Tenderness

I suppose you could say I'm kind of writing to write. Sort of stream-of-conscience. But not really.

Through most of my life, a tender touch always made me cry. Always, without question and often to the point of shoving the tenderness away, until my later years. I suppose I calloused myself to it, though I still hold a weakness for certain touches (the face, particularly).

I've always maintained my favorite English word is "whisper."

Today I sit and listen to Rain by Patti Griffith.

Rain is a silent, private tenderness. Delicate. I've never done "delicate" very well. A tough girl. A tomboy. Dresses make me feel like an alien (except during my promiscuous period, during which time the higher the heels and the tighter & shorter the dress/skirt, the better). Still even then I was seeking that tenderness that I almost always rejected. Strange oxymoron, I know.

Whisper....whisper is soft, like the breeze...I always envision it riding on the wind, sailing across the world, over oceans. Whispers of wishes and dreams and broken hearts.

Tears....tender.

So hard to cry...can't stand that tender part of me, that cries from some place of deep wounds and darkness. I can cry angry tears because anger is not tender, but tender tears are.

Tenderness is so hard to take...to accept. To be understood and validated hurts more than anything else because it's so foreign. To be accepted hurts because it's not believable.

To trust......all the years I've spent thinking I was trusting when, in truth, I've never trusted anyone completely. There are still secrets, dark ones where I can't let tenderness invade. Places of my own torment that - ironically, out of tenderness - I don't want others to see or experience.

Tears, rain, whispers, winds. Things that fade, but hurt so much because they touch something I avoid and always have.

That's why tenderness hurts.

Good feelings that hurt

My name is Cristina D. Johnson

I have so much to say tonight. I hope I don't ramble. I had a very exciting session today.

Something really huge happened Monday, but I didn't realize it at the time. In my blog, "To Show or Not to Show," I wrote:

"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."

This session brought up something very deep, that I wasn't expecting, but being willing to explore it, I looked within myself and started questioning why I felt that way. Why I reacted like that internally, though I didn't say a word. That session affected me so deeply, in fact, that as soon as I got home, I vomited. It was that powerful.

I talked with Cindy at length about it and then later, talked with Bill but it was right before dinnertime, just after he'd gotten off work. I said to him in a text, that I loved him - I truly love him - in a place that hurts. He couldn't have known this, but I was speaking from that wounded place - that place that feels this intense feeling. But since he didn't know, his response frightened me and shut me down. I almost went to bed but instead, this time, decided I would tell him.

And we talked about it at length....I told him I have this huge, huge wall but there are pinholes in it and every once in awhile, he or Cindy will reach through it and touch that part of me. It's very childlike and afraid.

It's also very frightening to feel so I am always on guard - always have been - and I'm only now realizing this.

The next day, I wrote "Tenderness Kills," and I wasn't going to post it on my facebook page like usual, but I did send it to my therapist. It's always been easier for me to write than speak. I never heard back from her so I was very nervous to go see her today.

"So, tell me about your email," she said after our opening pleasantries.

I told her, as I was writing it, that I envisioned a child, cowering, always afraid...always waiting for the next foot to fall.

So she asked me about that...and I explained.

Family meetings.

These were meetings held every day where Daddy and his wife and her two kids (ages 13 and 16) would meet in the family room with my brother and I. We were five and six years old. Each time, Daddy would have us stand in front of him and he would  tell us all the things we'd done wrong that day. He would then make us take off our clothes as the rest of them looked on, and he would put us over his knees and beat us with a wooden spoon. He would then tell us to get our clothes and go to our rooms. We could hear the others snickering behind our backs. Perhaps the worst parts of these meetings was when Daddy would cry, making me feel as if I were the lowest life form on earth (he also did this when he molested me, and I would do whatever he wanted, hoping to stop him from crying).

I told her about my mother's lying - so many lies - and how, when I tried to tell her about my abuse, she said to me, "Oh that's nothing. You should try...." and then she went on to tell me some story of her childhood, completely invalidating me. That was when I was 12 and I never talked with her about it again.

I lived on the streets and in the system from age 12 until I ran away and got pregnant at 15. I was kidnapped, first though, at age 11. When we lived in North Carolina with my father, he strangled me and smothered me as he molested me. He beat us and constantly stormed around, punching holes in the walls or breaking furniture. He was unpredictable and frightening (except for most of the times he molested us when we were younger).

"So no wonder you envisioned a child cowering," Michelle said. "It seems that's all you've ever done."

"Yes, it is," I agreed.

As we began to talk more about this "part," I became increasingly excited to have an explanation for what had happened the night of our previous session so now, hopefully I won't confuse the reader by going back to Monday night, when I'd told Bill what I had.

Part of me shut down with Bill's response to my profession of love for him.

But I emailed him - it was too much to say in texts - trying to explain it. All cerebral, but with this new awareness of this FEELING that I didn't realize I had.

The rest of the night, we texted back and forth but I remembered very little of it the next day. I discovered the next day I'd emailed and called my attorney, I'd opened a window and I'd gotten coffee ready to be brewed. I did not remember any of this. This is where  DID comes in. If you understand the Internal Family System's Model, there are three "types" of parts: Managers, Firefighters and Exiles.

Managers (to cope) are the "parts" that handle day-to-day stuff, keep things in order, get groceries, pay bills, etc. They manage.

Exiles (hurt)are the "parts" that hold very powerful, intense emotions - pain, rage, fear, shame, among others - and are usually young parts, stuck in a place in time where they are still being abused.

And the Firefighters (compulsive) are the ones who come in when the exiles are starting to emerge and the managers can't handle it.  The Firefighters either watch over and soothe the Exiles or they hush them by any number of means, including binging, cutting, distracting, drugs/alcohol, shopping, etc. There's a whole list but when the "system" (the term used to describe the multiple parts of someone with DID) becomes disrupted, the Firefighters step in and take over.

This is what happened Monday night: First the overwhelming session with Michelle, then the issue with Bill - all surrounding this young, wounded part of me.

One of the Firefighters said, "Oh no, no way" and I think has always said, "Hell no. Do not be tender to me!" because this other part - this part that loves so intensely, is very authentic and young and open.

So if I go by the Internal Family Systems model, it would seem that I have an Exile that is beaten down, terrified and wants to be loved, that's being protected by a firefighter that's saying "hell no, stay away!"

But now that I understand it more, it makes more sense and I feel like there's going to come a time when I can talk to that part - or those parts (?) - and soothe them myself.

I never truly understood why it hurt so much  to hear my grandmother say, "Oh honey, I'm so sorry," when she came to the police station and found me beaten and bloodied after my kidnapping. In my mind, for all my life, I've always felt that it was the worst possible thing she could have said to me.

Now I know why: Don't be kind to me!

Of course, there were constant reiterations and reinforcements of this belief....going through so many rapes by men who said they were there to help me; being molested by men in the system; being attacked in hospitals. Why would a child expect kindness or tenderness after that? Why would I expect (or feel comfortable receiving) kindness or tenderness. For years, a soft, tender touch would make me cry. I still sometimes whimper.

Over the past few months, I've felt that terrifying feeling for Bill and for Cindy. Through those pinholes.

I want to explore it more...open them up....break down that wall....

I'm both afraid and excited about it.