggling - was the disbelief I was experiencing over my break-up. The sheer magnitude of betrayal I was feeling is indescribable. I literally could not - and still cannot - describe the level of betrayal and humiliation I felt over it.

But then some time passed and some things began to change.

It might have started as a way of defending myself against the things that were being said to and about me, behind my back.

But it opened a door: Honesty.

My bitter rage, aimed at my former partner, began to transform slowly and I used the tools I know to use: my intellect; my training; my experience; my insight; my intuition; my history and, ultimately, my friends to rearrange a lot of pieces and put them in their proper places.

The door was cracked when I posted my first blog of Honesty entitled Coming Out. I was terrified and yet, there was a tinge of (or perhaps a lot of) control to it. I took my story and my experience and put my name - my real name - to it and put it on my Facebook page for all to see. I left little - in terms of the basics of my past - hidden. I needed so badly to say all the truth of my experiences, to all those that "he" had went and shared, without considering the painful repercussions and the heavy panic and alienation that happened from what was once a large circle of friends.

Slowly, I chipped away at my public friend's list and yet even more slowly, I began to focus more on my feeling, than defending myself. It was an uphill battle to try to change my focus on my rage and disbelief and pain, to focusing more on the things I was learning and the reality I was facing.

I maintained a few friends. Actually just a couple.

Actually, just one.

Then, slowly, new friends emerged. And old friends emerged. And there was a sort of richness to these new, budding relationships. At least, for me. I held everyone (and still do) at arm's lengths. Trust comes very difficult for me, naturally, even if my mistrust is unwarranted. The greatest of my new (and oldest) friends have encouraged me to take that part slow - to allow myself that freedom, that time to learn to love and trust.

I learned - without the torment and destruction I endured, especially through the middle of 2012 - that it wasn't as cut-and-dry as I'd seen it and I am now reaching deeper, deeper... seeking, exploring and some parts of me are looking at his betrayals (and those of others) not as deliberate and/or hurtful, so much as the result of ignorance and not knowing and, thus, feeling desperate and helpless.

Dr. Brene' Brown so eloquently spoke about vulnerability and shame and strength but I know - just like Sue William Silverman and so many other courageous authors, speakers, advocates and healers - that we survivors are breaking a barrier and when I wrote "Coming Out" in August, the power behind that post was liberating, powerful and meaningful, even if the reasons for writing it, at the time, were different.

Today, I recall the three days I couldn't bear to open my Facebook page. I couldn't bear the thought of the criticism and backlash. I couldn't bear the thought of being seen for who I truly was - an incest survivor; a rape victim; a hood rat.

A survivor.

So for days, I allowed myself to drown in my writing, my thoughts and my fear.

After three days, I was astonished to find support and compassion, despite a number of folks who chose to "un-friend" me on Facebook. I received a number of private messages from others who'd experienced the same thing, and others who commended me for my bravery and courage in telling what I was telling.

It was, indeed, the most liberating moment of my entire life.

It was the most honest thing I'd ever written, up to that point, in my life.

It was the most terrifying and debilitating thing I had ever written, up to that point.

I hope someone reads this - even if it's just one person - and takes that jump, dares to take that leap, dares to remove that mask and be vulnerable (strong), be honest (brave), be authentic (help).

I am no longer Paige C. Storme. Or Dorothy Validus. Or Crystal, Crissy, Christie, Tina, Cris, T, TT or any other name. My last name is not Baugh or Santiago.

I am Cristina Dyan Kuptzin-Johnson.

I am a survivor. I will survive this.


Recommended reading:
When Rabbit Howls by The Troops for Trudy Chase
The Sum of My Parts by Olga Trujillo
Switching Time: A Doctor's Harrowing Story of Treating a Woman with 17 Personalities by Richard Baer
Stranger in the Mirror by Marlene Steinberg and Maxine Schnall
Healing the Shame That Binds You by John Bradshaw
The Post Traumatic Stress Disorder Sourcebook: A Guide to Healing, Recovery, and Growth by Glenn Schiraldi

There are a number of stories written by heroic survivors, who dared to share despite the nature of our society. Please share, educate and grow.

To Show or Not to Show? (warning: Graphic)

My name is Cristina Johnson.

Michelle - my therapist - works independently at Sound Counseling Center. She's a bubbly, energetic person whose energy is often contagious making it sometimes downright impossible to be melancholy while in her presence. She has deep blue eyes and long, thick, gorgeous brown hair. She's a voluptuous woman who almost seems to bounce, rather than walk, and I've never had a session with her, where she didn't pull her feet beneath her in her chair, and listen to me (or speak to me) intently. Her laugh comes easily, as does her empathy. She's very good at matching your energy.

Walking into Michelle's office is a waiting room just outside the therapy room. Everything in her office, I would guess, is from Pier 1 Imports and it's very Zenish - which I like. It suits my personality and is very comforting.

In the session room, are two contemporary sofas - cream-colored - sitting kitty-cornered from each other. Behind one is a large plant and a lamp. Where the two ends would meet, Michelle's black leather chair sits, so that she can see you, whichever couch you choose to sit on. I always sit on the one across from her - the one that keep us separated by the contemporary black coffee table. She always has a candle burning and there's always a blanket available, plus a weighted blanket - often used to comfort people in therapy (she's offered it to me a number of times but I always decline).

Today, was a hard day. I was scared to go in and truth be told, I had two beers before I went, plus a klonopin. I was nervous because I wasn't sure if I should show her my wrist. I was concerned for a couple of reasons: First and above all, I did not want to be locked up. This is such a huge issue for me that it's be at least three other blogs alone. Even the Sidran Institute - an organization dedicated to trauma - has articles about the re-traumatization of trauma victims through hospitalization.

So I was very afraid that I would be locked up if I showed her my wound.

Secondly, I felt all the familiar feelings that come with self-injury: shame, guilt, anger and I didn't know how to talk about them.

Third, I didn't actually remember the cutting - just the moments before and after. How do you tell someone that?

And finally, I was afraid because it'd been unimproved since I cut it so I was concerned I might need to go to a doctor...which was why I thought about showing it to her. To ask her advice. I was encouraged to do this by both Bill and Cindy.

I sat down in my usual spot, across from her. She sat in her black leather chair, pulled her feet up and asked, "So how's it going?"

"Okay," I said...not really sure what to say. "Last night was a rough night,"I admitted, honestly.

"Why's that?" she asked.

I told her I was very depressed last night, thinking about Gary's ring. Gary has a class ring, although he didn't graduate. He has always worn it since I met him and, I told her, there were about three times he'd taken it off and me - like a childish school girl - would put it on my finger and pretend it was an engagement ring. I would also marvel at how big it was because I have always had a very strange fascination with men's hands. I attribute this fascination to my father who played beautiful music but could also kill you - all with the same powerful hands. It amazes me that a man's hand can be either gentle or kill you.

"Interesting," she said. "What else?"

I looked down at the ground. My feet were rocking back and forth, toe-to-heal and back, and my body was rocking with them. I told her I was afraid to say.

Silence.

"Bill and Cindy think  I need to show you my arm," I finally uttered, and added with unnatural speed, "because I don't know if I should see a doctor or not but I don't want to be locked up." It sounded like a run-on sentence when I said it.

She said some things but the moment she said, "I can't promise you that," my mind went blank. I became very hot. I was so hot and frightened and I said, "I think I need to go."

She leaned forward in her chair and gently said, "I think it would be a good time for you to stay."

Being the pleaser...not wanting to let anyone down... I sat back, despite my urgent need to bolt.

"It's entirely up to you, whether you want to show me or not," she said gently. "You don't have to."

I took a breath. Very (very) quickly lifted my arm so it reached half-way across the coffee table, quickly lifted my sleeve and gave her a glimpse of the cut before pulling my long sleeve back over it and holding it in my lap.

I began to cry, she asked why I was crying.

"I feel anger and shame and pain."

"Explain those to me," she said.

"Anger because last night, as I was looking at it [the cut] part of me was angry because I didn't do it 'right' or I did it 'the wrong way'," I confessed, terrified.

"What is the wrong way?" she asked.

"I don't know. It was just some fleeting part of me that kept criticizing that I didn't 'do it right'," I repeated.

"Okay. And the shame?" she asked.

This was when I cried the most. "I don't want you to give up on me," I whimpered. I sounded like a child. I was embarrassed and my shoulders started shaking.

"Oh Cristina," she said. "Look at me."

Of course, I couldn't look at her. Couldn't bear it. She said it again, "Look at me," she said, and as I managed to lift my head to look out the window next to her, she said, "I won't give up on you. It's not in my DNA."

She let that settle and then she asked, "Can I come look a little closer? Do you mind if I come sit by you?"

I nodded.

She came over and I tentatively pulled up my sleeve. She took my hand gingerly. Sighed an empathetic sigh.

"I'm sorry you're in so much pain," she said, softly. Tears rolled down my face. I couldn't speak.

She brought her other hand up to gently squeeze my shoulder. This made a part of me scream inside, "DON'T BE KIND TO ME!!!! STOP IT!!"

It hurt more to have her be that kind - to touch me despite my wound - and say those words, than anything else.

I just nodded, refusing to acknowledge any such pain.

Then my cell phone rang - I forgot to put it on mute - interrupting the session. She went back to her chair while I explained how to make pork chops to my daughter, which lightened the mood quite a bit.

"Well," she said, as I hung up the phone, "It's worse than I thought it would be, but it's not as bad as I've seen," adding, "That's not a double-dog dare!"

"But," she explained, "I don't know what your doctor would do - I don't know what doctors are trained to do in such situations so I can't promise that he wouldn't call someone. I don't know how medical doctors are trained as far as self-inflicted injury."

But she told me it didn't look infected, asked how I was caring for it...told me she's sure it needed stitches at first but now it's too late.

I explained it all. She seemed satisfied and since she didn't know what my doctor would do, I decided to continue doing what I'm doing.

Sunday, I went to the laundromat with my wrist bandaged. It was hot - especially doing laundry - and there were about a dozen people there. Not one didn't stare, nor did anyone show any curiosity. I find this both interesting and perplexing. I've spoken to people when I saw scars, and my friend, Hannah, and I discussed it.

"Awkward," she expressed.

"Depends on how you approach them," I suggested. "Whether with judgment or empathy."

Secretly, though the scars are embarrassing and ugly, everyone wants to share their story - they just think nobody wants to listen and they don't want to burden anyone. Typically, at least. There's such shame involved in it...so much shame.

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.