Sick and sweet

Sickly sweet
like poisonous sap
drinking your innocence
you sit on his lap

An explosive laugh
contageous to guests
as thunderous
as his angry fists

Smile so bright
music so pulling
his web of deceit
so soft, so lulling

trapped inside it
there is no escape
you love him
you hate him
despite the rapes

stay away little girls
you're of no consequence
Daddy doesn't care
about your innocence

Only One

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

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

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

Appeasement does not work for me.

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

But for naught.

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

I have therapy tomorrow.

I have almost nothing to say.

I am so numb. So, so numb.

Voiceless, wordless, needless.

Nothing. Obviously.

Like stone

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anything

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

Be sophisticated
Be untamed
A socialite
Or just unnamed

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Denial

Sitting in the seats
watching the show
half-hearted, half-listening
to things I want not to know

Stories and flashes
Flicker inside, too
"Yes, girl,"
"Yes this happened to you."

"NO IT DIDN'T!"
some part of me fights
yet from that same place
buried deep, a spark of light

Not of judgment nor fear
not of hatred or guilt
just a glimpse - a tiny scrape -
in a wall I have built.

"Impossible," I think
And I turn the movie off
Shut down the fight
Turn off the light

Still I ponder
And some part of me aches
"You'll know me one day,
Whatever it takes."

I shush it with distraction
Any will do,
Still I hear that whisper,
"Yes, honey, this happened to you."

Tears

Tears fall without a sound, but scream so loud.

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

Ice Cubes? Really??

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

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

Strike one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

!?!?!

Seriously?

Jesus.

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

Anyway that's just me ranting.

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

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

That's a tough one.

Peace?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Forgiveness/Judgment

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Addendum:

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

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

But I can't.

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

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

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

Emptiness (Poem) (possible trigger)

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

...so it seems, anyway.

(C) Cristina D. Kuptzin-Johnson, 2013

The Photographer and the Doberman

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

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

I hope it helps someone.

True Scenario from a Real Former ‘Incorrigible Teenager”

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

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

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

Because I am a survivor.

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

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

But….

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eventually, I move closer. Just a little.

And closer.

Just a little.

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

I move closer. Just a little.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Strands of Trust

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hardest Parts

My name is Cristina D. Johnson.

All of my life, I have been able to recount numerous attacks - physical, mental, emotional, sexual - but never with any connection to them. Like telling someone else's story. This keeps me from burdening people.

It's occurred to me lately that perhaps the hardest part of all of it, is accepting that it happened to me. These things happened to me. Or, perhaps, the hardest part is accepting that these things affected me.

Maybe it's a two-part hardest part.

I still talk about my experiences from afar. I think maybe I do this because I fear peoples' reactions. I don't know about others, but for me it's always been difficult/uncomfortable to be in the presence of someone who is crying.

Not always, but most  times.

So I spare people. I talk about it as if I am talking about the latest movie I saw.

So what's the fix for this?

How do I break that barrier in my mind that prevents me from accepting these things? How do I break through that wall that keeps the memories away? How do I make sense of the fragments I hold?

How do I begin to feel?

I am not PTSD. I am not DID.

I am Cristina Johnson.

But who is Cristina Johnson?

What will I be, when the walls and barriers are gone and the feelings show up? What will happen?

Who will I be?

Pushing Away (TRIGGER WARNING)

For three days, I have been really beating myself up. I feel bruised inside.

I've reached out to people...people I no longer speak to or otherwise communicate with. See, I have this obsession with not being liked. I can't stand to not be liked. There are two defenses to this: Either act however you have to act, to make them like you or treat them like shit so they have a good, solid reason not to like you.

Anyway, I've thought a lot about my past. It hurt that those I reached out to didn't reciprocate because I wanted to just...redeem myself, I guess. I wanted to apologize, make amends. It didn't happen.

Today, after I went on a three-day bashing splurge wherein I laid into those closest to me for absolutely no reason at all and said things I would never say, I find myself thinking back to my adolescence. Even before that, really.

See I never gave anyone a chance growing up. I never let anyone close to me. I did try, but she betrayed me. Lied to me and sent me back to hell. That was it.

I went to the police and the prosecutor in St. Louis when I was kidnapped and I was treated like the villain. That was it for my trust of authority and the police. No way, no how. Not ever.

I told Michelle during a recent session that the police found me walking down the street one day. It'd been a week or so since I'd been attacked and beaten. My lips were split wide open. It was really ghastly. I couldn't talk or eat for days. As they healed, I had two scabs on my lips from the wounds. The police stopped me and asked me where the drugs were. I had no idea what they were talking about. "We can tell you smoke. You have the burns on your lips."

I was speechless. I didn't tell them what happened. They didn't care.

Just took me in, another juvenile in the system. Another juvenile who wanted nothing to do with anyone. Didn't want to be touched or be near anyone. Didn't belong anywhere.

So I went off on everyone. I fought like a hood rat fights. I even kicked a pregnant girl once in the stomach. She cheated at cards and I called her out on it. Hey...she threw the first blow.

I've always felt bad about that.

One time, when I was on Vandeventer street, I was leaving a store and one of the regular guys who hung outside the door said to me, "Watch out for the Goodson brothers." I looked at him. "They're pimps. Their whole family is in it - mom, dad, sisters, brothers..."

I nodded. Never heard of 'em and didn't give them another thought. I was invincible. I'd been raped before and I'd escaped before.

Sure enough, two days later a man approached me. He was wearing a long beige winter coat and a nice hat. He was dressed nicely. He came up to me and handed me a card. I don't remember the first name but the last name stuck out: "Goodson."

I got away from him quickly.

But they found me.

The man at the store who had warned me was right: The whole Goodson clan was part of this huge prostitution ring.

But first you have to be initiated.

I couldn't tell you a thing about the house except there was a very narrow set of stairs and they were painted white. At the top of the stairs was a white door and it had three deadbolt locks on it. Beyond the door was an end table with drugs on it and a bed.

I was forced up those stairs and somehow it still didn't even occur to me that I might be in danger. Again, it wasn't anything I hadn't experienced before. So they'll take my body. So what? I'll get away.

They took me in the room and they locked the door. They took turns raping me every way they could. They made me perform oral sex. They performed it on me as well. They raped me vaginally and anally and if I cried they hit me. I cried most when they performed oral sex on me because I was terrified of orgasm...plus it hurt. It was very uncomfortable. I was 13 years old. They were training me to be put on the stroll and they were trying to indoctrinate me so that I would accept them as my bosses. Letting me know there was no escape.

They took my clothes so there was only a sheet to cover up with. They made me smoke "whack" (PCP) and marijuana - both of which I abhorred. I never was into drugs much.

Again, I felt nothing. Not emotionally anyway. I was busy plotting an escape. Any escape. When they would leave me alone in the room, I would check the  deadbolts - locked by keys - and I knew I couldn't escape. The room was in the attic so there was no way to get out the window.

Finally - I don't know how much time passed - I begged to go to the bathroom. They would not give me my clothes but, instead, allowed me to wrap up in the dingy, nasty sheet that I had just been violated on repeatedly. I didn't care. Didn't think about it.

I went to the bathroom. I was alarmed at first because I didn't think I could fit out of it. Plus it was on the second floor. It was one hell of a jump.

They were outside the door, waiting for me so I had to open the window quietly.

I made the jump. Barefoot. The pain was excruciating but nothing compared to what I was escaping from. I wonder how long it took for them to realize I was gone.

This is why you don't let people close to you....because you see what people are capable of. Thirteen years old. How could they? Not that it matters - it doesn't matter why they did it. What matters is they did and it hurt me - not just physically but in deeper ways, too.

So the police, whenever they'd pick me up yet again, were the enemy. The psychiatrists were enemies. The therapists, doctors and guards were all enemies. None of them cared and I didn't want them near me. They only hurt me more and God I couldn't wait to get away. I just wanted to have my life - my own life - with nobody in it. If there was anyone I could trust, it was myself. That was it.

What a lonely existence, I am realizing now.

People who are close to me now, I push away and sometimes hurt. There's no excuse and there are no words to describe how it feels inside to be that way.

Right now I am just afraid to say anything. I am afraid to decide anything. I'm afraid to do anything. I'm afraid that 13-year-old girl is going to kick whoever comes close and I don't want to be that. Not anymore.

Reality

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.

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.

Ouch...

My name is Cristina D. Johnson.

Today was a tough, tough day.

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

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

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

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

That was it.

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

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

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

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

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

Disconnected.

Until the end. The very end.

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

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

The assault scene was difficult, but I managed it.

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

And I felt it.

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

Why? Why? Why?

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

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

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

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

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

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

I thought...

But he almost killed me.

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

And it did.

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

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

Did I scream? I don't remember.

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

I must've fought, right?

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

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

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

Did I learn to not say no?

I am so confused and hurt and bewildered.

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

These feelings were too much. Too hard.

Too much.

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

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

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

There is more.

I shut it down. I am good at that.

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

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

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

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

Get Over It

My name is Cristina D. Johnson.

Some things I have enjoyed my entire life. I can think of two, really: music and writing.

I mean, I have enjoyed doing other things and going places but, as far as things I've always loved consistently, I can think only of these two things.

There are feelings I have enjoyed. I love the feeling of helping someone.

I have an affinity towards minorities and have been known to randomly hug strangers because I felt compelled to do so and, I admit, I actually feel better when I help an Arab or African-American than I do when I help a white person. I don't know why, really. I guess I always seem to go for the underdog. Maybe I'm just a self-righteous narcissist. Who knows?

But I know the feeling of having the opportunity to take advantage of someone, and, instead, making sure the situation is right. I like that feeling. I like the feeling of helping. Of knowing I have done something helpful for someone.

But music and writing have always been there. Always.

I suppose they're similar: Both express, for me, what I can or could never say. My son - my oldest - is the same way, as far as music.

I enjoyed those things and those feelings. I still do.

Why would I choose to be so afraid so much so often of so many things?

Too many people say "get over it" or "stop living in the past" or any manner of such things.

As if I am choosing to be this terrified bundle of nerves every day. As if I enjoy being terrified of being too loud when I open the silverware drawer in my kitchen, or stand in front of a window. As if I prefer or somehow choose to tremble before I even step out my door.

I know what it is to live in my head. To be in in denial. I know what it is to say "Fuck all you crazy psycho-babble idiots. My past doesn't affect me and I don't NEED your fucking help," as I carry on every day as if nothing ever happened. As if I had the perfect cheerios childhood.

Sometimes it feels like you're being admonished for yielding to the agony that complex trauma causes. It hurts. It hurts and it confuses to hear these messages.

You think you're doing the right thing by seeking help - and it is so fucking scary, let me tell you - yet people say things like, "Aren't you allowing yourself to be trapped by your past?"

Well...yes. Yes, and no.

But if I don't get help, I will forever be trapped by my past because my existence will be nothing but a lie. My being will be a fraud. I will never know who I am nor what I can do... I will never know those things that I truly enjoy besides music and writing. I will never know my voice. I will never know a man's good touch. I will never know authentic love. I will never understand what it is to have someone do for you, just for the sake of doing for you. I will never know what it is like to not go a minute without thinking I owe someone sex (or sexual favors) in return for their gifts (whatever they may be).

So, am I stuck in my past?

Yes. I am trying so hard to dig out of this crater that fate handed me.

Please don't judge or chastise me. It is so bloody hard to do. It hurts more than anything I have ever known and opening up, trusting, being vulnerable is the hardest thing I have ever done in my life.

I am just now learning...crawling... reaching and trying.

Get over it?

Dear God I am trying.

Memories, flashbacks, dissociations and therapy

My name is Cristina D. Johnson. This entry may trigger.

In north St. Louis during the late 70's and early 80's, I was on the streets most of the time and, particularly, between ages 11 and 15. Intermittently, I would hitchike to various places. I was raped often, beaten just as often, especially when I was in St. Louis. Or, "home," as I thought of it.

After my kidnapping, I felt....  I don't know.... as if I belonged there, on the streets. I'm sure it began before that - I mean, I remember not feeling at home with Grandma and Pop because of the things Daddy did - but being on the streets became predominant after the kidnapping. I was 11.

After that, I was deemed "incorrigible" and made a ward of the state. I was no saint. I stole from my grandparents. I also shoplifted from Sears and Ben Franklin. Clothes, mostly. If not for Sears and the occassional clothesline with jeans my size clipped to it, I would never have had clean clothes.

I didn't steal with malice, although I know it could have been seen that way. Especially in Grandma and Pop's case. I even stole from my great grandmother, who was loved by all. She had a little green cup that sat on the mantle in the dining room, behind the column at the end. It was a coffee cup that was only one half the size of a normal cup. In gold letters on the green surface, it read: "Well you asked for a half cup of coffee."

I remember this is where she kept her cash. There wasn't a lot, but there was a lot for a teenage, incorrigible ward of the state. Pop kept his cash in the top left desk drawer. Grandma kept hers in her purse. She also kept her watch in a little box that sat on the counter behind her, where she also kept her address book and other things.

I stole the watch once.

Stole the car two or three times - don't remember.

Sam, the dog, knew me and I wasn't scared of him.

Most of the time, the money I took was to keep people from hurting me. To recruit allies, I suppose. It didn't really work. They would never be "friends" - they were ghetto opportunists.

One of the ways these men took advantage of women was to get them high. I never (fortunately) was into drugs as a kid. I had access and I did them because you couldn't not do them. Not doing them, was as good as wearing a badge and saying, "Hey I'm a narc," and was sure to get you beaten, if not killed.

It was always a no-win situation. You knew if you did the drugs, you'd be raped/beaten, but if you didn't, you'd possibly get worse so you just rolled the dice, hoped for the best.

The most dangerous drug I ran into was "whack." Back then crack was really becoming popular and I did it but didn't like it. Also did weed and coke but "whack" (aka PCP/Angeldust) was used to dominate.

Last night a friend of mine contacted me. She shared a harrowing experience she'd just had. I didn't think about it at the time, but as I laid down to go to sleep, I realized the experience she related to me was identical to a number of my experiences with "whack." I asked her this morning some basic questions and I firmly believe she was given it, without her knowing.

This brought me back to a memory of a cabby who took me to a motel. I don't remember the situation or circumstances; just that I'd smoked whack (which I HATED) and somehow ended up in a motel room. I was raped by the cabby. I recall watching him take my clothes off as I lay helplessly on the bed. I recall seeing him as if he were hundreds of yards away. I recall trying to talk, but not knowing if I was talking.

Whack didn't always affect me this way, but this wasn't my only experience like it.

Talking to my friend, I could taste it. Smell it. Came back to me as if I'd just smoked it. When I say I hated it, I cannot articulate how much. The smell, the taste never leaves you. To this day, sometimes I smell it at random places and it always makes me sick. I absolutely hated it.

I also recall being raped and beaten by a group that I'd been sold to. One of the perpetrators that I recall very vividly was Lafayette. I recall him vividly because he beat me horribly - worse than anyone else - and he had the largest penis. He caused me great physical pain and more than one bloody face. If I cried, as he raped me, he would punch me wherever was convenient - typically, on my face or head.

During the first incident (I ran into Lafayette and his gang multiple times. Lafayette was not the 'leader' but he was very violent and dominant), I smoked whack, but I remember Lafayette very clearly. He raped me multiple times - both with the gang, and alone - throughout my time on the street.

 None of this is really new to me. Although I remember some of it or, at least half of it, I am completely disconnected from it, too.

So this morning, when I thought about "whack," and I talked to my friend and surmised that she'd been given PCP, I became angry..... angry for her, sad for her, scared for her....

And it took me back to that motel room.

Strange thing is, I feel nothing for myself. If not for my friend (who is in college), I would feel nothing but because she's so young and because of my own experiences, I felt it vicariously. Felt the anger vicariously. Felt the violation vicariously. Couldn't shake it.

Went to therapy.

Talked with Michelle about a few things, then finally told her about the cabby, my friend, whack and Lafayette.... some details.

When I finished telling her, she informed me I'd told her about the cabby before.

I was stunned.

I began to cry.

I had never told anyone about the cabby. Not to my knowledge, except my friend and that was just this morning.

I shook my head. Told her, "no."

"Yes," she said gently. "It was Friday."

I shook my head. Cried, disbelieving.

"I thought...I thought Friday.... I thought we talked about rent Friday," I sobbed.

"It could've been Monday," she said calmly, "But it was definitely last week."

Tears fell fast. I was embarassed. "I've never told anyone except [my friend] about the cabby," I told her.

"You didn't get into as much detail as you did today, but you told me about it."

I was floored.

"Funny thing is," she went on, "You used almost exactly the same words, although you didn't give as much detail and you haven't ever mentioned Lafayette."

I cried. I was mortified.

Quickly pulled myself together. Apologized.

She said, "This is that double-edged sword. You want to remember, but when you remember, it hurts."

I nodded in ascent.

"I think things are just starting to come up for you. These memories are coming back."

It sucks to not remember, remembering. I hate not remembering.

I told her that.

I wonder what else I've told her.

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.