Ponies, butterflies...and shit.

Life is shit.

That's it, and it's true.

Sometimes I want to feel (what I suppose would be) the satisfaction of stabbing an idiot with an ink pen or have the guts to walk straight across traffic, into the median of an at-least-four-lane highway and scream obscenities at no one in particular, yet everyone all at once.

Life is shit.

"Teddy" isn't real and he does not talk to you. One day you'll learn neither is Santa real, any more than the Easter Bunny or the tooth fairy who somehow stuck some spare change under your pillow without moving you, yet a slight thump in the night makes you scream because you swear there's a monster in the closet (speaking of which, don't worry about letting your feet hang off the edge of the bed there's no monsters or sharks or anything under there that'll eat or grab your feet).

If you're lucky, you'll have been a wanted baby, and by "wanted," what I really mean is, "desired and planned by two people madly in love who die together in a hospital bed like in that best-kiss-ever movie." If not, chances are you were either an "oops" baby or they truly meant well, and believed they'd spend eternity together or they were selfish assholes who gave birth to you. (There's another set of people who are extremely young and naive' and know they will be able to handle raising a baby. It's not that they're selfish; just that they have issues and need someone to love, who'll never leave them. They just don't know it and probably never will).

Life is shit.

By the age of five you'll probably have been to the hospital or doctor's office for jumping on the bed or some other thing created with children's safety in mind. You'll either bust your head or break and arm or sprain a wrist. This will happen throughout your childhood, though, as you grow into your awkward pree-teen and teenage years, it will become more common any time you're near or with the opposite sex (unless you're homosexual, then it's the same sex). Invariably, you'll hit your teeth with the edge of a drinking container; you'll trip over a crack in the sidewalk; you'll bump heads when you go to kiss; you'll get naked in front of others, perhaps streak through the street or go skinny dipping, and someone will take your clothes, leaving you helplessly embarrassed.

Life is shit.

Your first time having sex will suck (no pun intended). If your'e a guy, you will probably orgasm before it's ever out of your pants but you'll play along and probably do one of two things: (1). you'll make something up or (2). you'll continue "fooling around" (what adults call "foreplay") and eventually be able to perform after a few more minutes, only that will last less time than it takes to enter a girl's vagina. If you're a girl, it hurts whether he's gentle or not. It is absolutely not like the movies. If you're at an average age (preferably at least 16 but nowadays as young as 12), take my word for it: don't look at it. If you look at it, you'll scream because there's no way that thing can fit inside your thing.

Yes it can and yes it hurts and yes, you'll likely bleed - if just a little - even if you've had experience with the finger before.

Life is shit.

You'll get your period while wearing white shorts in gym class or on the bus in the summertime, way too long before your stop. The cramps will feel like a hydraulic jack inside you and more than once, you're guaranteed to bite someone's head off (a warm heating pad and a good book helps, fyi, and sometimes you just need to spend a day sleeping).

You'll get a boner when Ol' Mrs. [Insert ridiculous name here] mentions anything that reminds you of sex and (God forbid) anyone saw or knew, you'd be teased about having a hard-on for the ugliest teacher in the entire school for the rest of your life. It's a given.

If you're lucky, you will be among the few who do not contract at least one sexually transmitted disease because, let's face it, condoms aren't always feasible and there's really no "good time" to put one on, once the ball is rolling... so to speak.

Life is shit.

You're going to drop your cell phone in the water more than once because "the first time was an accident and you weren't paying attention" but the second (third, fourth and fifth) time(s), it'll be because you continually believed it was simply a matter of not paying attention. This is true but not paying attention is what we do, so save yourself (and parents) some headaches and simply don't drink that Red Bull anywhere near the laptop or other electrical items.

Life is shit.

There's always going to be some girl at the prom who has a better dress than you; one who's more popular than you; one who's skinnier and/or prettier than you; one who's got the best hair; one everyone loves. There's also the one everyone feels sorry for and hangs out with or buys birthday presents for, just because of that. Incidentally, this one is usually the one who's terrified of you (unless it's you. Then you know who I'm talking about).

There's always going to be the guy who has it all. The one with the perfect hair; the one with the bigger penis (you know, because you looked one day with a fake sneeze at the urinal in 9th grade and, [although you never told anyone I mean, how could you, right?] the image will haunt you for your entire young adult life). There will always be the guy who has the newest car, the best computer, the sickest tattoo and the prettiest girls. Also, the penis fear thing will grow worse (no pun intended) as you overhear girls discussing the importance of size.

Life is shit.

People you love will die unnaturally and unpredictably. You'll sometimes be tough when inside you're crumbling and sometimes you'll crumble when you watch a Disney film. You'll refuse to cry in front of any other guy, but the other guy feels the same way...he just can't stop it and you awkwardly can't blame him because in some way you're going to envy him, even if you'll never show it.

You're going to experience at least one moment you'll regret the rest of your life: The moment you followed the leaders and made fun of/humiliated/hurt someone or something else. There'll be many moments of regret, but this one really sticks with you as if you've maimed a fluffy kitten.

Life is shit.

Parents fight. Parents hurt. Parents abuse. Parents divorce. Parents die. Not all of them (and most of the time, not all at once), but it happens. And if/when it does, some part of you will blame yourself and nothing anyone can say will change that until you grow up and realize the idiocy of blaming yourself.

Life is shit.

You're going to resent (unless you're real hard core, then you'll despise) anyone who believes other than you. At the very least, you'll quietly dispute them with disdain. You'll be indoctrinated in some way or another - most likely by your parents, grandparents, neighborhood or church. Possibly all of these. There will be the opposite side and they feel the same about you. Neither of you will know how to debate or have intellectual conversations about welfare or the state of the nation/union/world and you may even end up in a fight or two over it. (Seriously....People have died for Yankees vs. Red Sox arguments when lager and a pool cue were involved).

You won't always know what to say to someone who confides in you they've been raped or are being abused. You won't know when to "tell" and when not to "tell" and it'll drive you crazy, no matter which one you do, so the best thing to do is the one that helps the other person the most.


 Life is shit.

You're going to miss at least one extremely important, monumental thing in yours or your friends' or your parents'/cousins'/siblings' lives. At least. Probably a dozen. I'm being generous. Truth is, you just can't remember to be everywhere and do everything all at once.

You'll probably see a school counselor or private therapist at some point in your life, whether voluntarily or not, who will tell you exactly what I just wrote in the last sentence of the last paragraph. Still, those later-in-life therapists are usually necessary, even if you don't go to one.

Just think about doing it.

Trust me.

Life is shit.

Some sicknesses are invisible and the greatest wounds are usually internal (and not of the bleeding kind). This is part of why we abuse each other: because we don't see the hole we're shoving our thumbs into like a skewer to the eye. We hurt each other because we choose to be ignorant and unlearned about other cultures, religions, races and creeds and, instead....well, refer to paragraph above. You're not right. I'm not right. Nobody's right. We all simply have our indoctrinations. The lucky ones have a more complex doctrine with more information and education, but really they're not right, either (trust me, I'm one of them, and I know there's not a single one of us who has it right nor will we ever as long as we live on this earth).

And, though life is shit, there is this:

The smell of fresh cut grass; butterflies of magnificent, vibrant colors; star-spattered skies, bigger than anything you'll ever see; breathlessness from beauty of all kinds; synchronicity; seasons; the ocean; human resiliency; nature; the vastness of our own ignorance, which makes for titillating experiences when we first see or experience any of these things; the tininess of our personal world.

Our memories.

Love.

I wish I knew who to credit but I don't remember where I read or heard it (life is shit: the memory begins to fade and your skin will begin to wrinkle so get that tan if you want. It doesn't matter in the end), but when in doubt, consult your death bed. What will you think when you look back on [whatever] moment and made [whatever] choice? Will you hold regret? Will you be glad you did what you did? Will you wish you'd done something entirely different? What does your death bed say to you?

Life is shit.

But really, Life is all we've got.

Is DID bullshit?

My name is Cristina Johnson.

Last night was the first good night's sleep I've gotten in weeks.

I have tried guided meditations, hypnotic sleep meditations, binaural waves, and Schumann resonance. I have done everything to avoid taking the Trazadone (50 mg) I was prescribed.

Still nothing has really worked. Anxiety is the problem. It keeps me awake. I wish it were easy to describe. Maybe to a mother. They would understand that irrational jolt of anxiety that goes through you as you imagine the worst case scenarios a thousand times in your mind, within milliseconds.

Laying in bed at night, that's what it's like. Like electricity; A bolt of lightening and you have to, once again, try to focus...focus on the breath...count the breaths....hold your breath and count...and release...

And it works, until the next bolt of lightening.

Oh God I have no money. Oh God I have to leave the house tomorrow. Oh God my rent is due. Oh god I need a spare tire. Oh god the cat has worms. Oh god, what will I do for dinners next week? Oh god what if that  taxi cab driver comes back to my apartment and breaks in and rapes me?

One after another after another, it's like someone hitting you on the base of your skull with a two-by-four; it doesn't knock you out, but stuns you and you have to take several minutes to gather your bearings. (Trust me, I know what it feels like).

So I was grateful for one good night's sleep. I had no dreams that I recall. A blessing.

Probably because yesterday I saw a new "provider" - as they call them in my insurance network - who was supposed to be specifically for medication management but who, surprisingly, was familiar with - and had even worked with - people with DID.

Nothing was barred as I grit my teeth and ground in my heels against the diagnosis. "It's bullshit," I told her. "Can't be. It's bullshit. I just think it's bullshit."

She then gently told me of her first experience  dealing with a DID client. She had been in training at the time. She's had several such clients since.

She told me the typical DID case is the result of repeated, prolonged trauma before age 5.

Well, that suits me.

But still I wanted to kick and scream.

And yet....

I was validated.

"It's clear you have PTSD," she said.

Yeah I have heard that before. My entire life.

But I managed it.

DID....well that's different. It's crazy. It's nuts. It's insane.

Right?

I left feeling achingly validated but still confused.

She wants me to see a specialist who specializes in cases like mine: a history of complex trauma.

I'm open to it, but not holding my breath. My insurance is state insurance and most "specialists" don't take my insurance. I can't even walk outside. God. How could I go to work?

Actually the truth is: I could go to work.

I would work my ass off, make a great impression, be the best person on the job. And it would last - maximum - six months. Such as is my history.

Oh man it seems I don't even know myself.

I don't know.

It's just ....KIND OF nice to be validated. Again. Even though she didn't diagnose me with DID, she said she wanted to do further analyses. I'm okay with that, if skeptical. Over the past few weeks, I have dismissed DID as a diagnosis, despite the multiple times I was diagnosed with it but you must understand it was a psychological "rage" in the 80's and early 90's so I disregarded the first time. The second time I tried keeping an open mind. Still;.... Still... Ugh....

Online, some of the support groups and message boards and discussion groups I joined....the members just seem to jump right in and say, "Hi, My name is <so-and-so> and I have <three-five-ten-20..._> alters. My youngest is "Jimmy" (or Jamie or Annie or whatever) and they like ...ice cream...teddy bears....IDK..... who fucking knows but it's like they just take this horrid, horrid Dx and embrace it and run with it. Like it's an excuse to be crazy. Am I crazy? Are they crazy?

I mean yeah crazy shit happens to me but I'm not a dangerous psychotic.- except perhaps to myself at times - but I can't imagine ever hurting anyone else. Ever.

DID. Crazy shit.

My current therapist - the one who I vaguely remember saying (through a haze) - "You don't have PTSD," is a struggle.

It makes me wonder how much of anything I have ever told her, she believes.

The fear of any child, I suppose, who has been molested. I can't tell because nobody will believe me.

I feel that coming from Michelle. Irrational or not.

Just like I told my latest appointment for med management - Judy.

"I may cognitively know that my reactions are irrational, but something is broken - something broke - and I can't un-break it. I don't know how to not break it."

Her response:

"I would imagine that's always been the case for you. I would imagine you always shut down and shut out."

It was good to be understood, even if I don't understand it myself.

Judy was confident and calm. She seemed to know what she was talking about and dealing with. Even told me about her first encounter with DID. I listened but....still leary.

Sometimes I miss Gary....times like these. Times when someone steps in who understands and who may be able to give him insight. Maybe...maybe then he would have understood. Maybe then he wouldn't have done the things he did. Maybe then, he would still love me.

Then again, maybe he never did.

Maybe he simply can't love.

I don't know.

I saw his name again on Facebook the other day. For three days I was reeling...nearly de-friended the person who posted it. Not because she did anything wrong but because I can't see his name. I can't bear it. I am terrified of seeing him. I saw a white van the other day.... I panicked.

I hurt him.

But oh... Oh he hurt me so badly. Intelligent. God he's so intelligent and yet, so stupid. So foolish. Uneducated and uniformed.

And I love him.

And I love Bill.....

Bill is gone now. He's in PA working. Helping as much as he can.

I asked my adoptive mother the other day, after Bill left to go back to his little motel room, "Why does he do this stuff for me?"

"Because he loves you," she said.

And I just can't wrap my head around "why."

Why?

Why?

I watched a movie the other night called "Gardens Of The Night" and at one point the girl - stolen and sold into sexual trade, trained to believe her parents had abandoned her and were dead - was told her parents were alive and wanted her. She said: "They don't want me...they can't want me...you don't understand...I've done such horrible things..."

I cried...

I know that feeling.

How can anyone love me? Nobody knows all the "dirty."

Nobody.

Perhaps nobody ever will.

So confused.

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.

Untitled

My name is Cristina Johnson

I wasn't going to write this...it's very embarrassing and I have not yet decided whether or not I'll publish or post it. This is one of those catch-22's where you are so desperate to make a difference, so determined to inform and educate people, but it's at the sacrifice of your dignity, your privacy, and that of your friends and family. How much to say...how much to share? All of it? Just a little?

Today is the first time I have ever experienced the strongest urge I've ever had, to mutilate my genitalia. I hate it so much today. I want it gone, shredded, disappeared. I don't want it. It's ugly. It's sinful it's disgusting and dear God if I could take a razor to them, I would...right now. Render them useless.

I've read about this and I've even talked with and coached people who've endured this kind of "thing" and I never judged them, but I always thought, "Thank God I have never had that problem."

And now, here I am, standing in the same muddy pond with them, feeling those same excruciating feelings of wishing to God there were no such thing as a vagina, anus or penis.

Today I feel so bad, so rotten and dirty...filthy...

I have an issue with masturbation. I don't do it. My ex liked it when I did and often asked me to. He also often wanted me to use sex toys for his pleasure (sure as hell wasn't for mine). Still, when we split up, I took them with me (the toys).

I won't go into gory details but last night was the first time (that I remember) doing that...you know... on my own (that is, by myself, without trying to spare my partner [which I have often done] or please my partner). I actually didn't even remember doing it until I woke up this morning and found a broken "toy" in the garbage can. This happened to me once before: I woke up, shaken and startled that I had a "toy" in my bed. I had no idea how it got there, nor did I remember using it.

Once things started coming back to me from last night, I was utterly ashamed (the previous time, I didn't recall anything but this time it slowly started to come back to me). Even now, if I think about it, my body jolts and I am astonished. I abused myself....and now I want to abuse myself more, because I abused myself.

How fucked up is that?

Of course, the logical response to this is: "Masturbation is perfectly natural" or "Everyone has needs and everyone does it or has done it."

Yeah, but that's not me....I'm not "everyone" and to me, it's ...selfish....it's cold and disconnected...it's meaningless. Absolutely meaningless and Oh God So DIRTY! What kind of whore masturbates? Right? Must mean she wants it, right?

This is digging into my marrow....this is tearing me up. I feel like there's a sign around my neck that says "Stone me to death, I am a whore and I've done something really bad."

Another aspect is the DID....

Today I convinced myself that I would just throw them away (the toys), but then some voice inside my head just kind of laughed this wicked, frightening laugh. "Go ahead...I'll find another way..."

My DID friends will know what this means and what this feels like.

So I am stuck...stuck in this rut, hoping to get back on even ground.

Please don't be angry, disgusted, grossed out, repulsed or otherwise feel untoward, towards me. I cannot help this. I hate it. I hate it so much and I don't know what to do.

God I wish Bill was here.

Sex with Daddy, a Dream (TRIGGER WARNING)

I call it a dream, not a nightmare. I described it to Bill as if I were telling him how to bake cookies - no attachment, no feelings. I felt nothing, yet his response was, "Wow that's a nightmare!"

It is? I didn't wake up sweating or shaking or crying.... isn't that what nightmares are?

I have never (or don't remember ever) having a dream or dreams of any nature about my father (or any of my abuse or rapes, for that matter). I have a snapshot of him in my mind - this vision of him from more than 20 years ago, and though I've been told he's now fat and bald, I remember him to be beautiful...so handsome, hair that women would die for...he was a fabulously good-looking man. That is what I see in my mind...

And that is what I saw in my dream.

Begin Trigger
*
*
*
We were in my apartment, only it wasn't this apartment...it was somewhere else. I recall that I initiated sex with him. I was aroused. In my dream, I was the same age I am now. He did not say anything, just smiled as I commenced to performing fellatio on him.

From there, somehow I was able to have intercourse with him while also receiving oral sex from him. Again, I was wanting it. I initiated it.

Next thing in the dream, we are sitting on the floor, and I was leaning against a bed frame. There was no mattress or box spring - just a space where they used to be. Beneath where the bed was supposed to be, were a few pair of shoes - one of which was a pair of little girl's black shoes. I remember thinking, "Wow I haven't seen those in a long time." There were other shoes but those stick out the most in my mind.
 *
*
*
End Trigger

I told my father I was going to sweep while I could get to it...

As I began to sweep, I looked over and my father was drinking a glass of wine. I didn't know where he'd gotten it because, in my dream, I had no wine. Furthermore, he was drinking this "wine" from one of the margarita glasses that I left at Gary's house when we split up. I looked at what he was drinking and it wasn't wine; it was juice.

Coincidentally, this is what Gary's father used to do. He once told me, "I like to drink cranberry juice out of a wine glass so I can fit in."

Obviously there are things that stick out - the little girl's shoes....but one thing that troubles me deeply is, in the dream, as I was initiating, I was feeling the same feelings for my father, that I have for Bill. This hopelessly in-love feeling...this complete devotion.

It's worth noting, as well, that my adoptive father recently bought me a bed frame.

When trying to interpret this dream, I struggled. Usually Dreammoods is pretty good, but this left me blank.

It's also worth noting that I recently ran out of anti-depressants and have not been taking them. I have read that anti-depressants will amplify dissociation so I wonder if not taking these medications for a few days now, might have unblocked some things, along with my getting in touch with some intense new feelings that I have had with Bill.

After it all sank in....after I thought about it, I was saturated with shame. I felt like a whore. How could I even possibly dream this?? This is despicable!! *I* am disgusting! Who dreams this shit?!

Is this possibly me, getting in touch with parts of myself that I have never touched, via new, healthy, restorative relationships and feelings with new people?

I've never once given thought to whether or not I wanted to be molested. I didn't. Ever. Yet I willingly participated for a lot of different reasons. Some are obvious, others probably not. Being told by my therapist yesterday that it's okay for me to love....did that open up something?

Will these dreams continue? Will they get worse?

The "First Time" (sexual content)

My name is Cristina Johnson

It's been a tough week. I went through my phone and deleted all but one photo:

I was mesmerized by this picture. I cried as I deleted photos ...oh did I cry... but this one...this one I couldn't delete. It seemed to epitomize so much of our relationship. How much we looked like the "perfect couple" which - I'm sure - Gary always looks like with any woman. The "perfect couple." People never imagined we would split. This photo for some reason, had me bawling all day, all evening.

I cried. I called him. I left a sobbing voice mail. I was torn apart. So many memories...gone with a tap on the trash can icon.

My supporters have encouraged me to delete the photos from facebook as well. "Time to let go," they say kindly, supportively.

Then, today, I braved the hundreds of photos I have on my facebook, in an attempt to delete some, but not before offering (over voice mail) to let Gary have whichever ones he wanted. He never responded, so I will try to pick and choose the ones he'd like and try to get them to him.

But as I was going through them, deleting those of me and "Dee" and some of him and I (interestingly almost ALL at the bar or on the boat), I came across this one:

=

and I couldn't stop crying.

I sat in the living room, in the dark, except for two candles burning. I kept looking at this picture, which I couldn't bear. Across from me, on the coffee table is a beer bottle, cigarettes and a green lighter, the two candles going and a plate - given by "Dee" which I deliberately use as an ashtray because of the negative energy tied to it...I've already thrown away most of the junk she gave me). There's a small remote that goes to the shelf stereo where I sometimes listen to David Lanz, Leonardo Ludovico and George Winston (I prefer the sounds of piano, cello and piano in harmony)....

And a razor blade. It sits on the table, occasionally reflecting the flames on the candles. I hold my head and cry.

I used the blade last night, ran it along my thigh. Nothing major.

But I was in so much pain....

One thing taken  from an incest/rape victim at the age that I was, is the first time.

At the risk of embarrassing my daughter (which probably won't happen - she doesn't read my blogs), she texted me when she was 16. Told me she'd "gone all the way" with her boyfriend of a little over a year.

My feelings were mixed. I called her immediately.

My first question was obviously, "Did you use a condom?"

"Duh, yes."

My second question, spoken rather awkwardly, "Well...how was it?"

"It hurt like hell!" she said. She gave me further details - I suppose that's one of the good aspects of having her live so far away. She talks to me about everything. I listened intently. I was secretly so elated that her first experience was with someone she 'loved' (at the time)...that it wasn't traumatic.

I once told Gary that I was "still waiting for the first time," and he got angry, stormed off.

A couple years later, it came up again. This year - 2010 - we went to Selden's Creek. It was always awkward for Gary and I to be alone together. We never really knew how to "be" with each other. But this night, I drank a couple beers as we sat tied to a huge tree and a limb that was tangled in the marshy grass near the boat.

I started talking with him about sex. About that "first time" thing ....I explained it to him.

"I want to know what it was supposed to be like," I told him, afraid, ashamed.....not really knowing what his reaction would be.

We were surrounded by nature, not a soul in sight. We watched beavers and otters swim by, took the dinghy out and saw a whole flock of beautiful white swans. Trees like you've never seen. It was truly beautiful.

And by sunset, we were alone on the boat again. I made dinner. We continued talking, although I can't remember about what.

And then he attempted to give me my "first time"

He was attentive, gentle, kind....much different than usual. He spoke to me, kind words. He went slow, calmly, rather than treating me like a conquest, the way it typically felt.

I opened up that night, more than ever before. Tried - tried so hard - to stay present and be there with him, throughout the experience. Mostly accomplished, but still struggled. (I dissociate during sex).

It was a truly beautiful experience....

...I thought.


After that, we took a trip to Shelter Island. We anchored out at Sag Harbor. Oh the wind was horrendous. The boat wagged in the water like an excited dog's tail and neither of us could sleep. We anchored there about two or three nights.

We hadn't made love since Selden's Creek, so I was still lost in that emotional experience, as far as intimacy and I kind of believe that he, too, was somehow touched....although that belief was short-lived.

Anchored out about two hundred yards away from another boat, he decided he wanted to have sex in the cockpit, out in the open, in view of the other boat.

I completely shut down and every thought that he might have "gotten it" (as far as my need for tenderness, gentleness, slowness, calmness), disappeared in the wind. I did whatever he wanted....as usual. The "first time" was instantly deleted from my brain. I thought he cared....I thought he got it...Oh....I was so wrong.

That was in 2010....when he carved our initials in the picnic table at the beach at Coecles Harbor.

The First Time, I realize now, will never come. The reason is because for me to experience the "first time," I'd have to experience it hundreds of times, to replace the hundreds of times I was molested or raped. He thought, by giving me one "first time," I would suddenly be "fixed" and we could just go back to being an emotionally devoid, sexually perverse couple.

He was wrong, and so is anyone else who thinks they can give us back our first time. Our first time was taken. Taken. Oh my God how that hurts.

I'll never have that "first time" like my beautiful daughter did.....I envied her, I admit it, shamelessly but with utter love.

What's the first time supposed to be like?