Memories, flashbacks, dissociations and therapy

My name is Cristina D. Johnson. This entry may trigger.

In north St. Louis during the late 70's and early 80's, I was on the streets most of the time and, particularly, between ages 11 and 15. Intermittently, I would hitchike to various places. I was raped often, beaten just as often, especially when I was in St. Louis. Or, "home," as I thought of it.

After my kidnapping, I felt....  I don't know.... as if I belonged there, on the streets. I'm sure it began before that - I mean, I remember not feeling at home with Grandma and Pop because of the things Daddy did - but being on the streets became predominant after the kidnapping. I was 11.

After that, I was deemed "incorrigible" and made a ward of the state. I was no saint. I stole from my grandparents. I also shoplifted from Sears and Ben Franklin. Clothes, mostly. If not for Sears and the occassional clothesline with jeans my size clipped to it, I would never have had clean clothes.

I didn't steal with malice, although I know it could have been seen that way. Especially in Grandma and Pop's case. I even stole from my great grandmother, who was loved by all. She had a little green cup that sat on the mantle in the dining room, behind the column at the end. It was a coffee cup that was only one half the size of a normal cup. In gold letters on the green surface, it read: "Well you asked for a half cup of coffee."

I remember this is where she kept her cash. There wasn't a lot, but there was a lot for a teenage, incorrigible ward of the state. Pop kept his cash in the top left desk drawer. Grandma kept hers in her purse. She also kept her watch in a little box that sat on the counter behind her, where she also kept her address book and other things.

I stole the watch once.

Stole the car two or three times - don't remember.

Sam, the dog, knew me and I wasn't scared of him.

Most of the time, the money I took was to keep people from hurting me. To recruit allies, I suppose. It didn't really work. They would never be "friends" - they were ghetto opportunists.

One of the ways these men took advantage of women was to get them high. I never (fortunately) was into drugs as a kid. I had access and I did them because you couldn't not do them. Not doing them, was as good as wearing a badge and saying, "Hey I'm a narc," and was sure to get you beaten, if not killed.

It was always a no-win situation. You knew if you did the drugs, you'd be raped/beaten, but if you didn't, you'd possibly get worse so you just rolled the dice, hoped for the best.

The most dangerous drug I ran into was "whack." Back then crack was really becoming popular and I did it but didn't like it. Also did weed and coke but "whack" (aka PCP/Angeldust) was used to dominate.

Last night a friend of mine contacted me. She shared a harrowing experience she'd just had. I didn't think about it at the time, but as I laid down to go to sleep, I realized the experience she related to me was identical to a number of my experiences with "whack." I asked her this morning some basic questions and I firmly believe she was given it, without her knowing.

This brought me back to a memory of a cabby who took me to a motel. I don't remember the situation or circumstances; just that I'd smoked whack (which I HATED) and somehow ended up in a motel room. I was raped by the cabby. I recall watching him take my clothes off as I lay helplessly on the bed. I recall seeing him as if he were hundreds of yards away. I recall trying to talk, but not knowing if I was talking.

Whack didn't always affect me this way, but this wasn't my only experience like it.

Talking to my friend, I could taste it. Smell it. Came back to me as if I'd just smoked it. When I say I hated it, I cannot articulate how much. The smell, the taste never leaves you. To this day, sometimes I smell it at random places and it always makes me sick. I absolutely hated it.

I also recall being raped and beaten by a group that I'd been sold to. One of the perpetrators that I recall very vividly was Lafayette. I recall him vividly because he beat me horribly - worse than anyone else - and he had the largest penis. He caused me great physical pain and more than one bloody face. If I cried, as he raped me, he would punch me wherever was convenient - typically, on my face or head.

During the first incident (I ran into Lafayette and his gang multiple times. Lafayette was not the 'leader' but he was very violent and dominant), I smoked whack, but I remember Lafayette very clearly. He raped me multiple times - both with the gang, and alone - throughout my time on the street.

 None of this is really new to me. Although I remember some of it or, at least half of it, I am completely disconnected from it, too.

So this morning, when I thought about "whack," and I talked to my friend and surmised that she'd been given PCP, I became angry..... angry for her, sad for her, scared for her....

And it took me back to that motel room.

Strange thing is, I feel nothing for myself. If not for my friend (who is in college), I would feel nothing but because she's so young and because of my own experiences, I felt it vicariously. Felt the anger vicariously. Felt the violation vicariously. Couldn't shake it.

Went to therapy.

Talked with Michelle about a few things, then finally told her about the cabby, my friend, whack and Lafayette.... some details.

When I finished telling her, she informed me I'd told her about the cabby before.

I was stunned.

I began to cry.

I had never told anyone about the cabby. Not to my knowledge, except my friend and that was just this morning.

I shook my head. Told her, "no."

"Yes," she said gently. "It was Friday."

I shook my head. Cried, disbelieving.

"I thought...I thought Friday.... I thought we talked about rent Friday," I sobbed.

"It could've been Monday," she said calmly, "But it was definitely last week."

Tears fell fast. I was embarassed. "I've never told anyone except [my friend] about the cabby," I told her.

"You didn't get into as much detail as you did today, but you told me about it."

I was floored.

"Funny thing is," she went on, "You used almost exactly the same words, although you didn't give as much detail and you haven't ever mentioned Lafayette."

I cried. I was mortified.

Quickly pulled myself together. Apologized.

She said, "This is that double-edged sword. You want to remember, but when you remember, it hurts."

I nodded in ascent.

"I think things are just starting to come up for you. These memories are coming back."

It sucks to not remember, remembering. I hate not remembering.

I told her that.

I wonder what else I've told her.