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.

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.

Tired

Shame, shame, shame.

It permeates me. The past few days have been those kinds of days where I just wished I didn't exist.

I'm tired.

I'm lost.

I am ashamed.

It's very difficult to accept "I love you" from anyone, when there's not one single redeeming quality you can see about yourself.

My last session was beyond humiliating. So much so, that I almost didn't go today, which Michelle noticed.

"I'm glad you came today," she said, knowing a million parts of me were pulling me away, telling me to run.

Sue William Silverman wrote a number of books and is also a friend of mine on facebook. She's a very brave woman - she put things in her memoir about being molested and abused by her affluent father, and followed it with a sequel about sexual addiction and finally "Fearless Confessions" - a book about how to write about these things. Quite the appropriate title, I think.

How horrible it is, to tell. How frightening. Not just the details and grit, but what's going on inside you. The reality of your every-day breaths. Every thought that stabs you with how indecent you are, unworthy you are, useless you are. It's all this fucking game you play, to make everyone happy...to make everyone love you...even if you don't believe they do, you can at least see what it's like.

I believe Bill... but that's a double-edged sword.

I believe that he loves me, but I don't feel I deserve it. That hurts. I want it, but I am so afraid of it.

Life just sucks these past few days.

I am tired.

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.

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

My name is Cristina Johnson.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why's that?" she asked.

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

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

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

Silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I feel anger and shame and pain."

"Explain those to me," she said.

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

"What is the wrong way?" she asked.

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

"Okay. And the shame?" she asked.

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

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

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

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

I nodded.

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

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

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

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

I just nodded, refusing to acknowledge any such pain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Awkward," she expressed.

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

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

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.

The Shame that Binds You

My name is Cristina Johnson

Been reading Healing The Shame that Binds You by John Bradshaw. Just got it this morning and haven't been able to put it down. Shame is something that I've struggled with immensely - especially lately, but really all my life. This book is doing a good job of explaining why.

I'd even recommend this book for my recent ex - he would benefit from it - or anyone who's been through any form of child abuse.

There's a section that deals exclusively with sexual abuse and incest and I've been trying really hard to understand why I - a child - would feel ashamed over something that I had no control over. I mean, we - incest survivors - hear that all the time and cognitively we know it's true - it wasn't our fault - but internally we still carry this huge shame that we can't make sense of.

In the book, it talks about how children in varying stages but particularly at young ages, idealize and idolize their parents and their parents' behaviors. My parents are perfect so there must be something wrong with me. It must be my fault that I'm being abused because my parents are perfect. I must be bad!

For me it started with abandonment (not sure about other abuse) when I was preverbal...when bonds are created. But it begins with being not worthy enough for mommy or daddy to pay attention to you. I and my brother ended up in a foster home when I was very young - I don't know how young - but obviously this had a psychological affect on my psyche. And, given the circumstances under which we were living, I wouldn't doubt there was a lot of neglect on my mother's part. I do have one memory of it and it wasn't pretty. I was probably two or three.

And so it says in this book, the foundational years - first six months, then six to 18 months - there should be 'mirroring' but instead  what happens is our parents pass down their own shame, which was handed down to them, and so on. This can be in the form of any type of abuse - mild to severe, neglect to mental, to physical, to sexual abuse. All of which I and my brother endured.

My father's temper was violent and unpredictable. We were beaten a lot, indiscriminately, and without regard for dignity. We often endured punishments that kept us up until we were falling asleep standing up. I don't recall ever living with him, and not having holes in the walls.

But I idolized him.

And when he molested us, he would cry and I would go along because I couldn't stand to see him cry, even though I didn't want to do it, even though I knew it was bad and dirty. It must be my fault, though, right? Because Daddy's perfect.

So it is to this day...with everyone, until it just floods me...until I give in and allow myself to be vulnerable with someone, and then inevitably I shove them away because it's wrong to be weak. Wrong to show emotion. Bad, bad, bad. (Daddy would often chastise us for crying).

So in trying to understand shame, this deep, deep shame, I've been reading this book and it explains how you become your shame and that is exactly what I've been going through. Explains how - from being abused at such a young age - you lose your self. I have no sense of self. Who am I?

There's a part of me that I admit was hopeful that I would learn from the women in this area. I would learn sophistication and I would learn to be proper. I have a severe handicap but I really counted on compassion but without exposing myself, you know? I'd hoped I could sail through it, watching - observing - and learn to be "likeable" and "worthy".

I exposed myself to him, reluctantly... and I was met with exactly what I feared. This, I won't forget. It simply compounded my shame here - in this place, in these towns - and only made me more afraid to show my face anywhere.

I - like so many survivors - just want to be accepted and loved but the shame that grabs you and follows you and growls at you in your mind, keeps you from reaching out. 

God, if only people knew.

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.

Devil Among Angels

My Name Is Cristina D. Johnson

My therapist has said it to me before, but said it again to me today:

"It's easier to be a devil among angels, than an angel among devils."

She's referring to the past couple of blogs wherein I admit to doing, saying, being anything and everything I can to be accepted and not abandoned.

It's easier for me - for a child - to blame themselves for all the "bad" and all the "dirty" within them, and to try and fit in, than it is to be the person who can just be themselves.

So view myself - and always have - as this ugly stain in the fabric of life; this irreparable, broken, "classless cunt" (as he referred to me) who's worth nobody's time, love, compassion or attention so I keep everything in, do what I can and hope nobody sees the truth - sees how "dirty or ugly or bad" I am.

For me it's a lifelong thing but particularly over the past five years when I stepped out of my comfort zone and became engaged with people who were....let's just say of a different class. As I stepped outside of that comfort zone, I stepped into a whole new world.

Lots of white and crystal and things that a dirty little girl like me didn't fit into...but damn I tried.

He told me that people were coming out of the woodwork saying things about me. He was very cryptic about this, leaving me to believe the absolute worst. Oh my God! They know! They know! and my first instinct is to run away - run away as far as I can. I still feel this way, mostly. There's been very little compassion.

I believe it was my therapist who said people just want the dirt, the grit, the gossip - something to talk about. They don't really want to know how you're suffering...how you're struggling...they just want to know the nitty gritty.

And I think this is true....
                                        .........and pathetic.

In a video my cousin shared with me the other day, Dr. Brene' Brown talks about listening to shame. It was a very, very powerful video but one thing she said that stuck out to me the most was this:

"I feel bad," is guilt.
"I am bad," is shame.

I've spent my whole life believing "I am bad." Believing I didn't deserve someone like "him" - when in hindsight, I gave him everything I possibly could....gave him more of myself than I'd ever given anyone, only to have that white and crystal world explode in my face and leave me even more scarred and feeling that I am bad than before.

Being abandoned by people who called themselves my friends, just reinforces that I am bad. I must be.

After all, I spent particularly the past five years as a devil among angels ...perfect people with perfect lives, perfect hair, perfect clothes, perfect partners, perfect homes and boats, perfect everything and here I was....bad.

At some point, I know I will offload this shame. There are brief moments when I think to myself, "Wow....someone loves you..." but they're fleeting. Still, when they come, they're very powerful and they ache. Mostly, though, I am overcome by this incessant voice in my head that tells me I am bad. I am dirty. I do nothing right. I am not worthy.

The bottom of this mountain is big.

So is my determination. People left me - I knew they would because I haven't shared any "nitty gritty" or gruesome details about my abuse (for the most part) but oh....bet your sweet ass, I will one day. I won't share it for the punishment of my perpetrators nor for the glory or to make myself look good. I will share it with the God-Honest intention, the authentic desire and hopes and prayers that someone in that white crystal world will read it and feel some compassion....someone will learn....

And hopefully, someone else will come out...and someone else will come out...and someone else will come out.... and eventually we - we incest survivors - will stop being devils amongst angels, but the angels we have always been, if misguided.

Please Don't Leave!

My Name Is Cristina Johnson

When I was five and six years old (the earliest my memories begin), I lived in Pensacola with my father, step-mother, step-sister and step-brother. At the time, my father was molesting me, my younger brother, and me and my brother simultaneously.

He was also very violent - very unpredictable, like huge violent waves crashing on the shore; you never knew what he was going to hit or when, just knew it would be destructive. He also had a very strong, powerful voice - very loud and frightening, especially to children.

But when he was molesting us, he was tender, kind, benevolent. It was the only time he was ever gentle.

Then, one day, without notice or warning or even knowing what was going on, I and my brother sat on our knees in the living room on the couch, staring out the window and I remember crying (can't remember if my brother was) and screaming as if he could hear me through the glass, "Please daddy!! Don't go!! Where are you going?? Please, Daddy! Don't go!!" as he threw one after another of huge black garbage bags into the burgundy Chevy van we had. To this day, I'll never be able to see a van and not think of it. Later that night, without explanation, my brother and I were put on an airplane to go back to St. Louis and live with our grandparents (his parents).

I say all of this because I experienced a severe panic attack this morning, and it brought back that feeling -  that horrible abandonment.

Yesterday, a friend came over and brought some beer. We (he, Bill and I) all had a pretty good afternoon, chatting and I cooked a great dinner for everyone. This friend - H - has PTSD and DID like me so we share a lot of commonalities and it's just nice to have someone to talk to who "gets it" - like, truly gets it.

Anyway, long story short, last night I was not myself. After H left, I did some things that weren't my nature and awoke this morning not remembering any of it, although I did remember that Bill promised the night before to go get cigarettes first thing in the morning and I would brew the coffee. So my memory of last night was splotchy with blank, black spots.

As Bill left to go get the cigarettes, memories came flooding back of last night and I freaked out - completely panicked - and began to shake. I was terrified.

And this is where the memory of my father leaving comes in:

It was taking Bill too long to go to the store and the story in my mind was, "You're bad. You're a bad girl!" and that Bill was leaving me...just like Daddy did 35 years ago.

"Please don't leave, Daddy!"

I panicked - ran all around the apartment, looking out the door and the windows, scared like a child. I was a child, but I was the child that Daddy used for sexual pleasure and then just left. The dirty child the unwanted child. The bad child. And Bill was leaving me because of it!

The truth was out and Bill knew it, now, and he was leaving!

"He's taking too long. He shouldn't be taking this long. Where is he? Oh my God he's leaving! It's all my fault!"

Please don't leave, Daddy!

Then I heard the rumble, after far too long, of his old Ford pickup truck pulling into the drive and I was overwhelmed with fear and confusion and shame.


He came in and I tried to tell him, tried to communicate but it wasn't coming out right (I was stuttering again) and he gently said, "Take your time. It's okay."

I explained that I didn't remember anything about last night and I was afraid and then I did remember some things (I was talking a mile a minute) and now I feel ......I couldn't say it.

"It's okay," he assured. "It'll be okay...everything will be okay...." he kept repeating as I sat on the bed rocking and shaking and crying.

"That's not what the story is in my head," I admitted to him cautiously, fearfully.

"What is the story in your head," he asked.

"D-D-Dir..." I couldn't speak it and he just kept stroking my hand and my shoulder and saying, "Take your time."

"Dirty!" I finally blurted out. "DIRTY! DIRTY! DIRTY!" came my rather loud, shameful confession. In my head, it was the voice of a child whose father used his perversions to show her "love" but left.

So there I was, stuck in 1976, staring out the front pane window as my father inexplicably left my brother and I to wonder, "Did we not do enough? Did I do something wrong? I must just be really bad and dirty."

At this point, I got a text from Gary. He had some of my stuff and wanted to bring it by. Oh great. Just what I needed. I was being thrown back to age six and at the same time being expected to handle things like the 41-year-old woman that I am today....which included facing one of the biggest triggers in my life: Gary.

He showed up. I didn't want him in the house. I was not well. I started to feel it in my stomach. I saw him and my skin was aflame almost instantly. The feelings come flooding back and mingle with my already disturbing feelings of being "bad" and "dirty" and here's this man who has proven, again and again, that I am bad and dirty and has told everyone about it! So now everyone knows I'm bad and dirty! Everyone knows! Oh God, get him out of here!

I began to tremble uncontrollably, tried to say "leave - just go" but couldn't get it out....finally managed and he left. Still as I know him - no difference. I know him. And he knows way too much about me. I walked away and didn't even watch him leave, because it was killing me - for the second time this morning.

I went inside and within minutes was vomiting.

Over the course of about three hours, Bill was there trying to comfort me, rubbing my back, holding my hand, telling me it'll all be okay, hugging me when I trembled, telling me to stop apologizing (I was dreadfully embarrassed and always am when I "lose control" like that)...just being a friend. "I won't leave you," he kept telling me, over and over. "I'm never going to leave you," he kept assuring.

So there are people who say to move on, get past it, get over it, stop looking for government handouts, etc. etc....

To those people, I say this is no picnic. My body is exhausted right now, and my mind is swimming in dark thoughts of self-loathing, self-blame and fear of being seen. Oh God how I don't want to live this life - some days it's all I can do to just get out of bed because I can't know if or when I'll be triggered; if or when I'll panic. I have so much to do - so many things to take care of - and it's like looking at life cross-eyed. Everything gets jumbled and mixed up. Even trying to read my bills, my vision blurs and I can't focus on it and I get confused by it.

I am fortunate that I have Bill (and a couple of other people) who understand what I am going through - they know this is torture and torment for me - and they also know how hard I am working to overcome it. I am so grateful.


Since I began posting my blog on my FB page, I have had people come out and share with me and show true compassion (a sorely lacking commodity in these small towns), understanding, empathy and encouragement. People I never expected to care, are showing they do.

I am grateful for this.

Double Whammy

My name is Cristina Johnson.

After posting yesterday, my DID kicked in, although I didn't know it at the time. I didn't know it until today, when I woke up and the entire day - yesterday - was a complete fog. Then, I got hit with a major panic attack this afternoon, just before therapy: got overwhelmed.

Panic attacks are horrible feelings. It feels like you're on fire and you can't breathe - like someone has a vise around your chest - and you can't stop shaking. For me, my mind goes absolutely berserk and thoughts just race and race, like a movie in fast-forward that I can't stop. Jumping from one spot to another.

This attack hit me as I was preparing to leave for therapy. Fortunately, my therapist was there - saw my panic - and helped me through it.

"Just breathe, and remember you're safe now. You're safe here," she gently reminded.

I started talking a mile a minute - started trying to iterate the things that had triggered the attack - but she reminded me to calm down first. I was stuttering - something I've never done in my life, but over the past few months, I've begun stuttering out of the blue when stressed.(She later pointed this out to me).

Anyway, got through the crisis and talked about what happened.

Coming Out was written and posted on my FB and I publicly admitted to many of the things I've kept secret for most of my life, with very few exceptions. I recall bits and pieces of yesterday but I was in-and-out: a consequence of DID. I described it to her as looking through a frosted window. You know stuff is back there, but you can't see it. So I spent most of today, recalling bits and pieces of yesterday and I completely blacked out last night - lost three hours, apparently - which is beyond my control.

There's nothing more frightening than this. My therapist asked me why.

"Because there's no control and I don't know what I did or said. Did I do anything inappropriate? Did I act in some way that isn't me?" (It wouldn't be the first time).

I had a bunch of things hit me all at once and the overwhelm kicked in - the panic sets in. Small things add up, on top of big things and it becomes unmanageable. I had a second attack after going to the grocery store. It's been a tough day.

We talked a lot in therapy about how I have (what I called) a habitual tendency to do whatever anyone wants, just to make sure they don't leave me.

I did it today and was immediately aware of it.

"I wouldn't call it habitual," she said. "I would call it instinctive."

I agree. It's instinctive for me.

I had a very short conversation via text and immediately felt like I was losing someone so I told them I loved them out of sheer panic.Again, doing all I can to keep from being abandoned.

And this led to a discussion about Bill - this need I have to do whatever I have to do to make sure he doesn't leave me. I am that way with everyone.

Ironically, when I am afraid someone will leave, I also will sabotage it - I won't let them leave me, I'll leave first.

I have a different kind of trust in Bill, though, because of the nature of our friendship and how long we've known one another. He's a very altruistic person....much more than any other person I've ever known.

It hurts so much to go through this process. To face so many demons, all at once, and also to feel so alone, even if I do have a handful of people who are here supporting me. Bill says I protect people from myself. He says I tend to hold people at bay because I don't want them to see what's inside of me. There's a lot of truth to that.

But, when I say "alone," I mean the loss of so many "compassionate friends" (as Gary referred to them), who haven't once asked me how I am, if I'm okay, how I'm doing or if I need any help. I am terrified to go out - terrified because of the things he's said about me to so many people - things he had no right to say.

So I feel isolated and shunned; ostracized and judged and so ultimately betrayed and abandoned.

These are shameful feelings - shame, shame, shame. That word keeps coming up. It's like I've lived my whole life afraid of people seeing the "ugly" inside of me - the reality of what I've experienced - but I've hidden it pretty well, only to have it exposed without discretion or regard. So unfair; so cruel.

But I have plans - aspirations - and they're built on this foundation of pain that I've endured (and continue to endure) and will learn from and teach from. I will give it purpose, and make a difference.

I just have a long way to go and it hurts to know that this tangled mess of barbed wire inside of me - this mess that keeps shredding me from the inside out - is not my fault.

And for those who say "get over it" or "stop living in the past" or "move on" (and I know a few of those), I say this: That's what I'm doing. Healing from the past - a brutal past that you don't just "get over and move on" because that, my friend, is what I've always done. Stoically looked at my past as someone else's story, ignored it's effects and pretended it didn't happen.

Now I'm taking the real, authentic, true steps to heal and move beyond this place where my past and my demons invade my mind and my dreams and my life.

Compassion would suggest an understanding that we can't cover up our wounds - we must heal them - and it's important  to understand how horribly invalidating it is to tell someone "get over it" (or any form thereof), and very painful. It's hard enough to take the time I need to take to go through this journey, never mind being judged for "living in the past."

Trust me. This ain't no picnic.

Coming Out

Someone once asked me how come I never used my real name when blogging or writing about my past and my experiences. I really thought a lot about this.

I realized it had a lot to do with that dreaded word: Shame.

Especially in this area - not that it's not taboo all over the country. People just don't want to hear about incest and rape. They turn a blind eye to it, which makes the shame of the survivor even bigger.

Anyway, today I'm here to tell you: My name is Cristina Johnson.

I'm tired of hiding, pretending, being the silent victim. I'm tired of playing the roles I'm supposed to play - so tired. It's been like that my whole entire life...all the way from toddler-hood. I've always tried so hard to be and do and say all the "right" things, so I could be loved and accepted.

It's hard when there never was a "before" to your abuse (for me, it began before I remember), so there's no "me" to speak of. So I just watched and listened, observed like an eagle, what everyone else was saying and doing, and tried to find some way to do and say the same things, with my own twist on it.

No more.

For five years, I've listened to people sit around their boats or in their fancy houses and talk trash about people who are just like me - people who are suffering horribly inside. I've listened to them badmouth gay people - which blew me away - and trash-talk others only to turn around and shake their hands.

I witnessed this, and I knew - because of it - there was no way I could be myself. No way I could show who I really was, no way I could tell anyone my story because they would do the same thing to me: Talk trash about me.

"They're compassionate people," he said to me, as he spread so many lies and exaggerations around these towns about me. But I can count on less than one hand who of those "compassionate" people dropped me a message or phone call to ask if I was okay, or how I was doing, and honestly, those who did, I was surprised. The ones who didn't; I was equally surprised.

Not anymore, though.

People in this area - like most places - live in their little fancy lives, seeing only what they want to see, hearing and believing only what they want to believe. They'll sit around their scotch and Merlot and tsk and say "poor dear" and never do a thing to help.

I'm not hiding anymore and I'm not being "nice" anymore. I'm pissed. I was done wrong in so many ways and I've always been honest, even if I didn't disclose my personal information (although that, now, doesn't matter since he took it upon himself to spread it on his own, telling me it was none of my "goddamn business.")

I should've known - the night that he called me a "classless cunt" that he was not the man for me. The countless times I saw him fighting with my son. I should have known. But I was quiet, silent and scared....scared to be myself.

Not anymore, though.

Now, I'm here to tell you my name is Cristina Johnson and I am an incest survivor, kidnapping survivor, multiple gang-rape survivor, as well as individual rapes. I was molested by my father, my brother, my uncle and my step-father. I was abandoned repeatedly as a child and I know how a gun feels to your head and in your mouth. I also know what it feels like to be stabbed and strangled to the point where you almost die.

And as I was going through this healing process - which began with the "classless cunt" comment - it became debilitating and I became terrified.

And I was, once again, abandoned by someone I loved who couldn't accept or handle the pain I was going through and even continued to hurt me more and more and more every day, never considering the effects of PTSD and DID.

He hurt me over and over again, put me down,  mocked my disorders and deliberately lied and betrayed me. Of course, also, making sure I knew not only that he was "seeing someone else" but that he had been since before we ever split up. To someone with PTSD and with a history like mine, this was absolutely crushing.

That's not love. That's cowardice.

My name is Cristina Johnson and I will heal from this. I will come through it.

But I will never forget what he did to me, as he went out acting as if he was a savior and victim. I hope he never knows the horror of what he put me through....then again, maybe it'd do him some good. Just like a lot of people who don't know the true definition of compassion. Look it up.

Warped Love

I talked with my therapist yesterday about love. About my warped sense of love. About how I don't understand it. How I can love others, but never believe anyone loves me. I don't think this is uncommon among incest survivors.

It came up because I was willing to do anything to make Gary love me - the same as with my father...and I did. As he molested me, I was making him love me, even if it hurt me.

I told her, during my many rapes, I would somehow fantasize that each man would look into my crying eyes and decide that he loved me. This only compounds my shame. Wanting to be loved by my rapists.

This was reinforced so many times, I cannot count.

So now, it's no wonder that I'll do, be, say, act and otherwise show anything I can, just to be loved.

And it's always aimed at men - always has been. Never women or friends; they can't "love" me like ...well, you know. I suppose this is because it started in my formative years with my father.

I know, intellectually, that I have to learn to love myself. This seems like such a monumental task. Huge.

I don't know how to do it. I don't know how to look myself in the mirror and say, "You're beautiful and I love you." I don't know how to think of myself in terms of self-love - how could someone who's done the things I've done, possibly love herself, whoever "herself" is?

So, instead of looking inside for that love, I've always looked outside which just leads to more reinforcement of how unlovable I am.

Gary's rejection; Her rejection; Everyone's rejection (because of Gary telling everyone about it) just reinforces how unlovable I am because there's no love inside myself for me.

Just this self-loathing. Disgust. Shame. Guilt.

Oh my God the shame - that word again. It creeps up almost every blog.

I suppose feeling it and being aware of it are steps towards healing but what a God-awful feeling. Like someone's ripped your bones right from your body and you're nothing but an empty, deflated shell.

The constant barrages of being put down or hurt by him, leads to those text messages I've blogged about. The betrayal I see, I don't know how to respond except in anger because he's telling me - again, in my language - that I don't matter and I am unlovable. I do get bitterly defensive and angry and say things I would normally never say. It's totally a defense mechanism. It's saying, "Fuck you! I won't let you have this power over me! I'm going to hurt you as bad as you're hurting me!!"

Yesterday my therapist explained that he is not the kind of person I need in my life right now. I need people who are understanding, patient, compassionate, loving and supportive. Not the kind of people who do the things that Gary is doing. Heartless things. Careless, reckless things.

She is right.

I deserve better. I deserve these things.

But where do I begin?

Changes

Yesterday morning, we talked - had a good talk, actually, although - again - my issues were thrown in my face, he kept saying he wasn't trying to shame me. I cried and he cried. He even said the day I move out will be one of the hardest days of his life. We talked about not wanting the relationship to end, but he felt it must. Thought it was what was best for me.

As he got up to leave, he hugged me, kissed the top of my head and went upstairs to go to work.

I was just sitting there, crying, thinking about everything that had been said, wondering why I am more willing to forgive than him.

I went to the store, bought a six-pack, and went to my sitting spot. I didn't even want to drink - not at all. Wasn't in the mood, was just hurting.

I texted him as much - told him I didn't want to drink. He said to pour it out and do something different. I asked him why we couldn't work it out...told him if we can't work through the tough times, how could we ever be a couple. Told him people who've been together for 50 and 60 years didn't quit during the hard times. Promised I would do things differently, if he would do the same. He was relatively amenable and I started to think a lot differently.

Started to think about the easy changes I could make - drinking being one of them. I don't need to drink, don't crave it, just drink to numb.

So I poured it out. I did something different. I came home, laid down and took a nap. When I awoke, I started dinner. He was in the shower.

I was excited, actually, because I thought we reached a different place; a place of reconciliation where we might be able to work through these issues we're both having.

I was also proud of myself for choosing something different. To me, it was like a small token of my commitment - a literal gift to show him how serious I was about working through it.

As I cooked dinner, he went upstairs. I could hear him up there. I wondered if he had an appointment with his therapist, but then noted the time - too late for that, so maybe he's just getting dressed.

Dinner was almost done when he came downstairs. Dressed to go out, cologne and all.

"I'm making dinner for you guys," I said to him, half-heartrboken, half-hopeful.

"I wish I'd known," he answered. "I ate at 4:30 and I'm not hungry."

I just looked at him.

He said: "I'm going down to the marina and then I'll probably go to [the bar] afterwards."

It sunk into my heart like a knife.

"So I guess I'm the only one who's supposed to do things differently?" I ask.

I began to cry. Chin-shaking, heart-aching cry. I had felt so good to do something different and so hopeful...
so hopeful....

"You just don't want me to have a life," he said to me at one point.

I could have just died.

I felt so rejected. So abandoned...again. Mocked. I was giving something - a small step, small token - only to have it thrown back in my face. I felt ridiculous, like a fool.

I cried out the door as he left, "You're wrong! You're so wrong!"

And then I sobbed and sobbed for awhile in my room.

I cleaned myself up, fed Trevor.

Grabbed my cooler and headed to my spot.

I sat there on the dock....so cool, so peaceful. I was so devastated that he wouldn't even try. Wouldn't even discuss trying.

I had my bottle of water with me, and I sat there drinking it. A kayaker went by, waved. I waved back.

Somehow it made me think - seeing this kayaker - that drinking isn't what I want to do, not at all. I had at least a six-pack with me and I could've but I just didn't want it.

I sat at my spot for about 30 minutes and then came home. Originally, I had texted him saying, "Well, I guess I'll just do the same thing you're doing, then." (something like that). But then I texted him and told him I wasn't going to drink tonight, that I don't want to and that I was merely telling him for the sheer joy of telling him.

Which is true - I didn't tell him to try and change his mind because I'd already decided - the moment he walked out the door - that I deserve better. I deserve to be treated fairly, instead of constantly put down and shamed. (I know there's one person that'll probably read this and be like, "Thank God!" because she wants nothing more than to see Gary and I stay split up).

Yeah, I told him almost to just rub it in his face....to say it's not for him, it's for me and he can have "his life" all he wants.

I came home, watched a movie (The Preacher's Wife....was good), and then a couple other t.v. shows. By midnight, I was tired and he still wasn't home. I knew where he was and who he was with, but I just didn't care.

I just don't care anymore.

Someone who wanted to work it out, would do something different than he did last night.

Just like I did.

I didn't drink at all... and it felt good.

Possibilities

Right now, I hurt. Being here, in this place, on the birth of the U.S.A. alone in this God forsaken house while he goes out and hangs out with "friends" and has a grand ol' time and I am shunned, shamed...because he told so many people about my private business. I just cannot get over this.

It's absolutely horrible. I can't show my face anywhere. I even went out the back door yesterday to avoid seeing his son and wouldn't come home until they were gone. I'm that ashamed.

Yesterday I went to look at an apartment. It's absolutely lovely and I really, really hope I get it. The landlady was fantastic and the way she described the neighbor (it's a duplex), I would love her, too. It's in a small town where practically nobody lives (lol) and it's peaceful.

Peace.

I went to therapy yesterday. She told me I was..."different" - "Maybe it's the apartment," she said.

But this led to a discussion about me being dependent.

"I've been dependent my whole life," I confessed.

She nodded.

"I'm terrified. I don't know how to be independent."

"That will come."

I can look back at small points in my life where I was independent but they're all like straw houses. It felt good, but it was fake...wasn't really me.

I don't know what this means, really. I have visions in my mind...visions of just wanting to breathe. Just wanting to have the time to do whatever I have to do to get over this. She said it won't ever go away.

It won't ever go away.

I guess I'm afraid of myself, afraid of failing, afraid of everything. Afraid of people, especially now.

Moving out - the possibility - both excites me and saddens me. At least I will be alone, with my son, and won't have to worry about being hurt or mocked or stared at or talked about...well...I guess people will still talk, until the next tragedy comes along. I'll have my space...which I sorely need.

We came to the conclusion yesterday that Gary very likely is a narcissist - that's why he's done the things he's done without regard for the repercussions I would face. It hurts to know that I've known all along, but ignored it. I thought he would change. Still, I love him. Like a fool, I love him. But he's more concerned about his image than anything else.

I actually thought - truly believed - that by being vulnerable and open and letting him see my deepest wounds, he would gain some compassion and realize what empathy was. I believed it would change his perspective on the world and help him look at himself more honestly.

A lot of people around here are narcissists.

Not that I would ever claim  to be a saint - I have confessed all my sins and more, here on my blog and to my therapist. I've said "I"m Sorry" so many times, it's crazy. I've owned all my problems and outbursts - at least all the ones I can identify and I will continue to do so.

But I would never just go out and deliberately bash and trash someone to make myself look better. I'm a better person than that. I will never be that way. Not to anyone.

Thank God I have my integrity and I have my aspirations.

I told him (yesterday, I believe) that one day, when I am successful, he's going to look at me and go, "Wow, I used to date her." But by then, I will be a better, stronger person. And he will still be who he is today.

Compassion for Incest Survivors

Yesterday I went to my spot with the intention of getting some sun. It's by the water so you can sit on the dock, get a good breeze and get some sun. The back yard is like a jungle with no breeze - no way was I going out there.

I knew there was a possibility that Gary might go by on his boat, but I could handle it (at least that's what I told myself).

For weeks, we've had this argument about how my personal business is my business, and nobody else's unless I choose to tell them. He disagrees and has repeatedly said, "people are compassionate, they care...yada yada...." and has also said it's none of my goddamn business what he tells others.

So yesterday, I'm sitting at my spot, getting some sun and some of those "compassionate" people came and rafted up right in front of me. Three boats on which I used to party along with the rest of them (and usually cook something because that was my way of fitting in). Not one waved. Not one single person waved. Boaters wave at everyone. But not one of them waved to me, never mind said "Hi! How are you?"

I just sat there rocking and crying intermittently.

That's the damage that happens when people tell your private business - all the way down to "what is she going to do? [now that we're breaking up and I'm not working]" - which is nobody's business. It's my business to tell, not his, and the appropriate answer is "I don't want to talk about her."

Because he shouldn't. Not only because he shouldn't, but because he has no discretion at all and just tells everything.

People do not have compassion for survivors of incest. I talked with my therapist about this last Friday and she agreed - most people don't have the capacity to handle it. People in her professional field sometimes even have problems with it, although she did say most other incest survivors have compassion.

To me, it's common sense because I've experienced it my whole life - the looks, the awkward tension, the way they gradually back away as soon as they find out. And they definitely don't want to talk about it or hear about it. In this way, it is an us-vs.-them kind of world that he doesn't understand. Survivors of incest have certain things broken - often as very young children - that results in phobias and behaviors that others simply don't understand - can't understand.

Compassion would be finding out - asking questions and listening to the answers. It would be waving when you see one, instead of pretending they're not there and it would be getting their side of the story, instead of sitting in judgment and ridicule.

My problem is I tried living here - in this place, among these people. I believed I was making a better life for myself and for my son. I truly believed I was moving up in the world.

I was really just moving farther and farther away from my abuse. Hiding behind multiple masks doing, as my therapist said, whatever I could to be liked. Nobody here was really my friend, even though Gary has said for years that they were. It's quite obvious now, that they weren't and aren't.

All these years, I was trying to be something I'm not - faking it. Gary recently told me (in his defense of talking about me behind my back) "People see you no matter what mask you wear." and I wonder what he meant by that because during my last session I literally sobbed, wracking sobs, over my fear that people would see the ugly inside of me and she said, "Nobody knows but you."

That's not true anymore, though. Now it's true - my biggest, greatest fear, my greatest shame is now out there like a fucking newspaper for everyone to read, and he gets to be writer, editor and publisher.

So cruel, so heartless, so callous and careless.

I remember one time when he referred to a woman at the marina as a "Crack Whore" and I was astonished and I chewed him out for it. He admitted he was wrong to say such a thing but he did - he said it - which shows the level of compassion in this place where I was trying so hard to fit in.

It wasn't long ago that I ripped my necklace from my throat and threw it because I felt so stupid for "dressing up" - stupid, stupid, stupid, I kept telling myself. Who do you think you are, to try to fit in?? Everyone sees it! Everyone knows you're a fake! A FREAK! 

 I sat on the edge of the bed and cried, thinking all these horrible things about myself.


Gary got angry with me. No compassion, just anger.

That's how much compassion there is in this town...in this state...in this world.

Weakness Versus Strength

My "friend" said to me, "...I'm sick of your...woe is me" and "[Your] 'nobody gets it' is old."

This from someone who said "she gets it" for months, but after saying these - among other things - she clearly doesn't get it, and never did. I told her as much. Told her it was an insult to suggest she understood.

People in these little sheltered towns (and, I assume, all over the country and even the world) just think you're supposed to get up, get a job, get moving, move past it, get over it.

What that means is, put on the mask you've always worn, pretend it's okay, hush, hush, hush - nobody wants to hear your tale of woe.

This is the viciousness of the cycle of abuse. The taboo - the keep the secret. Don't tell anyone - act like everything is normal.

For me, nothing is normal - especially right now - and some would call me weak. I am weak. I am extremely weak right now. I can't focus on anything; I'm easily overwhelmed; easily triggered; can't sleep; feel exhausted; can't eat (get sick when I try to); just can't function. Can't even read a book - one of my favorite pastimes for years. Think this is fun? Being weak?

Or...

Is it being weak? Isn't being "weak" and being vulnerable, paradoxically strong?

Because I gotta tell you: Right now, I am the last person I ever wanted to be. I wanted to stay the way I was, with my happy face and my forward motion, fake though it may have been. If I could go back and just be in denial so everyone would like me, I would.

But to me, that is weak.

Pretending to be something you're not in order to hide the shame, the secret, the truth - that is weak. That is giving in to societal pressure. Pretending to be friends with people, pretending to be strong, pretending it didn't affect you.... that is weakness.

So, for my "friend" - and anyone else - who thinks I should just pick myself up by my bootstraps and get a job and move on, I say this: get educated and stop being fake.

Right now, in my life, I'm being as real and raw as it gets. I don't need peoples' advice who haven't been there and who do not know my history or the pain I am in. In fact, they don't even know the truth about my current situation....it's all one-sided. Solidly unfair, but it is, what it is.

I am being weak, yes, and it's about goddamn time. I've spent my whole life being strong, being whatever I thought others wanted me to be. Now I'm finding the real me - and that takes a hell of a lot of strength and courage. The nightmares, flashbacks, triggers, nausea - all constant. It's a horrifying experience.

And I'm doing it without those so-called "friends" - the ones who can't take the truth, who can't bear witness to my pain.

But at least I have real friends - the ones who know, who are willing to learn, who understand, who would never betray me. At least I have that and that's more real than every single fake friend in these towns.

Blowing Smoke

Today, my therapist told me she's not going to "blow smoke up my ass" or "bullshit" me. I like her even more now.

She said this to make sure I knew she's not trying to "dress me up in a pretty dress and send me back out into the world." She said it because of my response to her telling me I am not ugly and I should not be ashamed. My response was, "But I am ashamed and everyone knows and everyone can see it." I told her about my self-realizations today.

We talked about my explosions of rage and she said even if the actions are wrong, the feelings are there and they're neither good nor bad, simply are. Told her I'm so tired of always saying "I'm Sorry" for things that seem to happen out of my control...it's like vomit. I told her I was ashamed of it and that I hate who I am.

She said I don't really know who I am, yet. But we'll get there.

I told her about mine and Gary's conversation this morning. I cried and told her he's right about all of it. He's always right... the shame - God the shame - is so compounded because of the flashback.

"Do you want to tell me about the flashback?"

I kind of told her...kind of.

"The shame is bigger than the world, bigger than me," I cried.

"You were a child," she said. "You had no control."

"BUT I DID IT!" I yelled back, not really knowing where it came from, feeling so, so ashamed - the image so fresh in my mind, I felt I could reach out and touch it. That's how REAL a flashback is.

"You were just a child and to this day you're doing the same thing - you're trying to do what everyone wants you to do."

This made me sob even harder because I'd told her that I told Gary I'd do anything - anything - to work it out because all I wanted, was for him to love me.

I told her about pushing people away. She said most trauma survivors show people their ugly core first, then that way, if the person leaves, it's okay.

"I used to do that," I confessed. "I used to lay it out like a disclaimer. Tell everyone about my past. But I don't do that anymore."

"Then how are you pushing people away?" she asked.

"I don't know," I cried, wracking, sobbing cries. "I don't know. I talk, I buy birthday cards. I'm a good listener. I don't know how I push people away. I don't know what he means."

She said I am probably not pushing people away, but that is his perspective. I told her I do keep people at arm's length - and I do - but that's not pushing them away. Neither, according to her, are these outbursts. They're not pushing people away; they are based on a lifetime of abuse that started as a child and have become a dysfunctional habit of sorts. That's why they're so intense. "You get flooded," she validated. She's absolutely right.

She says I'm like an onion and we have to peel away these layers of abuse and intrusive thoughts that have been built around a beautiful core. She said she can already tell that I am a strong, generous, giving, authentic, compassionate person...going through a crisis. She said, "Most people would have crumbled three weeks ago. You have more strength and courage than you realize yet."

She told me I am functioning as best as I can right now. Even with the drinking - which I told her I agreed with Gary about (and she kind of nodded in agreement) - I told her I realize there are things I need to change but she, recognizing I was criticizing myself, again said: "You are managing the best way you know how, for now. That will change."

She said we'll get to that core, but some people - those like Gary and those who listen to his side of the story without ever even wondering how true it really is or saying they're uncomfortable knowing about my personal history - are not worthy of bearing witness to the peeling of my layers.

She's right.

As the session ended, she searched for a word to best describe me right now. As her blue eyes turned towards the ceiling, she looked back at me and said, "Raw. You are raw right now."

She's right about that, too.

It was an extremely emotional session.

Shame

Where does it come from?

The images I keep seeing over and over (result of the most recent flashback) cause me such profound shame. But why? Intellectually I know it wasn't my fault.

So why do I feel such a deep-rooted shame over the things I did with my father. And that's not even talking about the rest - the rapes, my brother, my step-father, my uncle.

And now, here I am living this life of hell - certain everyone will say it's all of my own making and I'm sure to some extent that's true. But the shame is compounded now.

This morning I get text messages telling me that people are essentially coming out of the woodwork to talk about things "they've seen me do" - I don't have a clue, but just put me down more, make me feel even more like a piece of shit, unworthy, unlovable, undesirable, un-everything.

Shame.

People who want to see me work on my issues - as if I'm not.

Shame.

I don't talk about it, that's all.

But he keeps putting me down, focusing on one thing, never minding the rest of it...disregarding the rest of it.

My stomach can't handle being here, in this same house, in this place with him. I literally get nauseated. I can't handle it. I love him so much, yet I trust him not at all.

I believed in him.

Just like Daddy.

Just like the rest.

He accuses me of pushing people away. I suppose that's true...but not really. I don't push people away, I just don't let them all the way in. And this is a real good example of why that's so.

People - especially around here - can't handle the truth. The ugly. The nasty. The brutality.

I can't even handle it, and it happened to me!

So if you know someone who's going through the healing process, don't go around talking about them as if you know what they're going through. Trust me: you don't. You can't fathom what it's like to have a constant picture of your father's penis in your mouth, play over and over in your mind as if you're still a  child. You can't fathom how enormous a grown man's penis is to a six-year-old girl, pressing against her. You don't know what it's like to be repeatedly held down and gang raped and beaten. It's excruciating. You don't know what I'm healing from, nor the strength and courage it takes to face it.

To talk about me behind my back, as if you have some understanding is an insult. It's also a betrayal of the worst kind.

And you worry about my drinking a six pack? To numb the pain of your giving up? To numb the pain of your constant betrayals? While I'm dealing with this shit?

Really?

Drinking is bad - but it's not as bad as what you've put me through. I don't drink a lot (except once, the other night, had too much - what a disaster that was) and I drink alone, with nobody. I stay away from people. I try so hard to ignore the fact that you're out partying with your friends, everyone's (apparently) talking about my "problems"

Whatever it is they imagine my "problems" to be.

There is no compassion in this town. There is no understanding.

Everything is just hunky dory.

Cruel doesn't begin to describe what you've done to me...and then pretend to care, just adds salt to the wound. So daddy-like.

I love you enough that I would never do this to you. Ever.

Still.