Whores and Martians

After my blog on Forgiveness and Judgment, I received a brilliant email from a friend. It was a very well-thought-out, compassionate and knowledgeable email and there were things said in it, that really set me back, made me think.

I spoke with my APRN about it today - gave her a small paraphrase from the email - to which her response was, "She's exactly right." My APRN is fantastic and has experience working with PTSD and DID.

The paraphrase was something like, "If I insisted you were a martian, you would laugh and think I need my head examined. It's the same with words like 'whore' and you have to dig down and find that wounded part of you that believes you're a whore and help heal that part, hold that part, assure that part that it's safe now and she's not a whore."

She said many other wise things. It hurt in some ways - mostly, though, because that "part" (or those "parts") of me, I avoid. I abhor. I don't want to see them. I don't want to hear or feel them. That makes it a bit difficult to embrace them. I guess it's sad to know some parts of me are crying inside, and if I saw someone else - some other child - crying fiercely over their pain - I would embrace them and comfort them but for me, it just feels so disgraceful, even though I know it's an important part of healing.

I've been working on a story. I'm up to about 30,000 words. I've written it in the third person and that keeps me detached from it. I've also fictionalized 80 percent of the first part of it, but it's my story....or at least, the story of a girl I no longer wish to acknowledge but who seems to control my thoughts, reactions, relationships.

Writing the story, brings up a lot but what's missing is the emotional element. I can't connect, can't understand. I can only imagine what she must have felt, what she must have believed.

Judy (my APRN) says it might be good for me to write about these things - the things it brings up. Truth is, I wish I had someone there, who knew what questions to ask.

"What did you feel when this/that happened?"

"What did he/she look like/"

"What was the environment like?"

"How did you respond? Why?"

Because these elements are missing. It is just as if I am telling someone else's story. Exactly like that. Exactly like it's always been. From a distance, looking through a lens at someone else's life and experiences.

It's a dream of mine, to publish this book. God how many times I have started it and never finished. So many unfinished manuscripts. But this one is different. I have avoided it over the past week. I've shared it with four people - it contains some humiliating facts about myself - so I have only shared with a select few and of them, only portions.

It is hard to write. Hard to remember. Hard to connect. Hard to stay focused.

Thank you, my friend, for your email. And RevAli, for your response. It is nice to hear words of wisdom, of healing, of guidance. Sometimes I feel like I'm hanging by a rope over a chasm and it's about to snap and all I can do is cling on and cry.

My relationships are suffering (except with Bill) because of the distance I've put between myself and the outside world. Most recently I suffered a severe epiphany which brought me great pain. Great, great pain and deep shame and I can't even bring myself to write about it. Perhaps one day I will.

For now, I cry almost nightly because of it. More and more shame, piling on.

Seems too much to share, and too much to bear and sometimes I just have to hang onto moments like this weekend when Bill came and forced me to buy a nightgown and robe. It's the first time in ...I don't know how long, I bought something for myself. Something I really wanted. He helped me plant flowers, and bought me some cacti to make a cactus garden in my dining room window box where the heat is too much for anything else. Somehow I have to hold onto those good moments, according to Judy. Let them in, let them permeate me.

I like that idea.

She told me that I have to learn to do this so when I  get flooded and overwhelmed, I won't shut down so automatically because that's exactly what I do. I get three text messages at once and I  go on auto-pilot. The phone rings and dinner's cooking at the same time, I  go on auto-pilot. I have an appointment and the school calls - autopilot.

She said this is something I learned very young and it is now automatic. So automatic that it happens even when I don't realize it. She is right.

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.