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.

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.

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.

Inside Out and Backwards

My name is Cristina D. Johnson.

Another nightmare... about Gary.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The first was my father. Naturally.

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

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

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

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

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

And finally, Gary.

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

At the time, it was true.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I tried explaining, but he didn't care.

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

Disbelief and pain; anger and fear.

Some might ask: What about Bill?

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

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

Everything is backwards. Everything is inside out.

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

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

With him, I am hurt and confused. Shocked.

Scared.

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

Off Kilter

I don't know what's wrong with me.

Something is broken. I don't know what.

What's wrong?

I feel like I'm watching someone else's life go on and I'm just an observer. I feel like none of this is real. It can't be real.

The  good and the bad and everything in between. It doesn't fit. Everything is just confusing. What was I doing? Where was I going? What was I saying?

Nevermind, I'll just play this round of scramble or I'll water this plant. Did I remember the other one? Oh I need to fill this...I need to do that...I need to cover that...I need to ....what?

I am in this mode of isolation that is painful because it keeps me from the people most dear to me, yet it feels like.... like.......a huge fish on your hook, you feel it pulling - hard - but you don't know what it is that has ahold of it.

When I was young - 16 - I knew two guys. They were best friends. I don't recall their names now. One was short with dark hair and lots of acne. The other was tall and slim.

The short, dark-haired guy had a cyst on his neck. The cyst kept getting bigger so he asked the tall guy to cut it off for him.

I sat across from them. They sat on a love seat and the tall guy pulled out a knife - just an average pocket knife - and short guy leaned his head back, giving tall guy access to his cyst.

He took the knife and he cut the cyst as the short guy winced. I said nothing.... just sat there and watched.

The tall guy cut some more, making a sort of cross cut over the cyst, which was somewhere between the size of a golf ball and a marble. There was no blood.

The tall guy then laid the pocket knife down and began to squeeze the reddened flesh around the cyst. As he squeezed it, white stuff came out - it wasn't liquidy, more like ricotta cheese. Sorry, I know that probably ruined lasagna for a million people but that's all I can think of to describe it. He cut again, kept squeezing, pulling more out....and I just sat and stared.

The reason I am writing about this is because it seems to exemplify what I am feeling...what it looks like, to me, on the inside.

Feels like I'm being squeezed from the inside and all this gook is coming out, spreading, spreading, spreading...it just clogs up everything, blinds me, blindsides me. I don't want anyone to see this. I am absolutely terrified of it. What will come out? What is in there? Will it hurt?

Who am I?

Scared to Be Seen

My name is Cristina D. Johnson.

I was dreading going. My anxiety rose yesterday, knowing Trevor's dental appointment was today and I would have to go to Higganum. I'd have to go past those god forsaken exits. I'd have to pass by all those memories and worst of all...I'd see one of "them" - one of the friends...one of our "mutual friends."



When I was still at "his" place, people didn't realize that he was deliberately antagonizing me, while I was in the throes of horrible PTSD and DID symptoms. One of the cruelest things he did to me, was taunt me by telling me that he was telling everyone about me and he would not tell me who he told, nor what he shared. I'd spent five years keeping my issues pretty much to myself because I was ashamed of my past, my abuse, and my disorders. I deliberately, consciously chose who to tell what....and it wasn't a lot, and it didn't include many.

So having him tell me that he was spreading these rumors about me to God-only-knows who, threw me in a hole.

"I'm not controlling you," he said. "You can still go out," he said - as if I could or would ever dare show my face anywhere, ever again, knowing  the lies and rumors he'd spread about me everywhere. And I do mean, EVERYWHERE.

I was being tormented daily as he went out and made sure to alienate any possible friend I could have by partying with them and playing the victim. I was trapped. Trapped in shame. Trapped in unworthiness. Trapped in my own world, in his goddamn basement.

Among the "friends" that we had, there was one - Liz - who we weren't necessarily close to, but who we sometimes boated with. Liz was a blast. She was always bright and bubbly and fun to be around.

But as we went through our break-up, he was out partying with every single female friend I knew, and some that I hardly knew. He made sure he pissed on all his territory, including befriending anyone I could have possibly reached out to for friendship or support. Including "Dee" who would proclaim to be my friend, only to go out and party with him. (Yeah, some friend. Go party with the guy who cheated on your 'best friend')

He was partying on the boat almost daily and then almost nightly going to the bars - all of them - to make sure I was revealed (and in my weakened state, I could only assume the worst because of how he was treating me at home, which nobody knew, because nobody asked).

I was scared to go to the dentist today because Liz works there and she's a 'boater friend' - one of the few left on my FB friend's list. In fact, possibly the only one of our 'boater friends' left on my friend's list. I never deleted her because, well, I don't really know.

Anyway, we go to the dentist - but not before I take a risperdal disintegrating tablet - because of my out-of-control angst.

How much had he told Liz? What did she know about me? What did he tell her? What has she heard? She probably hates me! Oh God I don't want to go.

We went in and there she was behind the glass panel that separates the office from the seating area. She had her back turned, her brown hair was pulled up with a bit of it hanging down the left side of her face. She wore a cocoa-colored dress with a beige short-sleeved sweater. I was relieved when the other woman (I don't know her name), spoke to me instead of Liz.

But my relief was short-lived. As soon as the other lady spoke to me, Liz turned around and saw me. I shrank inside. I wanted to melt right then in that moment. I wished I could just instantly become invisible. I felt like I was diseased. Stay away from that girl - she's fucked up kept going through my head. I bet that's what she's thinking.

I could hardly breathe.

She smiled.

"Hey guys!" she said to Trevor and I.

She doesn't mean it. She's just smiling to be nice. She really thinks I'm a disgusting whore or something.

"Hey. Trevor's here," I said. "He's been really looking forward to this appointment!" I said with sarcastic enthusiasm (he needed to have three cavities filled) and also trying to lighten the mood.

Liz opened her side of the glass and started asking Trevor how he liked the new school as well as her experience when she was young at school with block scheduling and some other things.

They called Trevor back. My legs wouldn't stop bouncing. I was mortified. I was sitting there, alone.

She walked out into the lobby. She sat next to me. My heart was pounding.

"How are you doing? How is everything," she asked.

I almost cried, but held back.

"Okay. It's hard."

She proceeded to talk to me as if she cared about me (probably because I'd called and cancelled Trevor's last appointment in hysterical tears and Liz was the one who took the call and I told her I just couldn't do it at that time). She started to show genuine concern and she listened as I spoke. She touched my leg. She assured me and smiled and was kind.

She got up and rubbed my arm, and went back to her desk.

I sat there with tears in my eyes which I quickly sucked up. I was not going to break down at the dentist's office.

Finally Trevor was done and he brought his paper up to Liz.

"Okay you're all set!" she said joyfully.

I said, "You know....do..can I ...." and I walked around the counter and it was as if she knew what I was going to say. She stood and I began to cry, such an ache....God such an ache.

"Thank you," I cried as I hugged her tight. I didn't care who saw.

"You're a beautiful person," she said.

As we were walking out, she hollered at Trevor, "Take care of your mom. She's a beautiful lady!"

I drove home with much less anxiety.

As I think about it now, it's hard to absorb that kind of treatment, those kinds of sentiments. It aches to be treated so compassionately.

Living in Limbo

My name is Cristina D. Johnson

Had another nightmare about "him" last night. Third night in a row, only last night I woke up crying.

There are good things happening, of course. I mean I have the help and support of some wonderful people.

Therapy's been tough because of the concept of boundaries and relationships. I suppose it all goes back to living in that black-and-white world. Yes or no. No gray.

In therapy, though, it's obvious that things are out of whack here at home. My new apartment is beautiful. I have an antiquated kitchen but it's super roomy. All wood floors (except the living room) and I have a dining room, living room, and upstairs I have two bedrooms and a bathroom and then, upstairs (where I am now) is my private space - my 'writing room' as I call it - and outside each window is nothing but trees and green. The breeze blows through the windows and I hear the rustle of the leaves and it should be soothing.

But I feel like I'm in limbo - I feel as if I have lived here now for about two months and I haven't exhaled. So much is uncertain and I sometimes feel like I'm being taken for granted (hence the conversation about boundaries in therapy).

Part of my apprehension is knowing "he" has the power to take it away from me and he knows it, too. I would like to think he wouldn't be so cruel, but then again, if history is any indication, there's really no limit to the cruelty so who knows? I don't know..... I feel so stupid.

Bill helps me a lot. We talk every day: morning, lunch time and after he gets off work. He swears he's not going to let me go again. There's something very powerful in hearing him say those things. Not that he only says those things, but he says other things - beautiful things - and he's absolutely wonderful to Trevor, who adores him.

Bill knows I question my relationships now - an unfortunate truth - and he says he's glad I do this. I am grateful for that space - for that lenience and compassion. He's the only one who truly saw the every-day struggle I went through after the break-up so he knows how deep it goes. During those days and nights, he nursed me so gently. I will never, ever forget this.

Yet at the same time, I can't help but feel this timeless kind of love for him. It's always been that way between us. Very unconditional. Very honest. In many ways, he raised the bar as far as relationships go. In many ways, "the other guy" never would or could measure up, even though - to his credit - he had some redeeming qualities.

I have yet to call it home. It's "the house" or "the apartment" and Michelle (my therapist) says that's because everything is still unsettled. (Also I have Bill's cat - Snowball - and I'm not supposed to have animals so I'm scared of that and not sure how to handle it yet).

Michelle says we can't even get into trauma work until my life is no longer stressful and in crisis. She's right. I can't even think right now. Just scared of everything.

Most of the time in my life - in the past - I have not had to worry like this. Things just were, what they were and I never expected to have a home - always expected to be abandoned or kicked out or whatever. But now that I'm trying so hard to actually have a home, I am terrified of losing it.

Everything is in limbo and my back sometimes feels like it could snap.

Left to Myself

My Name is Cristina D. Johnson

"What's wrong?" Michelle (my therapist) asked as she opened the door. My eyes were brimming with tears. Bill sat in the waiting room with me, watching me intently. Rose to give me a hug.

"I'll be okay," I lied.

As I walked into Michelle's office, the crying started. "I can see you're upset," she said as she handed me a box of tissues.

"We just found out Bill is leaving for Illinois this weekend," I choked out.

 She sat quietly for a moment. "Let's just take a minute and breathe," she said. I huffed out a few labored breaths. It felt like someone was squeezing my chest with a vise.

"What else?" she asked, intuitively knowing there was more.

"I had to talk to Gary yesterday. That didn't help."

She nodded.

"And I was going to go see Carolyn but I backed out - I just can't do it. I'm not ready," I said.

She nodded again and I was still sobbing, although I'd calmed slightly.

"So let's just take a minute and get you  grounded," she said calmly. "You have a lot going on and we have a whole session to talk about it."

I nodded and we just sat there in silence for a couple of minutes.

Bill has been here for about a month, although I've known him over twelve years. We've worked together, lived together, dated, then lived together again, and then parted ways as friends. We both understood - to our core - what unconditional love is and we both agreed that our friendship was more valuable than trying to be in a relationship.

And so it's been for years. He's been a constant friend, not just to me but to my son as well.

For the past month, he has been my constant companion. He's seen me through multiple meltdowns, slobbering, snotty, trembling break-downs over my break up. He's listened to me sob over my pain, held my hands when I was shaking and wiped my tears away with his thumbs. He's stood by as I vomited and gagged and was there with a wet washcloth when it was over, each time telling me, "Don't apologize. You don't have anything to apologize for."

He came initially to see how I was doing and, in his own words, he'd never seen me as bad as I was. The things I was going through with the break-up, the agony of my therapy and the flashbacks...everything and he swore he would do whatever he could to get me out of that house, away from the horrible triggers and abuse I was experiencing and somewhere safe, where I could be independent.

He kept his word. He has helped me in every way possible. He has been my friend. My only friend. My true friend. He has made me laugh, eaten dinner with Trevor and I, and sat silently with me, intuitively knowing me so well, that he knew I needed simply to think. He's read every blog (and always has), and every book or article I've shown him. He's given me more support than anyone ever has, in my entire life.

"What is it you're afraid of?" Michelle asked me, regarding Bill leaving.

"Being alone," I answered. "Not belonging here. I don't belong here. I am scared to go to the grocery store. I'm scared to go anywhere," I cried. "He's my only friend."

Which led to the conversation about Carolyn and Gary.

"Why do they have so much power over you?" she asked.

"I don't know. I wish I knew. I gave them that power by letting them in. By getting close to them," I answered.

She nodded. "So how can you take that power back?" she asked.

"I don't know. I can't even stand the thought of either of them. I can't stand the thought of the things they did. I can't stand that he's doing the things he's doing. It literally makes me sick in my stomach."

And the truth is, I don't know. I don't know how.... I don't know.

"Bill has been a helpful distraction for you," she said. "His leaving is going to allow you to experience the grieving process."

"I've grieved and Bill has been there through it. I've gotten angry, I've wept..."

"Yes, but now you're going to be doing it alone and maybe that's what you're supposed to do," she said. Then she paused and she said, "I'm just going to throw this out there....it could be way, way off..."

"Maybe the years you spent with Gary were meant to bring you here, to this place. This place where you are feeling emotions that you've never felt before."

I'd actually thought about that - more than once - and I told her so.

"You say you're disconnected but I see you feeling feelings. Maybe, when Bill is gone, you'll experience the feelings of grief and pain and all that comes with grieving."

It was a tearful session. I feel sick - extremely nauseated. All of my "friends" are partying on his boat, oblivious to the PTSD and DID symptoms I've had to endure because of the things he did to me.

Bill is my only friend.

And he is leaving.

And I am afraid.

Still Reeling

Day started off okay until I logged onto facebook and got sliced in two with photos I really don't care to see.... photos of former friends on his boat. It sent me reeling, gagging again. It seems so insensitive to me. And I spent most of the day with my heart pounding in my throat (I try not to take the anti-anxiety meds unless it's really necessary) so I finally gave in and took one this evening.

I wish there was closure but there isn't and I don't feel there ever will be because he can't be kind and I can't physically, mentally or emotionally handle even hearing his voice. I wrote him a letter...that's all I can do.

I guess it's hard for people to understand... I know it is.

Bill is leaving and it'll be just Trevor and I. Not sure when, but probably within the next week. I am afraid of this. Afraid of being alone and going through all this. I hide from people...don't like asking for help so I take it on the chin and then lay it on my therapist's lap, praying for it to just go away.

My anxiety is through the roof. I want the water so bad. I want to sit by the river and feel the breeze - especially now, it's so cool and refreshing outside. My thoughts keep revolving around all the things that are happening (and have happened). Going to sleep, I am overwhelmed with anguish and rage, both.

I wish I could go back to the way I used to be...I wish I could clear my mind but it's just haywire and I can't control it.

We went to the store today and I knew I was dissociating because it felt like I was watching myself walk to the car. I kept trying to come back to myself, but I couldn't - I was still seeing the picture from facebook. It hurt me so much...it really cut me bad.

I am still in disbelief. I am just gobsmacked...the hell of those last several weeks. The nightmare of being so tortured, so heartlessly. The abuse...the abuse he got away with, and came out looking like a rose while he vilified me and mindfucked me.

I just can't believe it. He said he loved me.

I told Michelle (my therapist) that one of the hardest parts is how I have to start all over again, now. I trusted him more than anyone and now - after being kicked and threatened while I was at my lowest - I fear ever trusting again. Especially a man. And then the "friends"....I'm just so hurt.

And afraid.

So scared to go out anywhere or be seen anywhere...  I fear isolation once Bill leaves because that is what I will do. I will isolate and try to work through all this on my own and the emotions tied to child abuse, rapes, etc. are so intense (those I've been able to feel), that I am terrified.

But I won't stop.

Oh the Irony (lesson learned)

My name is Cristina D. Johnson

I wrote "It's All About Image" yesterday and - at the time - it felt so damn good to have my say. It felt so good, to tell my side, to share my pain and to elaborate on things that I'm sure were never shared during "his" many nightly escapades.

But one thing I am, is introspective and this morning it occurred to me that by writing that blog, I was doing exactly what I was accusing him of doing: protecting my image.

Even though the blog was sincere and I was sincerely angry and felt betrayed by a number of people, the bigger part of me knows that writing it was wrong and some of the things I said were things I shouldn't have.

The bigger part of me knows things I won't ever repeat about him, and also knows that I loved him - still do - and that's what hurts, but it's easier to just be angry. The truth is, I am still reeling, still stunned, and still devastated. I've been in what they call the "crisis stage" for a little over a year, and having the additional crisis of a break-up on top of it, was literally sickening. My heart was so broken. He'd promised....and broke my trust and it hurt so much and then he left me there, alone, talking to others about me, and the only thing I could do was be angry, although I cried...oh God I cried ...and still do.

So there I was blogging about image, in a vain attempt to protect my own image which, in my mind, is destroyed by the things he said about me to God-only-knows who. I am terrified to go anywhere or see anyone because of the events of the past several weeks and because of the crisis stage I'm already going through.

So in writing "It's All About Image" I was wrong and though it felt good to rid myself of some of the toxicity inside of me that's been eating me alive, it was not really me being true to myself, and honestly it was dishonoring at least some of what was good - there were a few good times. A few.

I am still not convinced that he ever loved me. Perhaps this is my issue, but perhaps it is true that he didn't. I have my own theories on this but he - on a few occasions (though not many) - showed some tenderness and I won't forget that.

But I will never, ever forget how painful the betrayals were, either.

Bare and open - here I am. Hurt beyond words, devastated, crushed and feeling so deeply betrayed and still in love with him - this man who's seeing someone else and who hurt me so deeply in ways he will never fathom.

My image is this: I am afraid and I feel alone, save for a couple of very good people who are helping me through this stage, although I tend to keep things in a lot because it is my tendency to hide. I am disappointed by the number of "friends" who walked away... just gave up... yet I'm not surprised. I am afraid to be seen by anyone, anywhere and I spend a lot of time preoccupied, confused, sometimes triggered, sometimes terrified for reasons I don't understand. I can't look at myself in the mirror - I am ashamed of who I am and how I look and I feel very awkward in social situations so I fake it.

I am so wounded, so hurt...and it all came out as anger in my last blog. I am so scared because I took it upon myself to tell everyone on FB about my story - at least in brief - and took the risk of sharing. The fear of that- fear of rejection and humiliation and judgment - is very, very big. So my image is out there....here I am.