Late Night Pain

The nicotine stained walls

Bear witness

But no one else.

The windows covered with sheer,

Silky curtains                   

Not intended

For the rough skin I wear

They soak in the yellow

Of the cigarette burning

In this ashtray by my elbow

Ashes drift carelessly

As I flick them mindlessly

Swimming in the words of a song

That says all that I can’t

My pills nearby

I hold a beer – it’s my third

I know it’s wrong

It’s also reactive.

It’s like a pitchfork

Jamming into me

I don’t bleed, no….

I simply compound this pain

That I feel entitled to.

With each beer,

That entitlement strengthens

Eventually the beer and the song

They’re not enough.

The smoke goes out.

It’s just me and the dark

And the lonely

And the entitlement

And a razor blade.

Dreams

Can't see beyond myself
This chiseled vessel of mine
Turning to dreams
Small wormholes of the mind
Tiny snippets, seconds long
A dot on the fabric of time
I plead and pray and beg
Please, please this night
A whisper, a glimpse;
A secret, a sight
Tell me anything
Give me a clue
I can't seem to get it
So I count on you
My dreams....
My dark, distant dreams.

The Photographer and the Doberman

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

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

I hope it helps someone.

True Scenario from a Real Former ‘Incorrigible Teenager”

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

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

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

Because I am a survivor.

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

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

But….

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eventually, I move closer. Just a little.

And closer.

Just a little.

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

I move closer. Just a little.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anxiety

My name is Cristina D. Johnson.

I heard a term on a t.v. show that I looked up yesterday: Rape Trauma Syndrome.I read something that struck me immediately: "pronounced internal tremor."

I was knocked aback. I have described this before as feeling as if "my bones were shaking" - it was relieving to see there's a name for it, and an apt one, at that.

My anxiety has gone through the roof and has made me, at times, completely dysfunctional. The only option for me, for medications, is to go to the emergency room....which causes me huge anxiety. How ironic.

My therapist says the reason I don't find benzos (benzodiazapines) addictive, is because of the level of my anxiety. Rather than "getting high" from them -as I know some do - it brings my anxiety level to a manageable point so I don't feel any affects, other than that, which is why I am able to take them PRN.

I have always been an opponent of medications and, even therapy.

But my anxiety levels have gotten so bad that I have spent days at a time holed up and terrified. Now, I cannot tolerate touch - I can't even tolerate the touch of a door frame if I walk through a door. I have to be careful not to touch it. Every touch, it feels as if my all my cells are screaming, "DON'T TOUCH ME!"

The anxiety manifests itself in other, more troubling physical ways but I won't go into it because it is embarrassing and I don't understand it. It is frightening.

I have been listening to a guided meditation nightly  for about two or three weeks (I believe). I have to wonder if - because of this meditation - my mind is opening to levels of memory and awareness as I sleep. I like this particular one because - even though it claims to be for abundance - it is really about awareness and moving forward. I like this.

But I wonder if it hasn't opened some windows and doors in my mind because the symptoms I am experiencing have really intensified over the past couple weeks. It's hard to say because it collaborates with the timing of extreme stress and having no anti-anxiety medications.

So perhaps it is a combination. Who knows.

Regardless the cause, the memories and anxiety, sleeplessness and  nightmares, are debilitating.

The meditation works well to help me sleep, although it doesn't help me stay asleep.

Today I awoke (again), feeling as wound as a guitar string. It is difficult to function because such high anxiety causes physical exhaustion, but my mind won't stop spinning or slow down so I can't sleep. Everything is amplified. I am so damn tired.

I have to go out today - it's laundry day. I wish I had a dryer. Then I could do the laundry here. Ugh.

My anxiety shoots up on Sundays, Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays. It's not the typical "oh brother, it's Monday again," kind of thing. It's a dread that I can't even describe. It's a fear; it's a hope that I can make it through another four days of high-anxiety and high-stress. When Thursdays come, I relax more, but it is still very difficult.

I will be glad when I am through this.

Ouch...

My name is Cristina D. Johnson.

Today was a tough, tough day.

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

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

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

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

That was it.

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

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

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

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

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

Disconnected.

Until the end. The very end.

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

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

The assault scene was difficult, but I managed it.

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

And I felt it.

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

Why? Why? Why?

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

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

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

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

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

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

I thought...

But he almost killed me.

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

And it did.

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

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

Did I scream? I don't remember.

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

I must've fought, right?

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

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

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

Did I learn to not say no?

I am so confused and hurt and bewildered.

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

These feelings were too much. Too hard.

Too much.

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

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

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

There is more.

I shut it down. I am good at that.

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

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

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

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

Where Did the Time Go?

My name is Cristina D. Johnson.

It's been a really tough few weeks. It's actually been a rough two months but the last couple weeks have been particularly hard, despite some help I have received and am grateful for.

Still, I cannot control how my (using the word "my" loosely) mind will respond to these things. At least, so it seems.

Session today. I know I saw Michelle last week.

I couldn't tell you when, if I didn't know our sessions are regularly on Mondays and Thursdays. I don't remember the last time I saw her. Today was an anomaly because of a scheduling conflict she had which happens sometimes. Not often, but sometimes.

I almost cancelled today's appointment because I am completely disconnected from everything which means, nothing is wrong. This sounds contrary to what I mentioned in the opening of this entry, but the thing is I have shut down and nothing is emotionally affecting me so I need no therapy. I told her I almost cancelled because I didn't want to waste her time. I literally had nothing to complain or talk about.

I mean, I had updates and told her things I've done because I needed to see them get done, but Michelle even admittedly had a hard time navigating this session. She didn't know "who" she was talking to. She was trying to determine what was going on and I was at a loss, until she started telling me things.

Apparently last week I had a very emotional session wherein I told Michelle I didn't know if I could continue therapy and dealing with these emotions.

I don't remember this. I only vaguely remember a little bit about a very intense session not long ago, but I don't know when it was. When she said "well, last week we had a pretty tough session," I stared up at the ceiling, stared out the window, very disconnected, tried so hard to remember, and that's when I realized I didn't remember anything. This is truly an earth-rattling thing. So I really wracked my brain, trying...trying... Oh God I can't remember...what happened last week? What do I remember about last week?

This led me to the realization that it wasn't just the sessions last week that I don't recall, but the entire week last week. I don't remember anything. Thinking back, the first thing I remember is Saturday and pieces since then but nothing last week. Not one single moment.

This is where my DID diagnosis makes me angry, makes me hurt. Because I hate it and I deny it because I judge it and I don't want it yet it's there slapping me, laughing at me, daring me to challenge it.

It wasn't observably troubling today as we discussed it in session, really. Not until the end, when I realized I was feeling alarmed because I didn't remember last week.

As the session came to a close, Michelle told me the emotion part of healing is going  to be very difficult for me because of my experiences with emotions. I know this to be true. It makes logical sense. It is cognitive; measurable. I can make logical sense of it so I can intellectually accept it.

Even if I feel nothing.

Which is what I did today, until a tiny little bolt of lightning struck me and I began to feel that fiery sense of alarm. That remembrance that - no matter how much I hold myself or pull myself together - I am still in need of healing, and a lot of it, and I cannot pretend my way through it. I cannot ignore it and make it disappear.

As I was leaving, Michelle suggested to me that I try meditating and mindfulness - both of which I am very familiar with and have studied and/or practiced at length. I talked with her very matter-of-factly about it, told her I was familiar with it, etc. I felt a bit shaken, but very much in control.

But then I watched her drive away and stood waiting for my cab and things started to pile on. My brain went into overdrive. I started thinking, "I don't understand this. How can I not remember? This is crazy. You are crazy!" and then I was thinking about emotions and I was thinking I need to write...

And that led me to thinking, as I stood there staring at a bitterly cold outside through a six-pane window, that I was going to write about emotions. No. No I am going to write about what I think about emotions.

Then I thought, no maybe I should write about what I feel about thinking.

This made sense to me. Logical sense. Intellectual sense. Perhaps, by writing about how I feel about thinking, I can touch emotions somehow.

So...

How do I feel about thinking?

I feel safe, thinking. I feel in control, thinking. I feel secure, thinking. I feel confident, thinking.

Because nobody can mess with my thinking.

This is quite ambiguous, isn't it?

Here's what I suppose I mean:

My intellect and street smarts are hard-earned and concrete. If I do not know it, I can and will learn it (if I need to). I watch everything and everyone closely. I seldom miss much because of what is called "hypervigilance," a label I consider to sound negative but which I embrace as "normal" and even a gift.

I don't know that I would still be breathing if not for my "hypervigilance."

There is control and, thus, security and safety in thinking. There is control in having no emotions. How's that for an oxymoron? Or, do control, security and safety count as emotions?

I am over-thinking, aren't I?

And I, myself - whoever "I, myself" happen to be today - am messing with my thinking and this is not a good thing.

There is nothing concrete or stable in having my thinking disrupted by something as alarming as DID and the analysis of such.

I am going to have a beer.

Get Over It

My name is Cristina D. Johnson.

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

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

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

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

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

But music and writing have always been there. Always.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well...yes. Yes, and no.

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

So, am I stuck in my past?

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

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

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

Get over it?

Dear God I am trying.

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.

Honesty in Therapy

My name is Cristina D. Johnson.

Most people with my diagnoses (PTSD/DID) and/or history (Complex Trauma), have a tendency to jump from therapist to therapist. They get to the "meat" of the issues or start touching on something sensitive - or their therapist will - and they hit the road. No f'n way man, I ain't goin' there.

It hurts to be honest. It's terrifying and - I say terrifying because I can't think of any stronger words - to say to a therapist, "Yep you're right and that hurts because it's true."

That happened to me during my last visit. She did something that stirred up the mud and muck inside. She reached deep, deep, deep inside where I won't look, can't look, and at the time, I didn't tell her. Couldn't tell her. I believe I told someone else, at least a little - I don't remember who - but I couldn't tell her. It was an unfamiliar, frightening maternal thing. I've never gotten to know my mother - never wanted to - and want nothing to do with her. I've also always maintained that I don't care about her, don't love her, and never needed her.

I canceled my session with her on Sunday night. Sunday night was suffering with suicide ideation - bad. I wanted a gun...Swore I would buy one. I went to bed, woke up emotionally and mentally hungover. As if there were this huge grey cloud over me, surrounding me. I was still shaken, still hurt.

I was told some things by my son (again), how I need to stop taking my meds and "get over it," among other things. I finally shut his phone off. He hasn't paid the bill and he's 25...shouldn't even be on my plan.

Anyway all kinds of things happened, and my last session was part of it. It stayed with me and I've held it, like trying to hold your breath as long as you can. It's stayed with me and I see her tonight because she called me and rescheduled for today at 5:30. She warned me before that she's a "nag" and won't let her trauma patients go that easy. There were other parts of it. One big one being an issue between Bill and I and I was feeling trapped and controlled. That set me off, big time and just brought out my fighter. Not pretty. And at the same time, figuring why the hell should I be alive? I was a mess.

Now I feel afraid to talk to her - afraid of what to say... I don't want to feel what I felt during our last session and I don't know how to broach the subject...or if I even should. Not yet, anyway. Not ready.

Latex Gloves

My name is Cristina Johnson.

Had a doctor's appointment today that I'd forgotten about. Thankfully I put it on my phone in my calendar. I'd be lost without my phone.

I'm always nervous when I go to see a doctor. Gary used to say I shrank down as if I were a child - especially when going to see a counselor and especially going to see a pdoc (mental health lingo for psychiatrist). Oh I always feel out of control. Probably because I'm completely at their mercy.

I had a bad night last night...really bad. I had an enormous and painful "fight" with my son, Tony, over texts. He was drunk and saying horrible things about me and about Bill and just being generally nasty and disrespectful. This, after he came to my house, spent the night up in my office, left it in a disgusting state and drank every beer in the fridge.

I woke up this morning hoping he made it to court okay. I was supposed to give him a ride, but I told him to find someone else and not to message me again until he got his facts straight. I'm sure he heard a bunch of bullshit from Leah when he went to get his hair cut by her (yeah, I gave him a ride there, too, despite the fact that I want nothing to do with her).

Anyway, so I get to the doctor's office today just on time (as usual - I'm rather picky about being on time). I sat in the waiting room, my purse bouncing on my lap because my legs were bouncing uncontrollably. Nervous.

When the nurse called me back, we went into a different room than usual which was fine.....

It was small and I started to feel that feeling - the nervous feeling you get just before a panic attack. You know it's coming and you don't know why but all the sudden I was trembling and crying and stuttering. I kept looking around...trying to find what triggered it.

I kept looking at the ugliest 3-D art I've ever seen. "Life is a bowl of cherries" it said, with a hideous rendition of fake cherries in a bowl, protruding from a hot pink frame, dotted with spots of orange. It was distracting me, but not in a good way.

The nurse went about her business, checking my vitals, my weight (lost 20 lbs, btw) and then handed me a tissue.

"The doctor wanted to do a [breathing test] on you, but we're going to wait okay?" she said gently.

I nodded. Wiped my eyes with a trembling hand and a wet, wadded up kleenex.

For a moment I was left alone, waiting for the doctor to come and that's when I realized what the trigger was:

On the wall there was a rack and in the rack, three boxes of gloves. Latex gloves.

The middle box had the blue gloves. The kind that police use and airport security uses and other unpleasant memories.

The two on the side held the white latex gloves.

I was immediately aware that was the trigger because when I looked at them again, I flashed back to being put in juvenile detention and the horrid things they do to you when you're sent there.

There's a required pap smear done, as well as anal and they spray you down with some kind of chemical to make sure to kill anything that might be on you. They make you bend over and order you to pull your buttocks apart....

Never realizing that you're crying inside - sure as hell can't cry outwardly - that you feel so violated, so horrified, so ...like your body is not your body.

My body has never been my body. That was taken long ago. I have trouble even to this day, showering or taking a bath.

This is part of my journey.....reclaiming my body, learning about it, despite my contempt for it as of now. Contempt because if I didn't have this body, maybe I would never have been molested or raped. It's illogical, I know, but it's beyond my mental control.

On another note, talked to Bill last night. He finished reading The Sum of My Parts by Olga Trujillo. It is by far the best book I've read as far as what I've gone through and what I'm experiencing. He asked me some questions about it and he got a much better understanding of what I am going through. I highly recommend this book to anyone who's been diagnosed DID, plus their partners.

It touched me that he read it. I asked Gary to, but he never did. Bill says Gary never wanted to understand PTSD or DID. I cried because he's right. Gary has no comprehension of how far back he set me on this healing journey. No concept, no clue. He would have, if he'd just wanted to know. Instead, he listened to everyone except me and now I'm still having nightmares about him and I can't see a truck or van like his without jolting inside as if firecrackers are going off in my blood cells. God...the powerful trigger he became is mind-blowing.

So good stuff going on, and bad stuff too. No therapy for two weeks is gonna kill me. The doctor didn't want me to leave the office without talking to Michelle (my therapist) but I told him she is not available. Once I figured out what the trigger was, I just let it run its course...let the memories flow...put myself back in the room with the gruesome bowl of cherries and breathed.

Good news is, I suppose, I'm no less healthy physically than last time. :)

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.

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.