I haven't written much lately. Been in a really bad place.
I went to see someone to help me with med management. For those unfamiliar, med management is someone you go to who helps you get your prescriptions and helps you figure out which ones you need. I am very proactive in my treatment and I know what works for me and what doesn't. Problem is, for me, seeing someone new always sends me reeling.
So this last woman we went to see was horrendous. She was horrible. She told me I could die from sudden cessation of clonazepam (klonopin) and I knew that was bullshit. I had stopped taking it weeks before and had no problems. I was just anxious, as usual.
I told her I did not want any psychotropic drugs nor anti-depressants. I am not psychotic nor depressed. The anxiety and insomnia are my killers.
My anxiety gets so bad that it's hard to concentrate on anything and if you give me more than two things at once, I am overwhelmed and shut down and at times will go straight into (a) panic or (b) shut-down. Sometimes both, though not at the same time.
That said, and despite how horrendous this woman was, after two weeks of total hell, I decided to look up the side effects of sudden cessation of klonopin, despite my own experience. I was dumbfounded.
I was taking 1mg up to four times per day, as needed. Sometimes - some days - I didn't need any. Some days I needed more. It's a PRN medication (PRN meaning "as needed"). Same with the trazadone I have been taking for sleep. .5 mg
After about two or three weeks without the clonazepam, my anxiety shot through the roof. Everything became unbearably loud. People talking. Bumps from upstairs (where Trevor plays his games). Doors slamming. Even my own footsteps on the staircase. It was like I was trying desperately to be invisible. I couldn't handle any stimuli. It was too much.
Now I am in a quandary. There is literally nobody else who can help me with my medication management and I find myself again with only a week and a half supply. I can stretch it because, like I said, I don't need it every day as prescribed; sometimes only once a day. Sometimes five times a day - if I am unable to sleep.
The last three weeks have been hell.
I am on the fence as to whether or not I am grateful to have the clonazepam again. I mean yes, it helps me but .....when I wasn't on it, I was experiencing very deep, extremely profound pain and memories and nightmares. I was utterly dysfunctional and unreachable. Is it good to shut that down? Isn't that a part of going through the healing process?
I just don't know.
I've never been a proponent of medications but I have had to admit over the past couple years that it serves a purpose, as long as the purpose it serves, is being served.
For the first time in awhile, I feel uninformed and helpless.
Showing posts with label panic. Show all posts
Showing posts with label panic. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Anxiety
My name is Cristina D. Johnson.
I heard a term on a t.v. show that I looked up yesterday: Rape Trauma Syndrome.I read something that struck me immediately: "pronounced internal tremor."
I was knocked aback. I have described this before as feeling as if "my bones were shaking" - it was relieving to see there's a name for it, and an apt one, at that.
My anxiety has gone through the roof and has made me, at times, completely dysfunctional. The only option for me, for medications, is to go to the emergency room....which causes me huge anxiety. How ironic.
My therapist says the reason I don't find benzos (benzodiazapines) addictive, is because of the level of my anxiety. Rather than "getting high" from them -as I know some do - it brings my anxiety level to a manageable point so I don't feel any affects, other than that, which is why I am able to take them PRN.
I have always been an opponent of medications and, even therapy.
But my anxiety levels have gotten so bad that I have spent days at a time holed up and terrified. Now, I cannot tolerate touch - I can't even tolerate the touch of a door frame if I walk through a door. I have to be careful not to touch it. Every touch, it feels as if my all my cells are screaming, "DON'T TOUCH ME!"
The anxiety manifests itself in other, more troubling physical ways but I won't go into it because it is embarrassing and I don't understand it. It is frightening.
I have been listening to a guided meditation nightly for about two or three weeks (I believe). I have to wonder if - because of this meditation - my mind is opening to levels of memory and awareness as I sleep. I like this particular one because - even though it claims to be for abundance - it is really about awareness and moving forward. I like this.
But I wonder if it hasn't opened some windows and doors in my mind because the symptoms I am experiencing have really intensified over the past couple weeks. It's hard to say because it collaborates with the timing of extreme stress and having no anti-anxiety medications.
So perhaps it is a combination. Who knows.
Regardless the cause, the memories and anxiety, sleeplessness and nightmares, are debilitating.
The meditation works well to help me sleep, although it doesn't help me stay asleep.
Today I awoke (again), feeling as wound as a guitar string. It is difficult to function because such high anxiety causes physical exhaustion, but my mind won't stop spinning or slow down so I can't sleep. Everything is amplified. I am so damn tired.
I have to go out today - it's laundry day. I wish I had a dryer. Then I could do the laundry here. Ugh.
My anxiety shoots up on Sundays, Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays. It's not the typical "oh brother, it's Monday again," kind of thing. It's a dread that I can't even describe. It's a fear; it's a hope that I can make it through another four days of high-anxiety and high-stress. When Thursdays come, I relax more, but it is still very difficult.
I will be glad when I am through this.
I heard a term on a t.v. show that I looked up yesterday: Rape Trauma Syndrome.I read something that struck me immediately: "pronounced internal tremor."
I was knocked aback. I have described this before as feeling as if "my bones were shaking" - it was relieving to see there's a name for it, and an apt one, at that.
My anxiety has gone through the roof and has made me, at times, completely dysfunctional. The only option for me, for medications, is to go to the emergency room....which causes me huge anxiety. How ironic.
My therapist says the reason I don't find benzos (benzodiazapines) addictive, is because of the level of my anxiety. Rather than "getting high" from them -as I know some do - it brings my anxiety level to a manageable point so I don't feel any affects, other than that, which is why I am able to take them PRN.
I have always been an opponent of medications and, even therapy.
But my anxiety levels have gotten so bad that I have spent days at a time holed up and terrified. Now, I cannot tolerate touch - I can't even tolerate the touch of a door frame if I walk through a door. I have to be careful not to touch it. Every touch, it feels as if my all my cells are screaming, "DON'T TOUCH ME!"
The anxiety manifests itself in other, more troubling physical ways but I won't go into it because it is embarrassing and I don't understand it. It is frightening.
I have been listening to a guided meditation nightly for about two or three weeks (I believe). I have to wonder if - because of this meditation - my mind is opening to levels of memory and awareness as I sleep. I like this particular one because - even though it claims to be for abundance - it is really about awareness and moving forward. I like this.
But I wonder if it hasn't opened some windows and doors in my mind because the symptoms I am experiencing have really intensified over the past couple weeks. It's hard to say because it collaborates with the timing of extreme stress and having no anti-anxiety medications.
So perhaps it is a combination. Who knows.
Regardless the cause, the memories and anxiety, sleeplessness and nightmares, are debilitating.
The meditation works well to help me sleep, although it doesn't help me stay asleep.
Today I awoke (again), feeling as wound as a guitar string. It is difficult to function because such high anxiety causes physical exhaustion, but my mind won't stop spinning or slow down so I can't sleep. Everything is amplified. I am so damn tired.
I have to go out today - it's laundry day. I wish I had a dryer. Then I could do the laundry here. Ugh.
My anxiety shoots up on Sundays, Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays. It's not the typical "oh brother, it's Monday again," kind of thing. It's a dread that I can't even describe. It's a fear; it's a hope that I can make it through another four days of high-anxiety and high-stress. When Thursdays come, I relax more, but it is still very difficult.
I will be glad when I am through this.
Sunday, January 27, 2013
Lost in moments
My skin is on fire, just as surely as if lava ran through
every capillary beneath it. Everything is loud; ten times…no, a hundred times
more than normal. My stomach is in my throat, upside down. I want to vomit. I
can’t stop shaking…this bizarre shaking… my hands tremble but it feels as if
every cell trembles, every muscle and bone, everything inside.
What is today?
The time is close.
And it’s so simple, really. Just a compilation of things.
Today I played games online - games from my childhood: Pacman; Donky Kong; Donkey Kong Jr.; Frogger; Space Invaders... so many... I was keen to note the dates they were released. I was trying to find some place in time in history. Some kind of validation or verification of times and ages and dates that are lost in my mind. This need is always there. This need to know, where was I when this happened? Where was I when that happened? What age was I?
Seemed harmless at the time.
But then things started to happen and, one by one, they began to build until the weight crushed my stature.
Memories. Unable to separate past from present, even though my mind consciously knows the difference.
Still, I was swept away to points in time when living was unsafe, unkind...
The kitchen was tiny. So small. No bigger than a prison cell.
In it was a stove and a small two-top table, wedged beneath a window (I think), and next to the stove, something I can't recall. A spice rack, maybe? A tiny little group of shelves? A little bitty pantry? A small microwave stand? I don't recall.
The story is more complex but tonight, I was standing at that stove, my back to the little two-top. I was wiping down what I'd already cleaned, desperately avoiding looking at my step mother who had come to sit at the table behind me.
"I don't know what to do," she said.
I said nothing. I was in fourth grade. For most of my life, I'd believed myself to be 12 at the time but I know now that I was in fourth grade - Bethany school in Summerfield, N.C., so I must've been nine or so. Ricky McGeehee was the most popular boy in school. Tracy was the most popular girl. It must have been around 1979.
I was terrified. I just nodded at the stove, kept wiping.
"He [my little brother] says your father molests him," she said, with her gentle Bostonian accent.
I felt my body freeze, my head spin, my tongue couldn't move. I stopped so briefly ...didn't want her to notice, so I quickly continued wiping. There was nothing to wipe clean.
"I don't know what to do," she said again.
She must have pondered the truth of my brother's statement out loud because I remember looking down at the stove and quietly saying, "He's telling the truth."
I heard her ask, "What?"
I turned, looked at the floor and repeated. "He's telling the truth."
Later that night, Daddy tried to get to me after he punched several holes in the walls. He screamed at me: "Tell her the truth! Tell her you're lying!" and she got between us; saved me from him.
Tonight, I went there - to that moment in time. I thought I could handle it. I shoved it away. Pushed it back.
Went back to cooking.
Began cleaning. Cleaning.... cleaning...
Heard banging, felt the energy shift. The irritation. The frustration. Felt it as if I caused it. Believe I caused it. Felt responsible. Frantically searched for anything I could clean.... Gotta clean.... gotta do something.
My hand burned and I was six.... again....
I was six and I couldn't move my hand because it was so badly burnt but I tried to hide it. I was terrified when they said they were going to call my parents because I couldn't write. It was my left hand - my dominant hand - and I couldn't write in school. I pleaded, "Please, please I'll use my right hand! Please don't call them!"
They assured me it was okay and I wasn't in trouble, but that they needed to call my parents.
They didn't understand.
I was beaten for that.
For a moment, I was there again..... in the classroom, people were looking at me, looking at my hand. I didn't want them to look. I wanted them to leave me alone, to let me try to do my work with my right hand. Please don't call Daddy....
For a moment, I was with Gary again.... he was yelling....he was slamming things, kicking things, throwing things, cursing at the dog, the kids, anyone....
And, in that, for a moment I was with Daddy again; he was kicking things, breaking things, yelling, angry. Then he was kind, benevolent. Then he was angry again.
That's when everything got really loud.
I tried to escape.
I couldn't.
And now I am here
My skin on fire. My stomach in my throat, upside down, choking on memories I am trying to swallow, trying to put into their rightful place.
But my hand - as I burnt it, washing things in the hot water - was no longer my hand. It was the hand of a six-year-old girl. The counter was no longer the one in my apartment. It was the stove I cleaned with my back to a loving and courageous step-mother. The restlessness, irritation, irritability was no longer my friend; it was Gary. And that was ultimately Daddy, yelling in a rampage.
Unpredictable, frightening. So frightening.
So goddamn frightening.
Unable to talk, accused of sulking......
Unable to talk.
What is today?
The time is close.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Salty Flashback (WARNING: Graphic)
My name is Cristina D. Johnson
Today Michelle and I talked about an article I read about DID. I had sent it to her, to get her opinion. See, I am pretty pissed off about this whole DID thing and for the past two days, have fought the notion. Fuck that. I don't have DID. No way.
But then I read the article... searching, I suppose. Just wanting answers. Something. Anything. I don't know. Some kind of answer or answers for the weird, crazy shit my mind goes through and the stuff that just doesn't make sense.
I asked her what she thought about the article, "besides the typos," I said...
"There were typos?"
"Yeah. Several," I said.
"I didn't notice."
"I did. I didn't like it," I told her.
And, like any good therapist, I suppose, she shot my own question back at me. "What did you think about it?"
I shrugged. I didn't have an answer.
We talked about the reasons why I might have sent it to her, what I was looking for. She asked me what the DID means for me, what's wrong with it?
I told her I am among the victims of The Seven Faces of Eve and Sybil - those who see DID as some malady where you change personalities so overtly that people think you're crazy.
"I don't want to be crazy."
"Do you think you're crazy?"
"Sometimes I want to go crazy."
"Do you?"
"Sometimes."
It felt like I needed to fit too much into the session. Like always, I suppose. In a hurry. I want this over with. I want all these stupid fucking "parts" or "fragments" or what the hell ever it is to go away so I can know who the hell I am because that is what I fear the most and I don't want to fear anything.
Still, my "core self" (whoever that is) lies dormant and hidden.
I felt a surge...a need to tell her what happened last night, despite this feeling I had not to say anything. But this urge took over, this bizzare disconnection happened and there I was, saying it.
"Tell me something," I said to her. "Last night, when I went to bed, I had a flashback," I continued, not waiting for her to speak. She sat quietly and I talked.
"I don't know how old I was. I was on the streets. There was a car - the door was open - and a big black man and he had a gun to my head. He had me on my knees. He made me perform oral sex on him right there, and he held the gun at my temple and said, 'Swallow it or I'll blow your fucking brains out.' So I swallowed it. I remember this very vividly, even though I couldn't tell you how I got there, where we were [except that we were in St. Louis] or anything.
"But then the flashback went from that to Bill and it stopped with Gary. I got this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, envisioning Gary." My father - my first predator - didn't even come to mind, despite my vivid memory of asking him as a child, "Daddy what is that white stuff?" and his response: "I don't know, honey," as he handed me a towel to wipe it off.
I was emotionless. The black man, the gun, the swallowing - how it burned - those things were far removed from me, aside from the visual (and the burning sensation which I can call upon if I choose, but I choose not to). Instead, I was overwhelmed with disgust over the taste of semen.
"I tasted semen. I felt it was flooding my mouth," I told her, speaking of last night. "This has never happened before."
I was laying in bed. Bill was asleep. I hadn't watched or read anything that might have prompted it, but there it was - suddenly - and I was heaving, panting, sitting upright, reminding myself who I was, where I was, that I was safe. And there was an argument in my head and I was trying to ....I don't know, calm it down.
So strange.
"What the hell is that?" I asked her. "I mean, if someone ever did something like that to my daughter, I would consider it traumatic. But me? Who cares?"
She said this centers around this enormous shame I have. I trust her. I believe this, even if I don't understand it.
She said (paraphrasing), "While you think it'd be better if you didn't exist, you have people standing on the other side of the [chasm] saying, 'Come over here. You deserve to be here. You deserve to be safe, loved.'"
"I don't think I'm really doing anyone any favors by existing," I argued, adding: "Except for Trevor."
"I would argue that," she said calmly.
She did tell me one thing:
She told me she's seen me switch and described some of the ways it appears when I do. My posture changes, my countenance changes, my voice changes, my body language changes.
We discussed other things I've experienced that I've never told anyone and am not yet ready to now.
For now, at least.
I'm very confused and I feel lost. But part of me figures, you can't really be found, until you're lost first.
Today Michelle and I talked about an article I read about DID. I had sent it to her, to get her opinion. See, I am pretty pissed off about this whole DID thing and for the past two days, have fought the notion. Fuck that. I don't have DID. No way.
But then I read the article... searching, I suppose. Just wanting answers. Something. Anything. I don't know. Some kind of answer or answers for the weird, crazy shit my mind goes through and the stuff that just doesn't make sense.
I asked her what she thought about the article, "besides the typos," I said...
"There were typos?"
"Yeah. Several," I said.
"I didn't notice."
"I did. I didn't like it," I told her.
And, like any good therapist, I suppose, she shot my own question back at me. "What did you think about it?"
I shrugged. I didn't have an answer.
We talked about the reasons why I might have sent it to her, what I was looking for. She asked me what the DID means for me, what's wrong with it?
I told her I am among the victims of The Seven Faces of Eve and Sybil - those who see DID as some malady where you change personalities so overtly that people think you're crazy.
"I don't want to be crazy."
"Do you think you're crazy?"
"Sometimes I want to go crazy."
"Do you?"
"Sometimes."
It felt like I needed to fit too much into the session. Like always, I suppose. In a hurry. I want this over with. I want all these stupid fucking "parts" or "fragments" or what the hell ever it is to go away so I can know who the hell I am because that is what I fear the most and I don't want to fear anything.
Still, my "core self" (whoever that is) lies dormant and hidden.
I felt a surge...a need to tell her what happened last night, despite this feeling I had not to say anything. But this urge took over, this bizzare disconnection happened and there I was, saying it.
"Tell me something," I said to her. "Last night, when I went to bed, I had a flashback," I continued, not waiting for her to speak. She sat quietly and I talked.
"I don't know how old I was. I was on the streets. There was a car - the door was open - and a big black man and he had a gun to my head. He had me on my knees. He made me perform oral sex on him right there, and he held the gun at my temple and said, 'Swallow it or I'll blow your fucking brains out.' So I swallowed it. I remember this very vividly, even though I couldn't tell you how I got there, where we were [except that we were in St. Louis] or anything.
"But then the flashback went from that to Bill and it stopped with Gary. I got this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, envisioning Gary." My father - my first predator - didn't even come to mind, despite my vivid memory of asking him as a child, "Daddy what is that white stuff?" and his response: "I don't know, honey," as he handed me a towel to wipe it off.
I was emotionless. The black man, the gun, the swallowing - how it burned - those things were far removed from me, aside from the visual (and the burning sensation which I can call upon if I choose, but I choose not to). Instead, I was overwhelmed with disgust over the taste of semen.
"I tasted semen. I felt it was flooding my mouth," I told her, speaking of last night. "This has never happened before."
I was laying in bed. Bill was asleep. I hadn't watched or read anything that might have prompted it, but there it was - suddenly - and I was heaving, panting, sitting upright, reminding myself who I was, where I was, that I was safe. And there was an argument in my head and I was trying to ....I don't know, calm it down.
So strange.
"What the hell is that?" I asked her. "I mean, if someone ever did something like that to my daughter, I would consider it traumatic. But me? Who cares?"
She said this centers around this enormous shame I have. I trust her. I believe this, even if I don't understand it.
She said (paraphrasing), "While you think it'd be better if you didn't exist, you have people standing on the other side of the [chasm] saying, 'Come over here. You deserve to be here. You deserve to be safe, loved.'"
"I don't think I'm really doing anyone any favors by existing," I argued, adding: "Except for Trevor."
"I would argue that," she said calmly.
She did tell me one thing:
She told me she's seen me switch and described some of the ways it appears when I do. My posture changes, my countenance changes, my voice changes, my body language changes.
We discussed other things I've experienced that I've never told anyone and am not yet ready to now.
For now, at least.
I'm very confused and I feel lost. But part of me figures, you can't really be found, until you're lost first.
Sunday, December 30, 2012
Chaos and Panic
My name is Cristina D. Johnson.
I have PTSD and DID but I am not defined by them. Rather, I am temporarily impeded by them as I walk through this painful journey of self-discovery and introspection; memory-recall; re-learning; therapy and guidance.
The biggest inhibitor of these disorders, for me, is the unpredictable nature of them. For example, the other night during a Christmas gathering, someone mentioned a single word and once the word was spoken, flashes of my father - my first and most brutal abuser - began flickering in my mind, like those old-time reels of film. Click-click-click-click, as I felt warmth spread through my body. But because of where we were and because we were so surrounded by people, some "part" of me, held me together and I breathed through the moment.
Strange things cause these outbursts, whether expressed or internalized. When internalized, it feels like a pressure cooker; When externalized, it's like the lid has blown off the pressure cooker.
Occasionally, the lid is gently removed, to let off some of the steam and during those times, there is a moment of relief, immediately followed by (sometimes days of) regret, fear and intimidation. "Oh God I've said too much...I've revealed too much."
White vans; the scent of Vanilla; burgundy vans; holidays; the way someone holds their cigarette; certain words/phrases; smells; telephones; vehicles; certain styles of a moustache; guitars; playgrounds; strangers; some Latinos; grocery shopping....
These and other things set me off and I don't even know it.
Bill unwittingly sent me spiraling into panic one night when he said, "If you're too hot, you can turn the heater down," as we were in the car. I was immediately thrown back into the cab of a truck where - countless times - I was raped and/or beaten as a child.
This was following a phone call from my therapist, which followed a troubling trip to the grocery store. It piled up until finally I was shaking and scrambling for a Risperdal in my purse, dropping my cigarette, discombobulated and all I could do was keep telling myself, "It's okay - it's Bill. It's okay - It's Bill..."
I don't like phones or phone calls and I never (or rarely) answer any phone call that shows an unknown number.
I know where this comes from, but that's another story.
Friday night, Bill and I were up until past 5 a.m. just sitting at the dining room table, talking and having drinks. It was nice. We played spades (he won) and we talked about all manner of things - which we often do. We are good together in that way. We've always had great conversations.
I lit several incense. I love the incense, plus I got a bunch of new incense and burners for Christmas. I was so tickled.
I received a text as we were heading to bed from our neighbor. "Could you guys please chill out with the smoke/incense? It's going through the walls. Thanks."
I panicked.
I felt horrible. I apologized profusely. I heard nothing back.
That was Friday.
Saturday I awoke still semi-panicked. Afraid to do anything. Very jumpy - constantly on Trevor to be quiet, stop talking so loud, stop slamming doors, stop this, stop that. I, once again, hid inside - away from the windows. Time came to cook dinner...
I was slicing the zucchini and squash and it seemed like every time the knife slid through the vegetable and hit the cutting board, a bomb was going off. "Be quiet!" I kept hearing in my mind. "STOP BEING SO LOUD!" I chastised myself. Oh I was so afraid. I didn't want to upset the neighbor.
As I was cooking, my cell phone rang. I looked - it was the landlady.
I felt a punch to my stomach. The fear that ran through me transformed into trembling and terror.
"Do you want me to answer it?" Bill asked.
I nodded, wordlessly.
Oh God. Oh God.
Bill talked with her as I added the vegetables with mushrooms and onions to the pan. I was trembling so badly that it felt as if I was shaking both inside and out. Like my blood was rumbling beneath my skin, my bones were shaking, at the same time that my hands and neck and head and my body was shaking. My legs were weak. I wanted to cry.
This is it. This is when she tells me it's not going to work out and we have to leave. Leave this apartment. Move away.
Please...please...please....
As I stirred the vegetables, I heard Bill say, "She's right here, she's cooking actually," and I thought, "Oh no! She wants to talk to me!"
Bill held the phone down. "She wants to talk to you about plowing."
(We have a long driveway that is shared by the neighboring house and usually the cost of plowing of the driveway is split three ways between that neighbor, and me and the neighbor I share the duplex with).
I spoke with the landlady. My voice was shaky. I tried to control it. It was a lot like holding your breath as long as you possibly can. I was holding my breath. Waiting to hear of a complaint the neighbor had given.
No such thing was said.
When I hung up the phone, I exhaled - figuratively speaking - and my body seemed to deflate. Bill, thinking ahead, had lit a cigarette and brought it to me. I ran into the dining room with it. "Can't let anyone see!"
I fixed dinner; couldn't eat. Tried.
Drank my milk.
Tried distracting myself with a movie about a Mayan elder (www.shiftoftheages.com) but this did nothing to stop the turbulence inside.
After, I logged Bill into his FB account so he could play a game that I play. There was a message for him. It was from his sister. I had to show Bill how to get to it but everything got confused and maybe I didn't handle it right or explain it clearly enough but he clicked the little red "1" on the messages balloon and I saw the first line of her message - it was clearly some kind of criticism. Without asking, Bill said he didn't want to read it and he went to the end of the pop up and clicked "See all messages" and when he did that, I saw a (presumably) old message from Gary - unread. Saw his face.
Bill threw his hands up. "Get me out of here," he said as he leaned back against the couch.
I felt I'd done something(s) wrong...again.
We went to bed. I laid down and was overwhelmed - "flooded" as Michelle calls it - and my mind would not stop chattering. I became afraid and I didn't know what I was afraid of. I started to cry. I didn't know why I was crying. I tried talking to myself within my mind and there was nothing but chaos, confusion. Pictures, images, flashes, memories. Gary, Daddy, the neighbor, homelessness, bills, "Dee", Trevor....so much...too much. I couldn't quiet my mind and I just surrendered. I felt I was being battered from inside my skull.
I sat up and took two klonopin, smoked half a cigarette, laid back down. Bill cautiously asked if he could lie close to me. "Yes," I said.
He moved closer and put his arms around me, and I cried. He kept telling me, "It's okay. I'm here. I've gotcha. You're safe." And I just cried some more, feeling foolish. Kept trying to breathe, kept counting my breaths, trying to focus on anything but the noise in my head.
It sucks to live every day in fear.
I have PTSD and DID but I am not defined by them. Rather, I am temporarily impeded by them as I walk through this painful journey of self-discovery and introspection; memory-recall; re-learning; therapy and guidance.
The biggest inhibitor of these disorders, for me, is the unpredictable nature of them. For example, the other night during a Christmas gathering, someone mentioned a single word and once the word was spoken, flashes of my father - my first and most brutal abuser - began flickering in my mind, like those old-time reels of film. Click-click-click-click, as I felt warmth spread through my body. But because of where we were and because we were so surrounded by people, some "part" of me, held me together and I breathed through the moment.
Strange things cause these outbursts, whether expressed or internalized. When internalized, it feels like a pressure cooker; When externalized, it's like the lid has blown off the pressure cooker.
Occasionally, the lid is gently removed, to let off some of the steam and during those times, there is a moment of relief, immediately followed by (sometimes days of) regret, fear and intimidation. "Oh God I've said too much...I've revealed too much."
White vans; the scent of Vanilla; burgundy vans; holidays; the way someone holds their cigarette; certain words/phrases; smells; telephones; vehicles; certain styles of a moustache; guitars; playgrounds; strangers; some Latinos; grocery shopping....
These and other things set me off and I don't even know it.
Bill unwittingly sent me spiraling into panic one night when he said, "If you're too hot, you can turn the heater down," as we were in the car. I was immediately thrown back into the cab of a truck where - countless times - I was raped and/or beaten as a child.
This was following a phone call from my therapist, which followed a troubling trip to the grocery store. It piled up until finally I was shaking and scrambling for a Risperdal in my purse, dropping my cigarette, discombobulated and all I could do was keep telling myself, "It's okay - it's Bill. It's okay - It's Bill..."
I don't like phones or phone calls and I never (or rarely) answer any phone call that shows an unknown number.
I know where this comes from, but that's another story.
Friday night, Bill and I were up until past 5 a.m. just sitting at the dining room table, talking and having drinks. It was nice. We played spades (he won) and we talked about all manner of things - which we often do. We are good together in that way. We've always had great conversations.
I lit several incense. I love the incense, plus I got a bunch of new incense and burners for Christmas. I was so tickled.
I received a text as we were heading to bed from our neighbor. "Could you guys please chill out with the smoke/incense? It's going through the walls. Thanks."
I panicked.
I felt horrible. I apologized profusely. I heard nothing back.
That was Friday.
Saturday I awoke still semi-panicked. Afraid to do anything. Very jumpy - constantly on Trevor to be quiet, stop talking so loud, stop slamming doors, stop this, stop that. I, once again, hid inside - away from the windows. Time came to cook dinner...
I was slicing the zucchini and squash and it seemed like every time the knife slid through the vegetable and hit the cutting board, a bomb was going off. "Be quiet!" I kept hearing in my mind. "STOP BEING SO LOUD!" I chastised myself. Oh I was so afraid. I didn't want to upset the neighbor.
As I was cooking, my cell phone rang. I looked - it was the landlady.
I felt a punch to my stomach. The fear that ran through me transformed into trembling and terror.
"Do you want me to answer it?" Bill asked.
I nodded, wordlessly.
Oh God. Oh God.
Bill talked with her as I added the vegetables with mushrooms and onions to the pan. I was trembling so badly that it felt as if I was shaking both inside and out. Like my blood was rumbling beneath my skin, my bones were shaking, at the same time that my hands and neck and head and my body was shaking. My legs were weak. I wanted to cry.
This is it. This is when she tells me it's not going to work out and we have to leave. Leave this apartment. Move away.
Please...please...please....
As I stirred the vegetables, I heard Bill say, "She's right here, she's cooking actually," and I thought, "Oh no! She wants to talk to me!"
Bill held the phone down. "She wants to talk to you about plowing."
(We have a long driveway that is shared by the neighboring house and usually the cost of plowing of the driveway is split three ways between that neighbor, and me and the neighbor I share the duplex with).
I spoke with the landlady. My voice was shaky. I tried to control it. It was a lot like holding your breath as long as you possibly can. I was holding my breath. Waiting to hear of a complaint the neighbor had given.
No such thing was said.
When I hung up the phone, I exhaled - figuratively speaking - and my body seemed to deflate. Bill, thinking ahead, had lit a cigarette and brought it to me. I ran into the dining room with it. "Can't let anyone see!"
I fixed dinner; couldn't eat. Tried.
Drank my milk.
Tried distracting myself with a movie about a Mayan elder (www.shiftoftheages.com) but this did nothing to stop the turbulence inside.
After, I logged Bill into his FB account so he could play a game that I play. There was a message for him. It was from his sister. I had to show Bill how to get to it but everything got confused and maybe I didn't handle it right or explain it clearly enough but he clicked the little red "1" on the messages balloon and I saw the first line of her message - it was clearly some kind of criticism. Without asking, Bill said he didn't want to read it and he went to the end of the pop up and clicked "See all messages" and when he did that, I saw a (presumably) old message from Gary - unread. Saw his face.
Bill threw his hands up. "Get me out of here," he said as he leaned back against the couch.
I felt I'd done something(s) wrong...again.
We went to bed. I laid down and was overwhelmed - "flooded" as Michelle calls it - and my mind would not stop chattering. I became afraid and I didn't know what I was afraid of. I started to cry. I didn't know why I was crying. I tried talking to myself within my mind and there was nothing but chaos, confusion. Pictures, images, flashes, memories. Gary, Daddy, the neighbor, homelessness, bills, "Dee", Trevor....so much...too much. I couldn't quiet my mind and I just surrendered. I felt I was being battered from inside my skull.
I sat up and took two klonopin, smoked half a cigarette, laid back down. Bill cautiously asked if he could lie close to me. "Yes," I said.
He moved closer and put his arms around me, and I cried. He kept telling me, "It's okay. I'm here. I've gotcha. You're safe." And I just cried some more, feeling foolish. Kept trying to breathe, kept counting my breaths, trying to focus on anything but the noise in my head.
It sucks to live every day in fear.
Monday, December 17, 2012
Worse, before it's Better
As Michelle (my therapist) has pointed out, the closer we get to the underlying issues and memories I have, the closer we get to the emotions. This is turning out to be painfully - excruciatingly - true.
I find I am far more sensitive now and more easily triggered. I want to cry more often. I ache more often. I am confused more often and I shut down more often. I am overwhelmed far more easily and I panic more often.
When she called me yesterday to cancel our appointment for today because she's been recruited to help counsel those involved with the Newtown shooting, I was immediately panicked. Not just because of that, but because I'd just gone to the grocery store and it started then. I was getting some groceries with Bill and I began to feel things closing in on me - the walls began to close in, the people got closer and louder and I was starting to get confused. I couldn't get out of there fast enough.
We go to the car and I lit a cigarette with slightly trembling hands.
"It's okay, honey," Bill assured me.
As we drove to the gas station, my angst grew and I was trying desperately to do the "belly breaths" and calm myself down. I wasn't sure entirely what was causing my anxiety but Bill got out of the car and it got worse. Part of me was glad he wasn't there to see it. It is embarrassing to be so visibly helpless, to feel so afraid.
I jolted when my phone rang. Ironically, I just downloaded a new ringtone - something melodic and calming. Still, the sudden shatter of the quietness in the car, startled me.
The name was my therapist. At first I was overcome by a fear that I'd done something wrong and she was calling me to tell me I was bad. I know this is irrational, but this was my instantaneous first thought. "Oh God I did something bad and now she's going to leave me!"
I answered the phone. "Hello?"
I heard her familiar voice, "Cristina? Hi hon. How are you?" she asked, probably detecting my unrest. She is exceptionally perceptive.
"I'm - I'm okay," I stammered. "I just had a minor panic attack that's all. Just let the grocery store."
"Oh no, take some deep breaths," she reminded me gently. "You're safe now."
I tried. God I tried but then she said, "I'm calling because I have to cancel our appointment for tomorrow," she said calmly and apologetically. "I have been recruited to go help in Newtown," she explained.
She's leaving me! She's leaving me!
I was immediately trembling ten times worse. Not only because she was cancelling, but also because it brought up the Newtown incident, which - for me - brought out a whole slew of irrational emotions that have been holding me down since I wrote about them.
"Okay," I answered, shakily, trying desperately to hide my fear and disappointment.
She assured me that we would be in touch and do our regular session on Thursday and I told her good luck, before hanging up.
Unable to control my pulse, the heat of my skin, my trembling and the nausea, I grabbed frantically for my purse, reached inside for a Risperdal disintegrating tablet. I was glad the windows were fogged up and that Bill had not yet returned to the car.
When he finally did, he took my hand. He asked me if there was anything he could do. I shook my head, no and pulled my coat closely around me, frustrated by the seatbelt that was serving as an inconvenience to the task.
We had to go to the laundromat. I didn't want to go in. "I don't want to be seen," I told Bill after he asked me if I would like for him to put the clothing in the dryer.
"But I have to do it," I said.
I blocked out everything. Turned everything off. Just shut down and did whatever I had to do, still a little jumpy; Everyone in the laundromat seemed suspect. They were all staring at me. I felt small - so small - but defiantly (as I was when I was young) continued with the laundry chore.
"Do you want to go back out to the car?" Bill asked. Yes... Yes, I need to get out of here.
Everything is a little bit of a blur. We came home. I made dinner. Bill stayed with me the whole time.
My thoughts race. My heart pounds. My decisions are difficult. Sometimes I just wish I could go to sleep and not wake up.
I find I am far more sensitive now and more easily triggered. I want to cry more often. I ache more often. I am confused more often and I shut down more often. I am overwhelmed far more easily and I panic more often.
When she called me yesterday to cancel our appointment for today because she's been recruited to help counsel those involved with the Newtown shooting, I was immediately panicked. Not just because of that, but because I'd just gone to the grocery store and it started then. I was getting some groceries with Bill and I began to feel things closing in on me - the walls began to close in, the people got closer and louder and I was starting to get confused. I couldn't get out of there fast enough.
We go to the car and I lit a cigarette with slightly trembling hands.
"It's okay, honey," Bill assured me.
As we drove to the gas station, my angst grew and I was trying desperately to do the "belly breaths" and calm myself down. I wasn't sure entirely what was causing my anxiety but Bill got out of the car and it got worse. Part of me was glad he wasn't there to see it. It is embarrassing to be so visibly helpless, to feel so afraid.
I jolted when my phone rang. Ironically, I just downloaded a new ringtone - something melodic and calming. Still, the sudden shatter of the quietness in the car, startled me.
The name was my therapist. At first I was overcome by a fear that I'd done something wrong and she was calling me to tell me I was bad. I know this is irrational, but this was my instantaneous first thought. "Oh God I did something bad and now she's going to leave me!"
I answered the phone. "Hello?"
I heard her familiar voice, "Cristina? Hi hon. How are you?" she asked, probably detecting my unrest. She is exceptionally perceptive.
"I'm - I'm okay," I stammered. "I just had a minor panic attack that's all. Just let the grocery store."
"Oh no, take some deep breaths," she reminded me gently. "You're safe now."
I tried. God I tried but then she said, "I'm calling because I have to cancel our appointment for tomorrow," she said calmly and apologetically. "I have been recruited to go help in Newtown," she explained.
She's leaving me! She's leaving me!
I was immediately trembling ten times worse. Not only because she was cancelling, but also because it brought up the Newtown incident, which - for me - brought out a whole slew of irrational emotions that have been holding me down since I wrote about them.
"Okay," I answered, shakily, trying desperately to hide my fear and disappointment.
She assured me that we would be in touch and do our regular session on Thursday and I told her good luck, before hanging up.
Unable to control my pulse, the heat of my skin, my trembling and the nausea, I grabbed frantically for my purse, reached inside for a Risperdal disintegrating tablet. I was glad the windows were fogged up and that Bill had not yet returned to the car.
When he finally did, he took my hand. He asked me if there was anything he could do. I shook my head, no and pulled my coat closely around me, frustrated by the seatbelt that was serving as an inconvenience to the task.
We had to go to the laundromat. I didn't want to go in. "I don't want to be seen," I told Bill after he asked me if I would like for him to put the clothing in the dryer.
"But I have to do it," I said.
I blocked out everything. Turned everything off. Just shut down and did whatever I had to do, still a little jumpy; Everyone in the laundromat seemed suspect. They were all staring at me. I felt small - so small - but defiantly (as I was when I was young) continued with the laundry chore.
"Do you want to go back out to the car?" Bill asked. Yes... Yes, I need to get out of here.
Everything is a little bit of a blur. We came home. I made dinner. Bill stayed with me the whole time.
My thoughts race. My heart pounds. My decisions are difficult. Sometimes I just wish I could go to sleep and not wake up.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
The Last Hug
My name is Cristina D. Johnson and I'm sorry to those who think this stuff is redundant. This is my life. This is what I am going through.
My days are like this....
I wake up every morning at 6:30 when Bill calls me. It's 5:30 where he is and he has to be at work at 6 o'clock. Thankfully, this works out well because this is when Trevor is up, getting ready for school. He doesn't like me to be overbearing ("did you put on deodorant?" "Did you brush your teeth?" "Do your clothes match?" "Did you eat breakfast?") so all he really wants is for me to wake up, check on him, and that's kind of how it goes. Then he leaves for school.
I end up crawling back into bed because I spent the previous night up until at least 1 a.m. - sometimes as late as 3 or 4 a.m. - talking with Bill. Depends on the conversation and how I'm doing. He's always concerned when I'm not myself (like last night).
This morning, after I went back to sleep, I had another nightmare. This one was hideous.
It's a little sketchy and scattered but Gary was there and my son, Tony was there (I know this is connected to the hurtful and shameless texts Tony was sending me the other night when he was drunk) but he'd told Gary (in my dream) that'd I had been sleeping with him (Tony). I confronted Tony immediately! Never! never, ever, ever!!! I was so unaffectionate with my children because of this fear of the mentality that "oh...it's passed down from generation to generation..." Oh my God I wouldn't even bathe Tony as a child unless someone was present and the door was open. It's an unfortunate truth. (Fortunately, Trevor does not appreciate nor want affection - part of his autism).
Anyway, we were in a place, some place where they did performances and all our old "mutual friends" were there and they had masks on. They were singing. They would mess up on stage, argue, then start over again, but when this accusation came out, suddenly I was somewhere else...I don't know, maybe on a bus? Somewhere small and confined, and all the sudden people - these "mutual friends" (one I recognized immediately was Hedy), began throwing things at me and kicking me and hurting me. I saw Gary standing nearby and he had his arms crossed, over his chest...staring at me with disgust as these people kept yelling obscenities at me and kicking me and throwing things at me. At one point, I was in the street and they were kicking dirty snow and ice at me as I cried.
There was more to the dream than that, but this is the part that sticks out most, besides one other part: a black man who resembled Forest Whitaker who was kind to me. My instinct and intuition aligns him with Bill because, in the dream, he stuck out (he was black) and he was gentle (like Bill) and worked hard (like Bill) and, most importantly, he was kind to me (like Bill). He invited me to come to his apartment. He stood outside his door, unlocking it, and spoke so gently, telling me I was welcome inside - welcome to come in and be safe - and I was afraid. I was dirty. I couldn't go into the apartment.
I know this seems repetitive, but my days and nights are filled with torment over nightmares and flashbacks - all of Gary.
Today, shaken over my nightmare, I was talked through it by Cindy and Bill. At least to a point where - along with two Klonopin - I was able to make it to the store and post office. I felt accomplished, although weary and concerned about what to make for dinner. I opted for something simple: sloppy joes, but the ground beef was so damned expensive I chose some hamburger patties. I hate feeding my child what I can afford, rather than what I want to feed him.
Anyway....
Trevor got home from school as I was packaging up a care package to send to Bill (it's cold in Illinois and, well, he's a wuss as far as cold weather goes) so I had to get that sent. I did it.
I came home, I put up all the things I'd bought, spread the towel out on my bed as I always do (to protect against dirt, cigarette ashes, cat hair, etc.) and rocked...just rocked... and suddenly, I was hit like a truck with the flashback of when I moved in (I'm sure it had something to do with Samantha's post on moving alone with no help).
I told Trevor he could have the leftover steak in the fridge that I couldn't eat the other night. This pleased him, of course. "Are there any mashed potatoes left?" he asked. "Yep," was my answer, trying to be upbeat.
As he ate downstairs, alone, I sat on my towel, on my bed, and rocked and rocked and rocked...just rocking.... and I saw in my mind, the day I moved. Gary was the only one I could ask for help. He still had the seats out of the van from when he helped "Dee" move. He and Kurt helped. It took them two or three days to move her stuff. I'm sure they were very careful with her stuff.
It took one day to move mine and when it was done, I had scratches and scars, broken furniture...nothing was cared for or handled carefully. Nothing about what was important to me, mattered. It was a rush.
It was a hot day and Gary wore a white shirt. I believe he wore shorts. He kept ordering Trevor around, yelling at him although he was doing his best. I've never seen my son work so hard, without argument. He did everything Gary said and told him to do, but seldom without criticism, although he was working so hard to do his best. My baby wanted out of there so bad, that he put up with Gary's degradation and never said a word.
At the end of the day - when he called his friend, Kurt who had a truck to help move the last of the larger items - I was treated like I was diseased. Shows how clueless Gary is. He told Kurt God-only-knows what, who, in turn I'm sure, shared with his new girlfriend, Sandy (who was there that day), and who said something to me that she had no reason, business or right to say: "Take care of yourself. I hope you get better."
Well-intended, I'm sure, but none of hers (OR ANYONE'S) business!
That's how I was treated in my dream.
After everything was moved in, and though I knew Gary was seeing someone else - and had been - I recall, it was dark. He and Kurt were going to hook up that night.
We stood in the kitchen, by the back door before he left. He still wore a black bandana around his head to guard the sweat coming into his eyes. He was merciless that day. To me, and to Trevor.
I began to cry.
I walked up to him, I put my arms around him. Oh God.
I cried. I don't remember what I said. I don't remember what he said.
I just remember that he held me, rather sideways....as if he didn't want to cheat on his new girlfriend. As if, again, I was diseased.
I wanted more than anything at that moment for him to just hold me. HOLD ME. Hold me, goddamnit, the way I've needed you to for months!! Show me you don't want this! Show me you love me! Show me I matter to you!!!!
But it was just a sideways embrace. Like our entire relationship. I put my heart into it, my trust into it. I opened up and dared to be vulnerable, only to get half a hug and a pat on the head.
Now....
Now I have Bill who is absolutely in love with me - always has been. He's helped me (and is helping me....and us) more than anyone ever has. And I can only have nightmares about Gary and mourn and cry and feel afraid because of how people treat me. Even my own son.
Nobody gets it. No, "Dee," you DON'T get it and you never did - claiming to be my friend - and never will. You, in my dream, threw things and kicked me. You were never a friend. Just keep enjoying your absolut and living vicariously through your children, and letting men buy you drinks while you drink yourself into denial.
Bill.... Bill ...oh God.
How do I reach that level of trust and openness and vulnerability that I had with Gary - he promise....he promised....God he promised...
And although Bill has never let me down, never betrayed me, always been there, treats me spectacularly.... I am still so terrified. So afraid. So so afraid.
I don't know what to think or believe. I don't know who to believe. I'm so lost. I'm so, so lost. I'm afraid in my own home.
All I could think this morning was, "I don't belong here" and when I said it, I felt like I don't belong anywhere. I never have. Especially here - where everyone's wearing a mask and kicking me while I'm down. Oh God how that hurts.
This isn't to say there aren't supportive people out there and I suppose it's hard to be supportive when you've heard only one side of the story and you believe it. I suppose that's easy to do, when the person telling the story is buying the drinks, throwing the parties and has been here for over 30 years.
I got so far....so, so far in my therapy and in my journey when I lived with Gary. I thought he understood, at least a little.... but then he got misinformed by a mutual friend who, I'm sure meant well, but did not do any good to help. She hurt, more than she helped. An LCSW, at that. She did nothing to help Gary understand what was happening....just took his word for it (they went to school together) rather than asking my side of it.
It's going to take me a long time to get over this. I have cried so much today, that I'm glad I have nothing to do tomorrow. I will look like a raccoon with puffy eyes.
I'm flying blind. I'm in this dark, damp, dank dingy tunnel, the walls are cold and wet, and there's no light and I keep pushing forward, but there's no light yet.... I have to be vulnerable enough to just keep going...just keep my hands on the cold brick, around the curves, and hope...hope...hope that in the light will be Bill and Cindy and ....others.
Right now, in CT.....I feel like I'm in a different world. These people as a rule, have no idea. They just have no idea and you can't tell them because they don't want to hear it. They can't envision it because life here, in CT, is beautiful. Full of fall foliage and rivers and streams. The Sound and beautiful mountains and nature.
No, no, no you can't have DID or PTSD....that doesn't exist in this world.
Furthermore, if it does, get over it because we can't handle it.
Gary.......oh Gary.
Oh God I wish you knew. Oh my heart splits right now, right down the middle just wishing you knew. I never needed at hero. You thought I did. I didn't. I needed someone to help me bring out my own hero. Someone who would be there, unconditionally.
And there's Bill...there unconditionally...and you've made me fear him.
Everyone here, makes me fear people. Everything in my past makes me fear people. Going to the grocery store I am terrified of seeing someone who knows me. I hide my face. I move fast. Very fast. I don't want to be seen.
I will get better. I won't always have these horribly sad, depressing blogs but for now, this is part of my journey. And that's what this blog is about: The Journey.
I don't know who reads my blogs. I write them for me...and I truly hope/wish they help others, but this is my venue. Forgive me if I sound like a victim.
I am a fighter...just been knocked down pretty bad this time. I appreciate that some of you have stayed with me.
My days are like this....
I wake up every morning at 6:30 when Bill calls me. It's 5:30 where he is and he has to be at work at 6 o'clock. Thankfully, this works out well because this is when Trevor is up, getting ready for school. He doesn't like me to be overbearing ("did you put on deodorant?" "Did you brush your teeth?" "Do your clothes match?" "Did you eat breakfast?") so all he really wants is for me to wake up, check on him, and that's kind of how it goes. Then he leaves for school.
I end up crawling back into bed because I spent the previous night up until at least 1 a.m. - sometimes as late as 3 or 4 a.m. - talking with Bill. Depends on the conversation and how I'm doing. He's always concerned when I'm not myself (like last night).
This morning, after I went back to sleep, I had another nightmare. This one was hideous.
It's a little sketchy and scattered but Gary was there and my son, Tony was there (I know this is connected to the hurtful and shameless texts Tony was sending me the other night when he was drunk) but he'd told Gary (in my dream) that'd I had been sleeping with him (Tony). I confronted Tony immediately! Never! never, ever, ever!!! I was so unaffectionate with my children because of this fear of the mentality that "oh...it's passed down from generation to generation..." Oh my God I wouldn't even bathe Tony as a child unless someone was present and the door was open. It's an unfortunate truth. (Fortunately, Trevor does not appreciate nor want affection - part of his autism).
Anyway, we were in a place, some place where they did performances and all our old "mutual friends" were there and they had masks on. They were singing. They would mess up on stage, argue, then start over again, but when this accusation came out, suddenly I was somewhere else...I don't know, maybe on a bus? Somewhere small and confined, and all the sudden people - these "mutual friends" (one I recognized immediately was Hedy), began throwing things at me and kicking me and hurting me. I saw Gary standing nearby and he had his arms crossed, over his chest...staring at me with disgust as these people kept yelling obscenities at me and kicking me and throwing things at me. At one point, I was in the street and they were kicking dirty snow and ice at me as I cried.
There was more to the dream than that, but this is the part that sticks out most, besides one other part: a black man who resembled Forest Whitaker who was kind to me. My instinct and intuition aligns him with Bill because, in the dream, he stuck out (he was black) and he was gentle (like Bill) and worked hard (like Bill) and, most importantly, he was kind to me (like Bill). He invited me to come to his apartment. He stood outside his door, unlocking it, and spoke so gently, telling me I was welcome inside - welcome to come in and be safe - and I was afraid. I was dirty. I couldn't go into the apartment.
I know this seems repetitive, but my days and nights are filled with torment over nightmares and flashbacks - all of Gary.
Today, shaken over my nightmare, I was talked through it by Cindy and Bill. At least to a point where - along with two Klonopin - I was able to make it to the store and post office. I felt accomplished, although weary and concerned about what to make for dinner. I opted for something simple: sloppy joes, but the ground beef was so damned expensive I chose some hamburger patties. I hate feeding my child what I can afford, rather than what I want to feed him.
Anyway....
Trevor got home from school as I was packaging up a care package to send to Bill (it's cold in Illinois and, well, he's a wuss as far as cold weather goes) so I had to get that sent. I did it.
I came home, I put up all the things I'd bought, spread the towel out on my bed as I always do (to protect against dirt, cigarette ashes, cat hair, etc.) and rocked...just rocked... and suddenly, I was hit like a truck with the flashback of when I moved in (I'm sure it had something to do with Samantha's post on moving alone with no help).
I told Trevor he could have the leftover steak in the fridge that I couldn't eat the other night. This pleased him, of course. "Are there any mashed potatoes left?" he asked. "Yep," was my answer, trying to be upbeat.
As he ate downstairs, alone, I sat on my towel, on my bed, and rocked and rocked and rocked...just rocking.... and I saw in my mind, the day I moved. Gary was the only one I could ask for help. He still had the seats out of the van from when he helped "Dee" move. He and Kurt helped. It took them two or three days to move her stuff. I'm sure they were very careful with her stuff.
It took one day to move mine and when it was done, I had scratches and scars, broken furniture...nothing was cared for or handled carefully. Nothing about what was important to me, mattered. It was a rush.
It was a hot day and Gary wore a white shirt. I believe he wore shorts. He kept ordering Trevor around, yelling at him although he was doing his best. I've never seen my son work so hard, without argument. He did everything Gary said and told him to do, but seldom without criticism, although he was working so hard to do his best. My baby wanted out of there so bad, that he put up with Gary's degradation and never said a word.
At the end of the day - when he called his friend, Kurt who had a truck to help move the last of the larger items - I was treated like I was diseased. Shows how clueless Gary is. He told Kurt God-only-knows what, who, in turn I'm sure, shared with his new girlfriend, Sandy (who was there that day), and who said something to me that she had no reason, business or right to say: "Take care of yourself. I hope you get better."
Well-intended, I'm sure, but none of hers (OR ANYONE'S) business!
That's how I was treated in my dream.
After everything was moved in, and though I knew Gary was seeing someone else - and had been - I recall, it was dark. He and Kurt were going to hook up that night.
We stood in the kitchen, by the back door before he left. He still wore a black bandana around his head to guard the sweat coming into his eyes. He was merciless that day. To me, and to Trevor.
I began to cry.
I walked up to him, I put my arms around him. Oh God.
I cried. I don't remember what I said. I don't remember what he said.
I just remember that he held me, rather sideways....as if he didn't want to cheat on his new girlfriend. As if, again, I was diseased.
I wanted more than anything at that moment for him to just hold me. HOLD ME. Hold me, goddamnit, the way I've needed you to for months!! Show me you don't want this! Show me you love me! Show me I matter to you!!!!
But it was just a sideways embrace. Like our entire relationship. I put my heart into it, my trust into it. I opened up and dared to be vulnerable, only to get half a hug and a pat on the head.
Now....
Now I have Bill who is absolutely in love with me - always has been. He's helped me (and is helping me....and us) more than anyone ever has. And I can only have nightmares about Gary and mourn and cry and feel afraid because of how people treat me. Even my own son.
Nobody gets it. No, "Dee," you DON'T get it and you never did - claiming to be my friend - and never will. You, in my dream, threw things and kicked me. You were never a friend. Just keep enjoying your absolut and living vicariously through your children, and letting men buy you drinks while you drink yourself into denial.
Bill.... Bill ...oh God.
How do I reach that level of trust and openness and vulnerability that I had with Gary - he promise....he promised....God he promised...
And although Bill has never let me down, never betrayed me, always been there, treats me spectacularly.... I am still so terrified. So afraid. So so afraid.
I don't know what to think or believe. I don't know who to believe. I'm so lost. I'm so, so lost. I'm afraid in my own home.
All I could think this morning was, "I don't belong here" and when I said it, I felt like I don't belong anywhere. I never have. Especially here - where everyone's wearing a mask and kicking me while I'm down. Oh God how that hurts.
This isn't to say there aren't supportive people out there and I suppose it's hard to be supportive when you've heard only one side of the story and you believe it. I suppose that's easy to do, when the person telling the story is buying the drinks, throwing the parties and has been here for over 30 years.
I got so far....so, so far in my therapy and in my journey when I lived with Gary. I thought he understood, at least a little.... but then he got misinformed by a mutual friend who, I'm sure meant well, but did not do any good to help. She hurt, more than she helped. An LCSW, at that. She did nothing to help Gary understand what was happening....just took his word for it (they went to school together) rather than asking my side of it.
It's going to take me a long time to get over this. I have cried so much today, that I'm glad I have nothing to do tomorrow. I will look like a raccoon with puffy eyes.
I'm flying blind. I'm in this dark, damp, dank dingy tunnel, the walls are cold and wet, and there's no light and I keep pushing forward, but there's no light yet.... I have to be vulnerable enough to just keep going...just keep my hands on the cold brick, around the curves, and hope...hope...hope that in the light will be Bill and Cindy and ....others.
Right now, in CT.....I feel like I'm in a different world. These people as a rule, have no idea. They just have no idea and you can't tell them because they don't want to hear it. They can't envision it because life here, in CT, is beautiful. Full of fall foliage and rivers and streams. The Sound and beautiful mountains and nature.
No, no, no you can't have DID or PTSD....that doesn't exist in this world.
Furthermore, if it does, get over it because we can't handle it.
Gary.......oh Gary.
Oh God I wish you knew. Oh my heart splits right now, right down the middle just wishing you knew. I never needed at hero. You thought I did. I didn't. I needed someone to help me bring out my own hero. Someone who would be there, unconditionally.
And there's Bill...there unconditionally...and you've made me fear him.
Everyone here, makes me fear people. Everything in my past makes me fear people. Going to the grocery store I am terrified of seeing someone who knows me. I hide my face. I move fast. Very fast. I don't want to be seen.
I will get better. I won't always have these horribly sad, depressing blogs but for now, this is part of my journey. And that's what this blog is about: The Journey.
I don't know who reads my blogs. I write them for me...and I truly hope/wish they help others, but this is my venue. Forgive me if I sound like a victim.
I am a fighter...just been knocked down pretty bad this time. I appreciate that some of you have stayed with me.
Saturday, August 25, 2012
Mixed Up
I don't even know how to start this blog. I've been through the wringer the past three months and it's just so tiring and exhaustive. I mean, when does it stop?
In May, when I was at my lowest possible point (which one would have to be, to attempt suicide), I was abandoned by the one person who swore they would always be there. I was having flashbacks and panic attacks daily. I was having black-outs and I was in therapy, working so hard to figure out how my past was affecting my present.
As anyone with any knowledge of or experience in PTSD knows, a perceived threat, elicits a strong response that is rooted in the pain or fear of the past. It's lightning quick. It's processed through the amygdala in the brain as a threat and the PTSD sufferer responds accordingly. For me, the responses varied usually either rage or pain but always rooted in fear.
After I was gossiped about and people were told my private business I was so humiliated and I became terrified to go anywhere. Even to the store. Even to the mailbox. And I needed a friend so bad. Ironically, I kept turning to him and he kept triggering, knowing he was doing it...knowing it was killing me.
In a PTSD crisis, every emotion is amplified and I begged and begged for compassion, but got none. I have PTSD mostly as a result of abuse from men - many men - and he quickly became an enormous trigger for me because he would say or do something nice, but then he would say or do something cruel - the same mixed messages my father gave me when he would vacillate between beatings and punishments, and molestation. I tried explaining this to him in an effort to - again - beg him to stop, but to no avail.
I got to the point where I was gagging every time I heard his footsteps, because I was so triggered. Eventually it escalated to vomiting, just from the overwhelm. At that time, I had nobody. Nobody I trusted. The only person who said she was my friend, was going out with him so I had no reason to trust her. And none of "our friends" ever once called or messaged me to see if I was okay. Yesterday, I deleted most of them from my friend's list, trying to feel safe, trying to eliminate any connection to this person who hurt me so badly.
People come and go in your life - I know many have in mine - and this is my story and when people come and go in my life, they become a part of my story. When they inject themselves - in either good or bad ways - they are a part of my story.
For the past month, I have been blessed to have my best friend in the world - Bill - come help me. Although I have others - Cindy, Hannah, Howie, Ron (in the background) - who help as much as they can, Bill came and nursed me through some pretty horrific breakdowns. This is what I needed from the beginning - from "him" - someone who would help me and genuinely care about what I was going through. Someone willing to hold my hair when I vomited from sheer nerves. Someone who would wipe my tears or give me kleenex; someone who would take me places - anywhere - just randomly, to get me out of the house; someone who truly cared.
Bill has been a God send and has proven to be my absolute best friend, my right arm, my shoulder to cry on. He's been awakened in the middle of the night by crying and gagging and never once complained. Just asked if I was okay, turned on the light, lit me a cigarette and rubbed my back while I went through my painful attacks. Not a single time when I trembled went by, that he didn't hold me until the trembling subsided.
All of these symptoms have been exacerbated by the cruelty of others. And I am not claiming to be an angel, but I will say I tried my best - tried to make people understand, only to be misunderstood and judged. I'm not surprised by this.
Anyway, Bill left today........
He left for Illinois. This on top of a very difficult evening wherein I was forced to contact the police over all the BS going on.
Last night was supposed to be a sort of farewell party for Bill - although it certainly was no picnic. I cried a lot, shook a lot, plus had an anxiety attack in the middle of it all over other things going on. Couldn't eat the food we made. Just couldn't stomach it.
The thought of losing my best friend, the thought of not having someone here to help me through my attacks, frightens the shit out of me and I can't see what the future looks like.
One thing I have learned, though, is that Bill was always my best friend. Even through my relationship with "him" Bill was there - always. And when he got here, it was as if no time had passed at all. Same old Bill. Genuine, authentic, loving, giving, caring. He gave more to me in this past month, than I've gotten in the past five years from everyone I met and knew for the past five years, combined. In one month, he showed me more attention, affection, compassion and concern than anyone, ever.
I believe some people are simply incapable of that kind of depth. I've met them. I've lived among them. In a way, I suppose it's good that I had my own ...call it judgment, ratified. I learned that all the things I feared about the "thems" in the world, are true. And then some.
And I also learned who and what a true friend is. Anyone who knows him, is fortunate. He is the epitome of a good man, good friend, and good human being.
We both sobbed as he left today, even though eventually he'll be back. But one thing I know is this: Bill will always be my best friend. I miss him terribly.
In May, when I was at my lowest possible point (which one would have to be, to attempt suicide), I was abandoned by the one person who swore they would always be there. I was having flashbacks and panic attacks daily. I was having black-outs and I was in therapy, working so hard to figure out how my past was affecting my present.
As anyone with any knowledge of or experience in PTSD knows, a perceived threat, elicits a strong response that is rooted in the pain or fear of the past. It's lightning quick. It's processed through the amygdala in the brain as a threat and the PTSD sufferer responds accordingly. For me, the responses varied usually either rage or pain but always rooted in fear.
After I was gossiped about and people were told my private business I was so humiliated and I became terrified to go anywhere. Even to the store. Even to the mailbox. And I needed a friend so bad. Ironically, I kept turning to him and he kept triggering, knowing he was doing it...knowing it was killing me.
In a PTSD crisis, every emotion is amplified and I begged and begged for compassion, but got none. I have PTSD mostly as a result of abuse from men - many men - and he quickly became an enormous trigger for me because he would say or do something nice, but then he would say or do something cruel - the same mixed messages my father gave me when he would vacillate between beatings and punishments, and molestation. I tried explaining this to him in an effort to - again - beg him to stop, but to no avail.
I got to the point where I was gagging every time I heard his footsteps, because I was so triggered. Eventually it escalated to vomiting, just from the overwhelm. At that time, I had nobody. Nobody I trusted. The only person who said she was my friend, was going out with him so I had no reason to trust her. And none of "our friends" ever once called or messaged me to see if I was okay. Yesterday, I deleted most of them from my friend's list, trying to feel safe, trying to eliminate any connection to this person who hurt me so badly.
People come and go in your life - I know many have in mine - and this is my story and when people come and go in my life, they become a part of my story. When they inject themselves - in either good or bad ways - they are a part of my story.
For the past month, I have been blessed to have my best friend in the world - Bill - come help me. Although I have others - Cindy, Hannah, Howie, Ron (in the background) - who help as much as they can, Bill came and nursed me through some pretty horrific breakdowns. This is what I needed from the beginning - from "him" - someone who would help me and genuinely care about what I was going through. Someone willing to hold my hair when I vomited from sheer nerves. Someone who would wipe my tears or give me kleenex; someone who would take me places - anywhere - just randomly, to get me out of the house; someone who truly cared.
Bill has been a God send and has proven to be my absolute best friend, my right arm, my shoulder to cry on. He's been awakened in the middle of the night by crying and gagging and never once complained. Just asked if I was okay, turned on the light, lit me a cigarette and rubbed my back while I went through my painful attacks. Not a single time when I trembled went by, that he didn't hold me until the trembling subsided.
All of these symptoms have been exacerbated by the cruelty of others. And I am not claiming to be an angel, but I will say I tried my best - tried to make people understand, only to be misunderstood and judged. I'm not surprised by this.
Anyway, Bill left today........
He left for Illinois. This on top of a very difficult evening wherein I was forced to contact the police over all the BS going on.
Last night was supposed to be a sort of farewell party for Bill - although it certainly was no picnic. I cried a lot, shook a lot, plus had an anxiety attack in the middle of it all over other things going on. Couldn't eat the food we made. Just couldn't stomach it.
The thought of losing my best friend, the thought of not having someone here to help me through my attacks, frightens the shit out of me and I can't see what the future looks like.
One thing I have learned, though, is that Bill was always my best friend. Even through my relationship with "him" Bill was there - always. And when he got here, it was as if no time had passed at all. Same old Bill. Genuine, authentic, loving, giving, caring. He gave more to me in this past month, than I've gotten in the past five years from everyone I met and knew for the past five years, combined. In one month, he showed me more attention, affection, compassion and concern than anyone, ever.
I believe some people are simply incapable of that kind of depth. I've met them. I've lived among them. In a way, I suppose it's good that I had my own ...call it judgment, ratified. I learned that all the things I feared about the "thems" in the world, are true. And then some.
And I also learned who and what a true friend is. Anyone who knows him, is fortunate. He is the epitome of a good man, good friend, and good human being.
We both sobbed as he left today, even though eventually he'll be back. But one thing I know is this: Bill will always be my best friend. I miss him terribly.
Saturday, August 4, 2012
Please Don't Leave!
My Name Is Cristina Johnson
When I was five and six years old (the earliest my memories begin), I lived in Pensacola with my father, step-mother, step-sister and step-brother. At the time, my father was molesting me, my younger brother, and me and my brother simultaneously.
He was also very violent - very unpredictable, like huge violent waves crashing on the shore; you never knew what he was going to hit or when, just knew it would be destructive. He also had a very strong, powerful voice - very loud and frightening, especially to children.
But when he was molesting us, he was tender, kind, benevolent. It was the only time he was ever gentle.
Then, one day, without notice or warning or even knowing what was going on, I and my brother sat on our knees in the living room on the couch, staring out the window and I remember crying (can't remember if my brother was) and screaming as if he could hear me through the glass, "Please daddy!! Don't go!! Where are you going?? Please, Daddy! Don't go!!" as he threw one after another of huge black garbage bags into the burgundy Chevy van we had. To this day, I'll never be able to see a van and not think of it. Later that night, without explanation, my brother and I were put on an airplane to go back to St. Louis and live with our grandparents (his parents).
I say all of this because I experienced a severe panic attack this morning, and it brought back that feeling - that horrible abandonment.
Yesterday, a friend came over and brought some beer. We (he, Bill and I) all had a pretty good afternoon, chatting and I cooked a great dinner for everyone. This friend - H - has PTSD and DID like me so we share a lot of commonalities and it's just nice to have someone to talk to who "gets it" - like, truly gets it.
Anyway, long story short, last night I was not myself. After H left, I did some things that weren't my nature and awoke this morning not remembering any of it, although I did remember that Bill promised the night before to go get cigarettes first thing in the morning and I would brew the coffee. So my memory of last night was splotchy with blank, black spots.
As Bill left to go get the cigarettes, memories came flooding back of last night and I freaked out - completely panicked - and began to shake. I was terrified.
And this is where the memory of my father leaving comes in:
It was taking Bill too long to go to the store and the story in my mind was, "You're bad. You're a bad girl!" and that Bill was leaving me...just like Daddy did 35 years ago.
"Please don't leave, Daddy!"
I panicked - ran all around the apartment, looking out the door and the windows, scared like a child. I was a child, but I was the child that Daddy used for sexual pleasure and then just left. The dirty child the unwanted child. The bad child. And Bill was leaving me because of it!
The truth was out and Bill knew it, now, and he was leaving!
"He's taking too long. He shouldn't be taking this long. Where is he? Oh my God he's leaving! It's all my fault!"
Please don't leave, Daddy!
Then I heard the rumble, after far too long, of his old Ford pickup truck pulling into the drive and I was overwhelmed with fear and confusion and shame.
He came in and I tried to tell him, tried to communicate but it wasn't coming out right (I was stuttering again) and he gently said, "Take your time. It's okay."
I explained that I didn't remember anything about last night and I was afraid and then I did remember some things (I was talking a mile a minute) and now I feel ......I couldn't say it.
"It's okay," he assured. "It'll be okay...everything will be okay...." he kept repeating as I sat on the bed rocking and shaking and crying.
"That's not what the story is in my head," I admitted to him cautiously, fearfully.
"What is the story in your head," he asked.
"D-D-Dir..." I couldn't speak it and he just kept stroking my hand and my shoulder and saying, "Take your time."
"Dirty!" I finally blurted out. "DIRTY! DIRTY! DIRTY!" came my rather loud, shameful confession. In my head, it was the voice of a child whose father used his perversions to show her "love" but left.
So there I was, stuck in 1976, staring out the front pane window as my father inexplicably left my brother and I to wonder, "Did we not do enough? Did I do something wrong? I must just be really bad and dirty."
At this point, I got a text from Gary. He had some of my stuff and wanted to bring it by. Oh great. Just what I needed. I was being thrown back to age six and at the same time being expected to handle things like the 41-year-old woman that I am today....which included facing one of the biggest triggers in my life: Gary.
He showed up. I didn't want him in the house. I was not well. I started to feel it in my stomach. I saw him and my skin was aflame almost instantly. The feelings come flooding back and mingle with my already disturbing feelings of being "bad" and "dirty" and here's this man who has proven, again and again, that I am bad and dirty and has told everyone about it! So now everyone knows I'm bad and dirty! Everyone knows! Oh God, get him out of here!
I began to tremble uncontrollably, tried to say "leave - just go" but couldn't get it out....finally managed and he left. Still as I know him - no difference. I know him. And he knows way too much about me. I walked away and didn't even watch him leave, because it was killing me - for the second time this morning.
I went inside and within minutes was vomiting.
Over the course of about three hours, Bill was there trying to comfort me, rubbing my back, holding my hand, telling me it'll all be okay, hugging me when I trembled, telling me to stop apologizing (I was dreadfully embarrassed and always am when I "lose control" like that)...just being a friend. "I won't leave you," he kept telling me, over and over. "I'm never going to leave you," he kept assuring.
So there are people who say to move on, get past it, get over it, stop looking for government handouts, etc. etc....
To those people, I say this is no picnic. My body is exhausted right now, and my mind is swimming in dark thoughts of self-loathing, self-blame and fear of being seen. Oh God how I don't want to live this life - some days it's all I can do to just get out of bed because I can't know if or when I'll be triggered; if or when I'll panic. I have so much to do - so many things to take care of - and it's like looking at life cross-eyed. Everything gets jumbled and mixed up. Even trying to read my bills, my vision blurs and I can't focus on it and I get confused by it.
I am fortunate that I have Bill (and a couple of other people) who understand what I am going through - they know this is torture and torment for me - and they also know how hard I am working to overcome it. I am so grateful.
Since I began posting my blog on my FB page, I have had people come out and share with me and show true compassion (a sorely lacking commodity in these small towns), understanding, empathy and encouragement. People I never expected to care, are showing they do.
I am grateful for this.
When I was five and six years old (the earliest my memories begin), I lived in Pensacola with my father, step-mother, step-sister and step-brother. At the time, my father was molesting me, my younger brother, and me and my brother simultaneously.
He was also very violent - very unpredictable, like huge violent waves crashing on the shore; you never knew what he was going to hit or when, just knew it would be destructive. He also had a very strong, powerful voice - very loud and frightening, especially to children.
But when he was molesting us, he was tender, kind, benevolent. It was the only time he was ever gentle.
Then, one day, without notice or warning or even knowing what was going on, I and my brother sat on our knees in the living room on the couch, staring out the window and I remember crying (can't remember if my brother was) and screaming as if he could hear me through the glass, "Please daddy!! Don't go!! Where are you going?? Please, Daddy! Don't go!!" as he threw one after another of huge black garbage bags into the burgundy Chevy van we had. To this day, I'll never be able to see a van and not think of it. Later that night, without explanation, my brother and I were put on an airplane to go back to St. Louis and live with our grandparents (his parents).
I say all of this because I experienced a severe panic attack this morning, and it brought back that feeling - that horrible abandonment.
Yesterday, a friend came over and brought some beer. We (he, Bill and I) all had a pretty good afternoon, chatting and I cooked a great dinner for everyone. This friend - H - has PTSD and DID like me so we share a lot of commonalities and it's just nice to have someone to talk to who "gets it" - like, truly gets it.
Anyway, long story short, last night I was not myself. After H left, I did some things that weren't my nature and awoke this morning not remembering any of it, although I did remember that Bill promised the night before to go get cigarettes first thing in the morning and I would brew the coffee. So my memory of last night was splotchy with blank, black spots.
As Bill left to go get the cigarettes, memories came flooding back of last night and I freaked out - completely panicked - and began to shake. I was terrified.
And this is where the memory of my father leaving comes in:
It was taking Bill too long to go to the store and the story in my mind was, "You're bad. You're a bad girl!" and that Bill was leaving me...just like Daddy did 35 years ago.
"Please don't leave, Daddy!"
I panicked - ran all around the apartment, looking out the door and the windows, scared like a child. I was a child, but I was the child that Daddy used for sexual pleasure and then just left. The dirty child the unwanted child. The bad child. And Bill was leaving me because of it!
The truth was out and Bill knew it, now, and he was leaving!
"He's taking too long. He shouldn't be taking this long. Where is he? Oh my God he's leaving! It's all my fault!"
Please don't leave, Daddy!
Then I heard the rumble, after far too long, of his old Ford pickup truck pulling into the drive and I was overwhelmed with fear and confusion and shame.
He came in and I tried to tell him, tried to communicate but it wasn't coming out right (I was stuttering again) and he gently said, "Take your time. It's okay."
I explained that I didn't remember anything about last night and I was afraid and then I did remember some things (I was talking a mile a minute) and now I feel ......I couldn't say it.
"It's okay," he assured. "It'll be okay...everything will be okay...." he kept repeating as I sat on the bed rocking and shaking and crying.
"That's not what the story is in my head," I admitted to him cautiously, fearfully.
"What is the story in your head," he asked.
"D-D-Dir..." I couldn't speak it and he just kept stroking my hand and my shoulder and saying, "Take your time."
"Dirty!" I finally blurted out. "DIRTY! DIRTY! DIRTY!" came my rather loud, shameful confession. In my head, it was the voice of a child whose father used his perversions to show her "love" but left.
So there I was, stuck in 1976, staring out the front pane window as my father inexplicably left my brother and I to wonder, "Did we not do enough? Did I do something wrong? I must just be really bad and dirty."
At this point, I got a text from Gary. He had some of my stuff and wanted to bring it by. Oh great. Just what I needed. I was being thrown back to age six and at the same time being expected to handle things like the 41-year-old woman that I am today....which included facing one of the biggest triggers in my life: Gary.
He showed up. I didn't want him in the house. I was not well. I started to feel it in my stomach. I saw him and my skin was aflame almost instantly. The feelings come flooding back and mingle with my already disturbing feelings of being "bad" and "dirty" and here's this man who has proven, again and again, that I am bad and dirty and has told everyone about it! So now everyone knows I'm bad and dirty! Everyone knows! Oh God, get him out of here!
I began to tremble uncontrollably, tried to say "leave - just go" but couldn't get it out....finally managed and he left. Still as I know him - no difference. I know him. And he knows way too much about me. I walked away and didn't even watch him leave, because it was killing me - for the second time this morning.
I went inside and within minutes was vomiting.
Over the course of about three hours, Bill was there trying to comfort me, rubbing my back, holding my hand, telling me it'll all be okay, hugging me when I trembled, telling me to stop apologizing (I was dreadfully embarrassed and always am when I "lose control" like that)...just being a friend. "I won't leave you," he kept telling me, over and over. "I'm never going to leave you," he kept assuring.
So there are people who say to move on, get past it, get over it, stop looking for government handouts, etc. etc....
To those people, I say this is no picnic. My body is exhausted right now, and my mind is swimming in dark thoughts of self-loathing, self-blame and fear of being seen. Oh God how I don't want to live this life - some days it's all I can do to just get out of bed because I can't know if or when I'll be triggered; if or when I'll panic. I have so much to do - so many things to take care of - and it's like looking at life cross-eyed. Everything gets jumbled and mixed up. Even trying to read my bills, my vision blurs and I can't focus on it and I get confused by it.
I am fortunate that I have Bill (and a couple of other people) who understand what I am going through - they know this is torture and torment for me - and they also know how hard I am working to overcome it. I am so grateful.
Since I began posting my blog on my FB page, I have had people come out and share with me and show true compassion (a sorely lacking commodity in these small towns), understanding, empathy and encouragement. People I never expected to care, are showing they do.
I am grateful for this.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Double Whammy
My name is Cristina Johnson.
After posting yesterday, my DID kicked in, although I didn't know it at the time. I didn't know it until today, when I woke up and the entire day - yesterday - was a complete fog. Then, I got hit with a major panic attack this afternoon, just before therapy: got overwhelmed.
Panic attacks are horrible feelings. It feels like you're on fire and you can't breathe - like someone has a vise around your chest - and you can't stop shaking. For me, my mind goes absolutely berserk and thoughts just race and race, like a movie in fast-forward that I can't stop. Jumping from one spot to another.
This attack hit me as I was preparing to leave for therapy. Fortunately, my therapist was there - saw my panic - and helped me through it.
"Just breathe, and remember you're safe now. You're safe here," she gently reminded.
I started talking a mile a minute - started trying to iterate the things that had triggered the attack - but she reminded me to calm down first. I was stuttering - something I've never done in my life, but over the past few months, I've begun stuttering out of the blue when stressed.(She later pointed this out to me).
Anyway, got through the crisis and talked about what happened.
Coming Out was written and posted on my FB and I publicly admitted to many of the things I've kept secret for most of my life, with very few exceptions. I recall bits and pieces of yesterday but I was in-and-out: a consequence of DID. I described it to her as looking through a frosted window. You know stuff is back there, but you can't see it. So I spent most of today, recalling bits and pieces of yesterday and I completely blacked out last night - lost three hours, apparently - which is beyond my control.
There's nothing more frightening than this. My therapist asked me why.
"Because there's no control and I don't know what I did or said. Did I do anything inappropriate? Did I act in some way that isn't me?" (It wouldn't be the first time).
I had a bunch of things hit me all at once and the overwhelm kicked in - the panic sets in. Small things add up, on top of big things and it becomes unmanageable. I had a second attack after going to the grocery store. It's been a tough day.
We talked a lot in therapy about how I have (what I called) a habitual tendency to do whatever anyone wants, just to make sure they don't leave me.
I did it today and was immediately aware of it.
"I wouldn't call it habitual," she said. "I would call it instinctive."
I agree. It's instinctive for me.
I had a very short conversation via text and immediately felt like I was losing someone so I told them I loved them out of sheer panic.Again, doing all I can to keep from being abandoned.
And this led to a discussion about Bill - this need I have to do whatever I have to do to make sure he doesn't leave me. I am that way with everyone.
Ironically, when I am afraid someone will leave, I also will sabotage it - I won't let them leave me, I'll leave first.
I have a different kind of trust in Bill, though, because of the nature of our friendship and how long we've known one another. He's a very altruistic person....much more than any other person I've ever known.
It hurts so much to go through this process. To face so many demons, all at once, and also to feel so alone, even if I do have a handful of people who are here supporting me. Bill says I protect people from myself. He says I tend to hold people at bay because I don't want them to see what's inside of me. There's a lot of truth to that.
But, when I say "alone," I mean the loss of so many "compassionate friends" (as Gary referred to them), who haven't once asked me how I am, if I'm okay, how I'm doing or if I need any help. I am terrified to go out - terrified because of the things he's said about me to so many people - things he had no right to say.
So I feel isolated and shunned; ostracized and judged and so ultimately betrayed and abandoned.
These are shameful feelings - shame, shame, shame. That word keeps coming up. It's like I've lived my whole life afraid of people seeing the "ugly" inside of me - the reality of what I've experienced - but I've hidden it pretty well, only to have it exposed without discretion or regard. So unfair; so cruel.
But I have plans - aspirations - and they're built on this foundation of pain that I've endured (and continue to endure) and will learn from and teach from. I will give it purpose, and make a difference.
I just have a long way to go and it hurts to know that this tangled mess of barbed wire inside of me - this mess that keeps shredding me from the inside out - is not my fault.
And for those who say "get over it" or "stop living in the past" or "move on" (and I know a few of those), I say this: That's what I'm doing. Healing from the past - a brutal past that you don't just "get over and move on" because that, my friend, is what I've always done. Stoically looked at my past as someone else's story, ignored it's effects and pretended it didn't happen.
Now I'm taking the real, authentic, true steps to heal and move beyond this place where my past and my demons invade my mind and my dreams and my life.
Compassion would suggest an understanding that we can't cover up our wounds - we must heal them - and it's important to understand how horribly invalidating it is to tell someone "get over it" (or any form thereof), and very painful. It's hard enough to take the time I need to take to go through this journey, never mind being judged for "living in the past."
Trust me. This ain't no picnic.
After posting yesterday, my DID kicked in, although I didn't know it at the time. I didn't know it until today, when I woke up and the entire day - yesterday - was a complete fog. Then, I got hit with a major panic attack this afternoon, just before therapy: got overwhelmed.
Panic attacks are horrible feelings. It feels like you're on fire and you can't breathe - like someone has a vise around your chest - and you can't stop shaking. For me, my mind goes absolutely berserk and thoughts just race and race, like a movie in fast-forward that I can't stop. Jumping from one spot to another.
This attack hit me as I was preparing to leave for therapy. Fortunately, my therapist was there - saw my panic - and helped me through it.
"Just breathe, and remember you're safe now. You're safe here," she gently reminded.
I started talking a mile a minute - started trying to iterate the things that had triggered the attack - but she reminded me to calm down first. I was stuttering - something I've never done in my life, but over the past few months, I've begun stuttering out of the blue when stressed.(She later pointed this out to me).
Anyway, got through the crisis and talked about what happened.
Coming Out was written and posted on my FB and I publicly admitted to many of the things I've kept secret for most of my life, with very few exceptions. I recall bits and pieces of yesterday but I was in-and-out: a consequence of DID. I described it to her as looking through a frosted window. You know stuff is back there, but you can't see it. So I spent most of today, recalling bits and pieces of yesterday and I completely blacked out last night - lost three hours, apparently - which is beyond my control.
There's nothing more frightening than this. My therapist asked me why.
"Because there's no control and I don't know what I did or said. Did I do anything inappropriate? Did I act in some way that isn't me?" (It wouldn't be the first time).
I had a bunch of things hit me all at once and the overwhelm kicked in - the panic sets in. Small things add up, on top of big things and it becomes unmanageable. I had a second attack after going to the grocery store. It's been a tough day.
We talked a lot in therapy about how I have (what I called) a habitual tendency to do whatever anyone wants, just to make sure they don't leave me.
I did it today and was immediately aware of it.
"I wouldn't call it habitual," she said. "I would call it instinctive."
I agree. It's instinctive for me.
I had a very short conversation via text and immediately felt like I was losing someone so I told them I loved them out of sheer panic.Again, doing all I can to keep from being abandoned.
And this led to a discussion about Bill - this need I have to do whatever I have to do to make sure he doesn't leave me. I am that way with everyone.
Ironically, when I am afraid someone will leave, I also will sabotage it - I won't let them leave me, I'll leave first.
I have a different kind of trust in Bill, though, because of the nature of our friendship and how long we've known one another. He's a very altruistic person....much more than any other person I've ever known.
It hurts so much to go through this process. To face so many demons, all at once, and also to feel so alone, even if I do have a handful of people who are here supporting me. Bill says I protect people from myself. He says I tend to hold people at bay because I don't want them to see what's inside of me. There's a lot of truth to that.
But, when I say "alone," I mean the loss of so many "compassionate friends" (as Gary referred to them), who haven't once asked me how I am, if I'm okay, how I'm doing or if I need any help. I am terrified to go out - terrified because of the things he's said about me to so many people - things he had no right to say.
So I feel isolated and shunned; ostracized and judged and so ultimately betrayed and abandoned.
These are shameful feelings - shame, shame, shame. That word keeps coming up. It's like I've lived my whole life afraid of people seeing the "ugly" inside of me - the reality of what I've experienced - but I've hidden it pretty well, only to have it exposed without discretion or regard. So unfair; so cruel.
But I have plans - aspirations - and they're built on this foundation of pain that I've endured (and continue to endure) and will learn from and teach from. I will give it purpose, and make a difference.
I just have a long way to go and it hurts to know that this tangled mess of barbed wire inside of me - this mess that keeps shredding me from the inside out - is not my fault.
And for those who say "get over it" or "stop living in the past" or "move on" (and I know a few of those), I say this: That's what I'm doing. Healing from the past - a brutal past that you don't just "get over and move on" because that, my friend, is what I've always done. Stoically looked at my past as someone else's story, ignored it's effects and pretended it didn't happen.
Now I'm taking the real, authentic, true steps to heal and move beyond this place where my past and my demons invade my mind and my dreams and my life.
Compassion would suggest an understanding that we can't cover up our wounds - we must heal them - and it's important to understand how horribly invalidating it is to tell someone "get over it" (or any form thereof), and very painful. It's hard enough to take the time I need to take to go through this journey, never mind being judged for "living in the past."
Trust me. This ain't no picnic.
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