Worse, before it's Better

As Michelle (my therapist) has pointed out, the closer we get to the underlying issues and memories I have, the closer we get to the emotions. This is turning out to be painfully - excruciatingly - true.

I find I am far more sensitive now and more easily triggered. I want to cry more often. I ache more often. I am confused more often and I shut down more often. I am overwhelmed far more easily and I panic more often.

When she called me yesterday to cancel our appointment for today because she's been recruited to help counsel those involved with the Newtown shooting, I was immediately panicked. Not just because of that, but because I'd just gone to the grocery store and it started then. I was getting some groceries with Bill and I began to feel things closing in on me - the walls began to close in, the people got closer and louder and I was starting to get confused. I couldn't get out of there fast enough.

We go to the car and I lit a cigarette with slightly trembling hands.

"It's okay, honey," Bill assured me.

As we drove to the gas station, my angst grew and I was trying desperately to do the "belly breaths" and calm myself down. I wasn't sure entirely what was causing my anxiety but Bill got out of the car and it got worse. Part of me was glad he wasn't there to see it. It is embarrassing to be so visibly helpless, to feel so afraid.

I jolted when my phone rang. Ironically, I just downloaded a new ringtone - something melodic and calming. Still, the sudden shatter of the quietness in the car, startled me.

The name was my therapist. At first I was overcome by a fear that I'd done something wrong and she was calling me to tell me I was bad. I know this is irrational, but this was my instantaneous first thought. "Oh God I did something bad and now she's going to leave me!"

I answered the phone. "Hello?"

I heard her familiar voice, "Cristina? Hi hon. How are you?" she asked, probably detecting my unrest. She is exceptionally perceptive.

"I'm - I'm okay," I stammered. "I just had a minor panic attack that's all. Just let the grocery store."

"Oh no, take some deep breaths," she reminded me gently. "You're safe now."

I tried. God I tried but then she said, "I'm calling because I have to cancel our appointment for tomorrow," she said calmly and apologetically. "I have been recruited to go help in Newtown," she explained.

She's leaving me! She's leaving me!

I was immediately trembling ten times worse. Not only because she was cancelling, but also because it brought up the Newtown incident, which - for me - brought out a whole slew of irrational emotions that have been holding me down since I wrote about them.

"Okay," I answered, shakily, trying desperately to hide my fear and disappointment.

She assured me that we would be in touch and do our regular session on Thursday and I told her good luck, before hanging up.

Unable to control my pulse, the heat of my skin, my trembling and the nausea, I grabbed frantically for my purse, reached inside for a Risperdal disintegrating tablet. I was glad the windows were fogged up and that Bill had not yet returned to the car.

When he finally did, he took my hand. He asked me if there was anything he could do. I shook my head, no and pulled my coat closely around me, frustrated by the seatbelt that was serving as an inconvenience to the task.

We had to go to the laundromat. I didn't want to go in. "I don't want to be seen," I told Bill after he asked me if I would like for him to put the clothing in the dryer.

"But I have to do it," I said.

I blocked out everything. Turned everything off. Just shut down and did whatever I had to do, still a little jumpy; Everyone in the laundromat seemed suspect. They were all staring at me. I felt small - so small - but defiantly (as I was when I was young) continued with the laundry chore.

"Do you want to go back out to the car?" Bill asked. Yes... Yes, I need to get out of here.

Everything is a little bit of a blur. We came home. I made dinner. Bill stayed with me the whole time.

My thoughts race. My heart pounds. My decisions are difficult. Sometimes I just wish I could go to sleep and not wake up.

Haters welcome. I'm used to it.

The big story of the day is the massacre at Sandy Hook Elementary school in Newtown. About an hour away from me. In sweet, sheltered Connecticut where there are perhaps - perhaps - three ghettos and even they have picket fences.

So much I want to say about this - so much is wrong and politically incorrect but here I am, feeling things. Feeling, for a change, and feeling terrible about what I feel. Such is life. At least, my life. Always.

A friend of mine said to me, "You are feeling the truth of how you were hurt babe. The truth can hurt but in the long run you are more real, more [Cristina]."

She is so right and feeling things makes every moment hurt. Makes every decision or choice, a matter of life or death. It changes everything.

So today, I thought - as a mother - how devastated and crushed I would be if any of my children suffered the same fate as those at Sandy Hook. As a mother, my heart ached for the pain of those parents and families who lost those children. I can't honestly fathom it and I'd be lying if I even pretended to come close to understanding how they must be feeling.

But then something else came bursting through. Obviously the political side of it. I was both ired and touched by the President's statement today as he wiped tears from his eyes. I was touched because I knew he - like me - was speaking as a parent.

However, despite the fact that I've voted for and loved him from the beginning, I was struck that we - he, no officials, no officers, no grief - is ever expressed over the thousands of children WE KILL EVERY DAY in senseless, needless war. I commented on the White House's status. A lot of people were angered by the number of "Gun control! Gun control!" shout-outs and political barraging but you know, I was pissed. "Shame on you people for using such a tragedy to spout your political grievances." Over and over people were chastised for saying what they thought and felt. Outrage and anger. But it's true! How many children do we kill as a country, every day, in the name of GREED, cleverly veiled by some need to restore democracy in some other country?

Religion and politics enter and everything goes awry, because God forbid, we disrespect the dead to point out some painful realities. (not that I'm for gun control, even though I've never owned one and don't suppose I ever will).

Anyway. That was number one.

Then, tonight, another panic attack. How bad I am. I'm bad. I can't tell people this! I can't utter these words! I can't say these things! People will hate me! I'm BAD for thinking these things....

But I couldn't help it.

I remember kindergarten. We had play time and we got different colored necklaces to wear, that directed which play areas we were allowed to play in. The purpose, I suppose, was to make sure every child got a fair share of the play time in different play areas. It smelled of crayons and Elmer's glue and construction paper.

It was also the only safe place I knew.

So I thought, today, about these kids and I thought about statistics and I thought about the pain I was going through in kindergarten, every night after I got home. I remembered hiding and wishing my kindergarten teacher would take me home with her. She was pretty and nice and good to me.

Of the 20 kids killed today, statistics tell us that one in three girls and one in six boys were either sexually abused or being sexually abused regularly. This is a life sentence. This is torture.

I thought - I  couldn't help it, I'm sorry - but I thought, "They are the lucky ones. Why couldn't that have happened to me?"

Of course, then I think of the state of our world and what our children are "learning" and how fucked up our education system is, even in high-dollar, elitist, too-expensive-to-live-in Connecticut and I think, again, "Yep they were the lucky ones."

Of course, that's not to diminish the grieving of the parents and families left behind. But the children that were killed - most call it a tragedy.

Some childlike, wounded, bleeding part of me cries, "It's a blessing. Why couldn't it have been me?"

Yes....that's how bad I am. I am a bad person.

So many people will hate this post.

But that's because they cling to God and say "evil visited this town today" (Governor Malloy) and say "it must have been God's will" (which is bullshit) because they just can't fathom that - guess what - mean people live here.

Period.

Has nothing to do with God, Pope, but thanks for the condolences.

Everyone asking for prayers. So habitual.

I wish someone had come into my classroom when I was in kindergarten and killed me.

I'm sure most who read this, will probably agree.

Nope. No feelings.

Started to feel
felt a rip
reached for the drawer
grabbed my scrip
tears choked me
I gagged on the pills
but needed to stop
the bleeding that spills
into my bones
floods my mind
relentless, cruel
pounding, unkind
turned it off
like I was taught
within this whirlwind
I won't be caught
I refuse to look
at the reality
that keeps coming back
and tormenting me

Everything just simmers there inside me, scorching me with unknowing and uncertainty. I am afraid to feel because I don't know what is right or appropriate. I am afraid.

Is this where it starts?

****This is a "live blog" meaning that I add to it when I am able. Check back for updates. I try to add as often as possible. Also be aware there are triggers in this blog.****

Daddy was a Vietnam Vet. At least, that’s what he told everyone. I didn’t really pay much mind to it, even though it seemed to be a big deal to him.

But, because of the unspoken rule in Grandma’s house that we didn’t talk about war (because Pop – my grandfather – was in WWII and suffered a nervous breakdown [plus gained a lot of medals] as a tail-gunner), I wasn’t very well-versed in war and thus, had little care for it. Pop would talk to my brother about it, but never me. I always assumed it was because my brother was a boy, which suited me fine. Pop didn’t love me anyway.

Daddy was also a very talented man and exceptionally handsome, although he had to grow into it. As a young man – early and late teens, early 20’s – he wasn’t particularly good-looking. At least, in my opinion. He wore ghastly horn-rimmed glasses and was as thin as a rail.

He was 18 when he met my mother. She was a 15-year-old runaway.

They lived in a “love-in” (basically a commune) and really I didn’t know any of this until recently, when a family member felt it was time I knew the truth about what happened. Up until that point, I had heard many stories and did not know how I ended up (or if I ended up) in a foster home in Florida when I was three and my brother, two.

They were heavy into drugs – that was pretty popular back then, in the early 70’s – as were these “love-ins” where my father apparently fell in love with another man, with whom he and my mother both had a sexual relationship.  There was a second man, as well, but Daddy fell in love with John.

Turns out my father later enlisted because he and my mother decided they were going to "clean their lives up." He was stationed in Florida but was thereafter arrested for selling drugs. He received a dishonorable discharge and did three years, I believe, in prison. He believed that my mother had turned him in, because she’d found someone else.

According to some accounts, my mother’s new boyfriend (whom she found while Daddy was in prison) was a drug-dealer and we were taken away when she attempted to sell us for drugs.

My mother was never the motherly type, although she was a beautiful woman with long, flowing brown hair and gentle, soft, brown doe eyes, full lips and a fantastic smile. Her shape was very feminine, full-breasted with a perfectly curved body. She kept her beauty throughout her years, until at least 40 and her drinking and lifestyle began slowly eating away at her physical appearance.

They have both claimed the other beat them. My mother has told me that my father nearly killed me as an infant because I wouldn’t stop crying.

I have discovered, though, through the years, that both are liars and I can’t count on either of their words. Especially my father who is pathological at lying.

Through therapy, I have come to the presumption that my abuse (and that of my brother) began pre-verbally. That is: before I was able to talk. With drugs, sex and pornography rampant in those days and as a child of two young people with little to no moral compass, it would stand to reason we were –at the very least- sorely neglected.

I do have one minor memory of that time – I was probably three years old – and my mother was taking my brother and I somewhere in a car with two other men. I had to pee. I told her I had to pee but she didn’t listen so I ended up peeing in my pants, in the car.

My mother yelled at me angrily – I know, in hindsight – that she was more concerned with what the two men thought about her little girl peeing in their car, than she was the fact that I was mortified I’d peed in my pants.

My brother simply sat quietly in the black, back seat of the car while my mother took me out of the car. That is the extent of that memory.

She also claimed to me multiple times (after I met her. See, when we were taken away from her as toddlers, we didn’t see her for years so I never knew her until I was around 8 years old and met her for the first time) that Daddy had “forced” her to do drugs. Obviously I don’t believe that. My mother is the constant “victim” and always has been. Nothing is ever her fault and nothing ever has been. Accountability seems to be lacking in her vocabulary.

During the years we were estranged from Mom, Daddy would send us letters in the mail from prison. Grrandma had a whole desk drawer, dedicated to letters from Daddy. Of course, in prison there really is only two things to do: read and write. My father wrote a lot. He wrote songs, poetry and letters. Lyrics, thoughts, ideas. His penmanship was beautiful. His words were beautiful and of course we thought he was ideal. He was wonderful.

Grandma made sure we believed this.

So when we found out he was showing up for Christmas in 1976 with his new wife and her two children with the intention of taking us to live with him, we were ecstatic.

The truth is, however, that is when the nightmare began. Perhaps this, then, is where my story starts.

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Daddy was completely different than the pictures of him I'd seen. Or perhaps different than the forgotten images I held of him, frozen in my infant mind. He was fuller, stronger, bigger. He was, indeed, the biggest man I knew and in some ways, that's not an exaggeration. He was, after all, six foot, two. He wore John Lennon glasses, though I didn't know that's what they were called back then, and he was very authoritative. He frightened and enthralled me; intimidated and excited me. There was a sort of childish, "Wow! I really have a Daddy now!" kind of energy within me, even if that "Daddy" was a frightening and mysterious man.

His wife, Vikki, I didn't like, nor her children but that is possibly because I was so preoccupied with my daddy. I wanted his attention but he kept giving it to them and in some way, this made me feel a little out of place. I was also terribly sick this Christmas so between the two, I just kind of kept quiet and sat in the background, wishing someone would tell my Daddy that I wanted to be held and comforted. I suppose I wanted to know for sure he was never leaving us again.

It wasn't that I didn't love Grandma and Pop but I was so excited to be with Daddy.

I was also excited about the biggest Christmas present under the tree. It was for me!

I was so excited, in fact, that despite how sick I was, I ran down the hallway, shrieking excitedly - as most five-year-olds might do - "The big one is for me! The big one is for me!"

I was so lost in my excitement that I was stunned when a hand grabbed my arm and yanked me in such a way that I was spun around violently and suddenly staring blue eyes-to-blue eyes, right at my father. His face was angry. His mouth turned into an angry frown. He snarled at me with a hushed growl:

"If you say one more goddamn word, I will throw that present in the garbage. Do you understand?"

This was not the kind of reaction I was used to. Grandma and Pop were gentle, for the most part and my brother and I could certainly be rambunctious, although that wasn't always so. (Grandma once told me when she came to Florida to get us from the foster home we were in, I sat in a rocking chair holding a babydoll, completely emotionless. She brought me home. She said I showed no emotion: no anger, sadness, fear or anything. "Then one day in the kitchen you threw a temper tantrum," she recalled. "That was one of the happiest days of my life."). Over the years, however, Grandma and Pop had let us adjust and though we weren't spoiled, we had a lot of fun.

So staring into those angry blue eyes of my father who was so angrily and disapprovingly uttering words of throwing away my Christmas gift, I was speechless. My chin began to tremble but I knew - somehow inherently - I'd better not cry. I nodded my ascent and he released his grip on my arm. He arose, then, as I stood there still shocked, not entirely sure what to do. The hallway was dark. The textured crimson wallpaper threatened to suffocate me. I wanted permission to move. Needed permission.

Reluctantly, I looked up at the towering figure over me. "Go ahead," he said as if nothing had happened. "Go play."

I quickly turned and tentatively walked down the hall to the relative safety of the dining room where Grandma and Pop sat. I still struggled, holding in the tears that choked me. How bad I must be, for Daddy to say something like that. What a bad girl I must be.

------------
Like a mosaic, multicolored and complex, my mind struggles with flashes and taps on my memory's door. The drive to Pensacola is absent my memory. Our arrival there, as well, I do not vividly recall but can only speculate.

I would share a room with Leigh - she was 13 - and my brother would share a room with Alex - he was 16. They were Vikki's kids.

Mine and Leigh's room was mostly white, as I recall. I had a small bed that was white and Leigh had a white dressing table that was covered and cluttered with everything a little girl would want to play with: make up, hair spray, curling iron. She was quick to take note of my interest and very sternly ordered that I never, ever touch her dressing table. Although I never did actually touch the delightfully exciting stuff on it, I did once get beaten for accidentally leaving a piece of candy on it, which melted to her curling iron. I couldn't believe I'd done it. I didn't remember putting it there. Leigh was so angry at me and I understood. It seemed I was always messing up.

Travis and Alex's room was dark with bunk beds. I remember being jealous. I wanted bunk beds. I was not allowed in the boys room, ever.

The house was flat. This was intriguing to me. Grandma's house was three stories but this one had one story and a flat roof. I believed we could climb onto that roof and, indeed, we once did. In fact, we did many times. I recall the yard - it was enormous. It was on a corner lot and Alex and Daddy would often play frisbee in their cut-off denim shorts. I wanted to play, but I couldn't. Daddy could make the frisbee skip on the asphalt of the road and they could catch it behind their backs and throw it from between their legs. It was exciting to watch.

It was relieving as well, because when daddy played frisbee, he wasn't paying much attention to Travis or I.

I didn't like it there. At least, not in that house. It was overstuffed and everything seemed so big and so crowded. Vikki had two cats - Siamese cats - named Ching-Ching and Choo-Choo. They were loud but they were pretty. There was another cat - a black cat and I don't remember it's name - and another cat, Tiger, who I thought was so pretty. I loved cats and all animals - even insects.

It was here - in Pensacola - that we started school. Vikki was a teacher of some sort and she was adamant that I learn the alphabet and digraphs. She taught me phonetically - by sound - and I learned very quickly, eventually - at age five - able to recite the alphabet by sound, as well as all digraphs and by six could say the alphabet backwards without skipping a beat.

Vikki often took me to her work and sometimes put me in front of important people and she told me they were important so I knew I had to do everything perfect and be polite and not make any mistakes. I did this numerous times, always succeeding and always at the amazement of her superiors.

Vikki was a larger woman, but not obese. She had long red hair, straight as straw and thin as a spider's web. It spilled down her back like shredded satin. Her eyes were green and she was often the victim of my father's frequent angry outbursts. While she worked as a teacher (I believe), my father worked at a gas station.

We had a Pinto that somehow worked for us and I am sure at some point there was another vehicle because I remember Daddy having an accident. He took us - my brother and I - and Alex to the scene of the accident. It was on the side of the highway and my brother and I sat in the bed of a pick-up truck.

"Stay here and don't move," Daddy commanded, as he and Alex trod off into the grass, towards a wire fence where, apparently, he had his accident. The cars were whirring by and I wanted to see but I couldn't see over the truck bed. I wanted to see where Daddy had had his accident. I got up on my knees so I could look. Daddy picked up a long, slender, mangled piece of metal. I didn't know what he was saying, but he was telling Alex something about it.

As soon as I saw they were returning to the truck, I quickly sat back down.

Daddy came to me and, without a word, drew back the mangled metal piece and swung at me. I held my arm up and felt the sting of the metal on my forearm. I knew not to cry.

"I told you not to move!" he sneered, as he threw the metal piece into the bed of the truck.

I felt blood on my arm, dripping down, but I knew not  to cry. I was bad. It was my fault, I shouldn't have knelt up to see. My brother wisely sat in the same place the whole time, saying not a word. I sat with my back to the cab of the truck, holding my arm, careful not to get blood anywhere. Why are you so stupid?

I stared at the metal bar and I thought about how badly Daddy must have felt when he had his accident. I was glad he wasn't hurt. I overheard conversations between him and Vikki enough to know it was a pretty serious accident. Or, at least, it sounded like one.

I felt bad for Daddy. I felt bad I disobeyed. I wished I could please him. I never did, though. Not until things changed at home.

It was definitely a learning curve. We went from the pacifistic, matriarchal environment of Grandma's house, to a darker place - a world of violence and unpredictability. Grandma always made us breakfast and checked our schoolwork. She made sure we had all we needed to go to school and even though the neighborhood we lived in was utterly unsafe, we were kept sheltered from that at our young ages.

Now we lived with new people - including this "Daddy" who was really nothing like the "Daddy" that Grandma had told my brother and I about - and strangers, who we didn't understand. A world we didn't understand. 

After the accident, with only one vehicle, we had to go pick Daddy up from work. We'd pile into the Pinto, my brother and I in the back seat, and pick him up. He often spoke bitterly of his job and one time I heard him call his boss's wife a bitch. I didn't know what that was, but I thought it must be something good because she was always very kind to me. It was rare, in that time and in that place, to see kindness and attention.

One day, it was just she and I in the booth (there was a booth at the gas station) and she lifted me gently, and sat me on the counter, gave me some candy. I sat there happily, swinging my legs and munching on my candy. I asked her, "What is a bitch?"

"Well, where did you hear that word, honey?" she asked sweetly.

"Well, that's what Daddy said you are," I responded, paying little attention to her reaction. I was focused on my candy and joyfully swinging my legs, happy to be away from the "family" I was a part of.

On the way home that night, Daddy was frighteningly infuriated. He was yelling at me from the driver's seat and I was very confused.

"What did you say to her?" he demanded.

"Nothing, Daddy," I responded, honestly. I really didn't remember our conversation - only that she'd given me some candy.

He reached back, grabbing at me, swinging his fists at my legs but unable to fully make contact because I was seated behind him. 

"Tell me what you said!" he screamed.

My brother and Vikki were silent.

"I don't know, Daddy. I swear I don't know."

We got home and the torment continued. I was beaten and thrown against things. At one point, I was taken outside and made to stand in front of the big pine tree where Daddy ordered Alex to throw pine cones at me until I talked. I was not allowed to move.

The prickly tips of the pine cones stung my skin with each blow and he would scream, "What did you say?"

When I repeated, "I don't know," another pine cone would be thrown.

I later found out Daddy was fired from his job. I didn't know why.

In hindsight and after years of recalling memories, I now understand but at the time, I simply did not know.

This is about the time the daily beatings began and any attempt to move, speak, or do anything was terrifying. It was a silent terror - one my brother and I dared never speak of, but knew we shared, even though I believed my brother was the favorite - he always was the favorite because he never did anything wrong. Still, he got beaten, too.

------------------

Family meetings were not just brutal but humiliating. I suppose, at the time, there was little humility left but looking back, I feel the humiliation now.

We met in the dining room, which was really not a dining room; it'd been set up with an orange floral sofa that sat across from the sliding glass windows that opened into the back yard. There were other seats, and a breakfast bar that separated this "dining room" from the kitchen.

Every day - every day - we had "family meetings" where we were (my brother and I, that is) reprimanded and punished for our misbehavior of the day, whatever it may have been.

It is very difficult to describe.

At my age, now, my mental snapshot of my father is frozen in time and it's different than it was back then. Back then, he was - as I said before - stronger, more muscular than he had been when he was younger and his hair was still short, but he had the most beautiful blue eyes behind those John Lennon glasses. His laugh was contagious. His music was hypnotic, at least to me it was. To me, Daddy was the greatest writer, composer and musician in the world and having the privilege of watching as he strummed his guitar with his thick strong fingers was the greatest privilege there was. I was so proud of him.

Still, despite his strength, violence, rage and unpredictability, there was a sadness about him and it was  this - this deep sadness that he portrayed - that I wanted so desperately to heal.

So when we had these family meetings and discussed the behaviors of my brother and I, the most painful parts were when his beautiful blue eyes would tear up and drops would run down his rugged, strong face. I am a bad girl. I made daddy cry. He's crying because of me and I deserve every punishment I get. Please stop crying, Daddy. Please don't cry. I'll do anything.

And with each meeting, my brother and I would be verbally reprimanded for whatever our transgressions may have been: leaving a door open; not mitering the corners of our bed sheets; eating improperly; speaking improperly; dressing improperly; being bad.

I was the worst. My brother never got in trouble - he was always the good boy, the one everyone loved.

Still, during our family meetings, everyone gathered and my brother and I were to stand in front of our father, watching and listening to the things he said to us. The terrible things we'd done.

"I don't ever want to see you hold a cat like that again," he said to me with a menacing calmness that brought tears to his eyes and, in turn, to mine. I'd held our black cat up in the air, over my head, looking at his eyes, and then pulled him close to me. But doing this was so bad, it made Daddy cry and so, I must never, ever do this again. My heart broke because I made Daddy cry.

Daddy would order us to remove our clothing as Vikki, Alex and Leigh sat by watching. It was an important meeting and everyone needed to be there. It was serious, and it was handled as such.

Daddy would then lay us each - one at a time - across his lap and beat our naked bodies with a long wooden spoon while the rest looked on. The stings of the spoon, in the beginning, were torturous and if my body arced in such a way that my feet flew up and accidentally hit him, he would beat harder.

I learned quickly to ignore pain and not fight back.

We would then pick up our clothes from the floor, and walk out of the room to our bedrooms.
-----------------

Leigh was the one who was responsible for seeing that Travis and I got off to school on time but she didn't like that job, so she made it very important for me to learn to tell time. Once I could tell time, I could do it on my own and I was excited not just because I was going to learn to tell time, but because I was going to get some attention from Leigh.

She was very pretty with long brown hair. She had a boyfriend who almost always wore a long military jacket that seemed too big for him, and his hair was dark and curly. They would sit together in front of the house and kiss and I found this fascinating. Leigh usually would catch me looking and yell at me, and I would run away - that was about as much attention as she paid to me (except for that time with the candy and the curling iron). I don't think she liked me very much. I don't think anyone really did.

So for weeks, she had me practice learning time. The stove in the kitchen was the color of pea soup with a clock on the back. Not much different than Grandma's stove - only hers was white. The clock had an extra "arm" on it - that was the timer and I should ignore that, Leigh explained to me and I felt a warmth as she spoke to me kindly.

I tried desperately hard to learn but it didn't make a lot of sense to me at  first and Leigh would get really mad at me and yell. I felt terrible for upsetting her; she was trying very hard to teach me something and I was failing her.

One day, she asked me, "Crissy, what time is it?" (Crissy was the name I was called by, back then) and I looked at the clock on the back of the stove. I guessed. I didn't really know what time it was but I was so afraid of upsetting her and I wanted to make her proud.

I guessed it right!

Leigh shrieked with delight and what was better, was Daddy and Vikki were there!

"Now they can do it on their own," Leigh said to Daddy and her mother. "I don't have to stay behind."

Daddy agreed and from then on, I was responsible for making sure Travis and I got to school okay. We would walk together. It seemed like a hundred miles but it was freedom and we loved the freedom. So each morning, I would brace my hands on the stovetop, jump to lift myself up to see the clock and when the hands were on the right numbers, I would tell Travis it was time to go.

The area we lived in had sidewalks and I remember being enthralled by them. They were pristine and new - even the gutters were seemingly white and clean. So different from our over-crowded, over-stuffed home where it was hard to even breathe. There were a lot of homes that were being built and Travis and I would go into the shells of these homes and dance around, pretending they were our house, even though there were no walls. Strangely, the smell of the pine trusses and wall joints reminded me of Daddy - he worked with wood and his tools a lot; as I said, he was very talented. There was nothing my Daddy couldn't do.

I also remember during our walks to school how terribly sad I felt for the various things I would see on the sidewalks. Especially leaves and worms. I always stopped and picked them up, placing them into the grass. I knew the worms lived in the dirt and I was afraid that someone might come along and step on the leaves and I didn't want them to be hurt, so I laid them on the grass. I did this every day, very carefully. The leaves were quite fragile but they were beautiful to me.

So our adventures on the way to school were a welcome respite from the torment of being at home and during those times, I forgot what life was like in that house.

One time, when I went to check the time, I braced my hands on the stovetop like always and the burner was on. I yanked my hands away, looked down to see searing rings matching the pattern of the burner, covering my entire left hand. I was instantly terrified. I didn't tell anyone - not even Travis - but, instead, just guessed the time and we left for school.

While I was there, one of the teachers discovered my hand because, being left-handed, I was unable to write.

"Honey we need to call your parents," she said gently.

My heart pounded. No. No, no please, please don't call them!

"Please," I remember begging. "I'll write. I'll do it. Please don't call them!"

She told me it was a very bad burn and I needed to see a doctor. I don't know who they called - Daddy or Vikki - but I ended up at home.

"How can you be so stupid?!" I remember hearing. My head was swimming. I knew I was in trouble. I knew Daddy would beat me for this and I was right. Everything is a blur, except for being beaten for my burnt hand. How stupid I must be. I would never do it again, I promised.

At some point - for reasons I don't recall - Travis and I were no longer allowed to go into the house when we got home from school. We had to wait for either Leigh or Alex to get home from their schools, to let us in. This was okay - we had a tree "fort." Actually it wasn't a fort; it was an overgrown bush that was hollowed out. We would hide in there and sometimes we would hide behind the hedges in front of the house because we had to pee really bad and we couldn't go in. We were once caught by the neighbors peeing behind the hedges and they told our parents.

We were beaten for that. How could we embarrass the family that way? Daddy was terribly ashamed of us and I was ashamed that we had done such a bad thing, even though I didn't really know what else to do. We would have to find some other place to pee - someplace where nobody could see us - if it happened again.

--------------- Trigger Warning ------------

"Hey Crissy, wanna fool around?"

I don't remember the first time he said it to me, nor do I recall my response but I'm sure it was an excited "Yes!" because Daddy always said it with a loving smile - as if he really loved me and wanted me to play with him and he wanted to play with me. I must have been desperately excited to get happy attention from Daddy.

At some point, those words would cause my body to tense, my stomach to drop. I would be overwhelmed by things I couldn't and didn't understand. Fear? No. I couldn't possibly be afraid because Daddy never hurt me when we "fooled around." He was very gentle and loving as he taught me things - big girl things. I was special during those times, even if I didn't like touching him or licking or kissing him or him touching me.

There was a bit of relief when he would ask me if I wanted to fool around. I was relieved that I had a chance to make Daddy happy. I was relieved that - at least for that period of time, as our naked bodies meshed and mingled and I performed for him - I was not in danger of being beaten or yelled at or getting into trouble. At least during those times, I knew what I was doing was right and okay and I was being a good girl, even if I hated it.

The slimy feel and salty taste of semen sickened me but I was always very careful to be a good girl and not do anything that would hurt the soft flesh of Daddy's penis. The taste of his skin as he made me lick it, all the way down his torso was okay - I didn't mind - but I didn't like all the hair down there as I got lower and I really didn't like the taste of his anus but he would keep cooing to me, "That's my girl, good girl. Keep going," and I would do my very best, to do everything exactly the way he wanted.

Often I would pose for him on his unkempt bed and he would maneuver my body parts around to certain poses as he touched himself. I could see his penis get bigger and bigger. It was really big and barely fit in my mouth and because of that, Daddy taught me to be very careful of my teeth. That's what I mean when I say he taught me "big girl stuff" - he taught me to be cautious and careful. Sometimes - but not often - I would mess up and accidentally my teeth would touch the skin but Daddy didn't get mad. He would just remind me, "Watch your teeth, honey."

"He called me honey. I'm a big girl."

In these moments, he was the best Daddy in the world. He always helped to wipe the white stuff off of me, handed me my clothes and would tell me I was a good girl, as he sent me off to my room to get dressed.

---------------------

I once told Daddy no; "No I don't want to fool around," I said, almost in a whisper, afraid that he would get angry. When he asked again, "Come on, Crissy. You sure?" I knew it was my opportunity to reconsider and I took it.

This was the first time I had ever told him "no" so I was glad I was able to change my mind. I didn't want to upset him.

As typical, I went to his room, but this time it was different. He positioned my naked body on the bed so that I was on my hands and knees. He told me not to look.

I obeyed.

I felt his large, rough hands on my back side, rubbing and caressing. I kept my head turned towards the wall.

Suddenly I felt an intense pain as he pushed something into my rectum. I lurched forward, crying and balled up into the fetal position, crying.

"Oh I'm sorry, honey," he cooed. "Did that hurt?" he asked, not waiting for an answer. "Okay we won't do that again," he assured and I saw him put a hotdog down onto the floor.

I knew not  to say "no" after that. He had never hurt me before, so I just knew he'd hurt me because I told him no, initially. I would never say no again.

I would, however, be brought to tearful begging.

That was the day when Daddy asked me to come into the boy's room - where I was never allowed. The "Crissy, do you want to fool around?" question had already been asked and answered and I slowly walked to this new and forbidden location, only to see my terrified little brother sitting with my father, naked on his bunk bed.

"It's okay, honey," he said gently. "Come on in."

He smiled at me, reassuringly. My brother's big blue eyes were as huge as I'm sure mine was. I was stunned. I had seen my brother naked before. When we lived at Grandma's house, we bathed together as young children. It was purely innocent and we played a lot in the tub. Grandma often got a kick out of us splashing and playing with the bubbles.

But this was different - very different - and my emotions were very mixed up. I was both disgusted to see my brother's naked body along with my father's, but also I felt a need to protect him and a helplessness, knowing I could not. I was stunned to discover that my brother, too, was experiencing the same things I was. Everything was mixed up and I was scared.

I walked into the room tentatively, unsure, frightened.

He coerced my brother to lay down. My brother was four or five. I was five or six.

"Come here, Crissy," he said, guiding me towards my brother's exposed body. My brother was not all the way on the bed. He was crying, but without sound. Just silent tears sliding from his blue eyes, dripping down onto the bed. His feet hung off the bed.

Daddy told me to get closer and eventually directed me to perform oral sex on my brother. I looked at my father, shocked and afraid. "Daddy please, please don't," I begged. When I said the words, my brother's crying became audible and he, too, began to beg. "Please Daddy, Please no."

But Daddy wouldn't listen and kept assuring us it was just fine and we would be okay.

I did as I was told, crying and begging the whole time. As I did, Daddy touched himself and - as I was accustomed to seeing - his penis grew larger and larger. My brothers did not but rather felt like a mouthful of jello as I did what Daddy instructed me to do.

Daddy then made us switch positions and, again, we begged and pleaded but I knew there was nothing that we could do.

He ordered me to lay back and directed my brother where to lick and kiss on my body. I cried, as did my brother, the whole time. I hated the feel of his mouth down there. It was humiliating but Daddy wouldn't let me move my arms or hands. Instead both my brother and I - with each turn - were told to keep our arms up above our heads.

We could do nothing but follow his orders, though gently they were given.

I do not know how long this session lasted, but it seemed an eternity. I was so ashamed and embarrassed and angry - angry at my brother, I recall. Angry because, perhaps, I wasn't able to stop it. Angry, perhaps, because of envy? I don't know. But our relationship was forever changed after that day. Some form of hatred or loathing bloomed between us; a hatred that had never existed before.

And it didn't seem to matter that we cried, begged, pleaded and ultimately performed as asked. That night, we had our regular family meeting and, again, my brother and I were beaten. This was confusing. We did all he'd asked. Why would he do this?

This was the question, always.

I was once beaten because - in the midst of Daddy and I "fooling around" - Vikki came home and Daddy quickly stashed me under their bed, nude. Beneath the bed was so cluttered that I could barely fit. I felt things pressing against my back and because of how afraid and harried daddy seemed to be, and how important it seemed that I hide, I was as still as I could be, making sure to hold the brown bed skirt down so Vikki wouldn't find me.

But she did and when she did, she yanked me from under their bed, yelling, "What are you doing under there," as if I were very bad for being there. Daddy soon came into the room and saw that Vikki had found me and he, too, chimed in with the same words, "What on earth are you doing under there? Where are your clothes?"

I was confused, yet also knew - because of how Daddy had acted when Vikki came home unannounced and unexpected - that Daddy was trying to hide our "fooling around" from her so I took the tongue lashings and went to my room crying.

That night, in front of the family, my transgression was revealed to the whole family during our meeting and I was beaten for being in my parents room without permission.

I knew I could say not a word because, if I did, Daddy would get in trouble. I don't know how I knew this, but I knew it very well so I took my beating and went to my room, hurt and confused.

----------------------

The days and nights spent in our new Pensacola "home" were terrifying and unpredictable. There were many fights and violent rampages, outside of our regular beatings and abuse, but there were also moments of laughter and beauty.

Sometimes Daddy would take us to a nearby park that I recall having a picnic table and one of those old rusty merry-go-rounds that you could spin round and round on.

Daddy would perch himself on the table, sitting on the top with his foot on the bench, so he could rest his beautiful guitar on his knee. He would then sing to us, as we went around on the merry-go-round. Daddy's singing and music were like magic to me and it was such a special thing, to be there with just him and my brother, having him sing to us. Just us.

To me, it meant he did love us. He truly did. That's why he sings to us.

"Puff the magic dra-gon, lived by the sea..." his oftentimes loud, powerful voice transformed into the beauty of song, melodic and hypnotizing. At family gatherings throughout my childhood - despite how much I feared him and despite how much he hurt us - I would swell with pride, knowing it was my Daddy that everyone was surrounding as he played his guitar and sang his music.

Indeed, his music was beautiful and he would sometimes sing songs just for us - songs for kids that were sad, but they were for kids, nonetheless. I adored him - especially in these moments.

But then we would have another family meeting or we would fool around again or we would be otherwise punished and it was very confusing.

Dinnertime was a very difficult time. We were not accustomed to the rules. At Grandma's house, we were often told "whoever cleans their plate the best, wins!" by Grandma who was a jovial person, for the most part. And there were no qualms or stares or consequences when my little brother and I would commence to licking our plates in a fun competition to see whose plate was the cleanest. We were taught the proper manners: Please, Thank you, etc. (we were taught some things in French because Pop had been stationed there during the war and my brother and I took great pride in being able to say 'pass the butter please' in French).

But in Pensacola, we sat silently, for the most part. Only Daddy and Vikki talked. We - my brother and I - had to sit absolutely straight in our chairs. We were not permitted to have more than one hand on the table at a time and had to eat with one hand, put that hand on our lap, and then use the other hand to drink with. We had to sit with our ankles crossed and, because we were unaccustomed to so many rules - were punished quite a bit.

"See how ugly you look!" Daddy would chastise as he would take one of us who had  inadvertently chewed with our mouth open or spoken with food in our mouth. "You sit here and look at that!" he would say, as he made up a makeshift table, separate from the rest of the "family" and would place a mirror in front of us, forcing us to watch ourselves eat.

It hurt to be so disgusting and ugly that we had to be separated from the family but it hurt even more that Daddy thought I was ugly.

It hurt to awaken with blood on my pillow from being hit by Daddy the night before. The fear of knowing I'd stained my pillow was pervasive but I could not hide it and I did not know what to do with it.

It hurt to be blamed for things - and, thus, beaten - for things the neighbor kids did or my brother did.

It hurt to be forced to walk in the heaviest rains, home with my little brother in tow because we'd been forgotten at the school. At six years old, I had to convince my teacher to let me take my brother home or we would get into trouble - that my father had not forgotten us, we were supposed to walk home.

It hurt to live. It hurt to exist. It hurt to know nothing I did or could do, would ever be enough to keep Daddy from crying or being angry.

One day, without warning, we heard the familiar sound of fighting between Daddy and Vikki. My brother and I knew, during these times, to stay as quiet and hidden as possible.

We heard slamming and yelling. I don't know why but on this day, my little brother and I came out of our hiding and watched as Daddy pulled the burgundy van to the front door. He was running in and out of the front door of the house. We stood on our knees on the couch, silently watching for awhile, wondering what was happening but our silence turned to crying and pleading when we saw Daddy start throwing large black garbage bags into the van, screaming at Vikki that he was leaving. He was taking his beloved guitar. He was leaving us!

We - my brother and I - began pounding on the big picture window behind the couch. We cried and screamed, wishing he would hear, "Please Daddy don't leave!" but he didn't hear us. "Daddy please don't go!" our little fists knocked on the glass as we cried and pleaded.

Our desperate attempts to stop him from leaving us went unheard and I remember seeing the little black windows in the back of the van as Daddy pulled out of the driveway, leaving us behind.

In the blur of my memory, the next thing I recall is that night - the same night - sitting on an airplane with my little brother next to me and Vikki - along with, I believe, her sister - standing in front of us on the plane. I remember feeling very sad and Vikki jumping in front of us, up and down excitedly. "Isn't this exciting!" she shrieked. "You get to see your Grandma again!" I remember, when she jumped, the whole plane bounced but I didn't feel happy at all. I was very confused. My brother and I remained quiet.

I do not remember the flight back or seeing Grandma again. I don't remember the airport or the ride back to Grandma's house. I only remember Grandma being angry because we were sent back with very little. A few days later, she was again angry, because Vikki had sent some of our toys in the mail but they were crammed together in a big box that had been damaged.

I wondered where Daddy was and if or when he would be back. I also wondered if he left because of me. Because I was bad or I was too much or I was too ugly. I wondered if Travis felt the same.

-----------------------

A new lifetime.

This lifetime was brief and foggy.

Grandma was a robust woman. A matriarch. Pop was a wordless man, so the few times he would speak, I knew to listen and listen good. The house on Hebert Street was enormous to me. The textured crimson wallpaper in the foyer and going up the staircase always fascinated me.

Great-grandma "Mom" - as she was called by everyone in the family - was frequently using Plaster of Paris to repair holes in the walls so it seemed the burgundy wallpaper had white wounds, bandaged by Mom.

At the foot of the stairs was a giant mirror and we would run down the stairs and jump the last few, laughing at our expressions, my brother and I, trying to see who could be the funniest.

Our cousins would sometimes come visit but not often. The neighborhood was bad. Very bad. So bad, that Pop was robbed more often than not when he went to the corner liquor store to buy more Hamm's for him and Grandma.

One night, we all went to Kroger. I don't remember why. It was unusual. Pop always did the grocery shopping with Grandma's neatly written grocery list in hand. It always amazed me how she would position the pen - always the same black, clicky pen - in her crippled fingers and write perfectly straight, perfectly neat.

But on this night, we were all together and Pop got out of the car to go inside.

Grandma's window was cracked. Cigarette smoke puffed out the window into the dark air and I suddenly heard a loud bang. A man had run to our car and was reaching in Grandma's cracked window. He was grabbing at her purse, saying something to her but I don't remember what. I just remember looking at Pop as he walked away and hearing Grandma's screams, "George! George! Help George!" as she clutched and tugged at her pocketbook. Pop was deaf in one ear. He didn't hear.

My little brother and I remained frozen in the back seat. I wanted to do something but I didn't know what. I was simply frozen.

Grandma put us back in Irving Elementary where we were tormented daily because we were the only white kids in the school. We walked to school, down Hebert, across Natural Bridge Avenue and down into the bowels of the ghetto. People always called out to me - mostly men - "Hey white girl! Hey, come here white girl!"

The overcrowded houses and broken concrete and boarded up condemned homes were somehow better than the shells of homes my brother and I played in, in Florida. Better, I suppose, because at least we were away from the abuse and even if we weren't safe outside of Grandma's front door, at least we were safe from Daddy, even if we missed him.

My little brother and I figured out crafty ways to escape our tormenters. One of the best ways was to take change from Grandma and Pop's change jars that they kept on the old desk in the dining room, when they weren't looking. We would stuff our coat pockets with pennies, nickles, dimes and quarters and then - when the typical perpetrators would come near - we would take the change and throw it high into the air.

"Oooh! Money! They throwin' money!" we could hear them scrambling like hungry rats on a carcass as we bolted at lightning speed to get away.

During these times, I was frequently sexually assaulted, though nothing like what Daddy had done. Mostly I was chased and pinned down (once it actually happened in the front yard, on the small hill that led up to the porch. I laid there and stared at Mom's roses that lined the walk while two older boys "clothes burned" me [that is, simulated sex with clothing on]). It was then, that Grandma decided to put us in a different school. I remember her calling the principal at Irving - Mr. Brown - and complaining to him about the two boys who'd followed us home and done that to me. Mr. Brown told her it didn't happen on school property so there was nothing he could do. Grandma was mad about that.

It was during this "lifetime" that I told Grandma I no longer wanted to be called "Crissy." I wanted to be called "Tina."

"Crissy is a little girl name. Besides, it reminds me of that girl on Three's Company and she's stupid."

Grandma laughed and made sure to tell the whole family that my name was now Tina. The whole family honored my wish and - to this day - still do, even though my name has changed several times since.

It was also during this time that Grandma and Pop became our legal guardians. I didn't know what it meant, but I remember going into a judges office and everything was big and tall. The judge was a nice old man and he had a bowl of candy on his desk. He asked if we wanted some. My brother and I said yes and he pushed the bowl to the edge so we could reach it. Grandma and Pop were in there, standing (or sitting?) behind us as we took piece after piece and munched on the candy.

"Do you kids think you want to live with your Grandma and Grandpa here?" the judge asked. I was so preoccupied with the candy, I didn't really care and I just nodded my head. So did my little brother.

And we continued eating the candy.

That was when Grandma and Pop became our legal guardians.

Grandma told us one day that Daddy was working as a truck driver and she told us the name of the company but the name was a long one, and we couldn't remember it. She told us he said he might be able to come visit.

Grandma changed our schools and we started going to Waring ABI - it had something to do with busing. I didn't understand it, except that they wanted to have equal numbers of black and white kids in the schools. So our bus stop changed and instead of walking to the darkening parts of the city, we went towards the south end.

But because of the neighborhood, our bus was all black and my brother and I were frequently attacked, teased, and tormented on the bus. We quickly learned we could walk an extra few blocks and use our lunch money to take the city bus to school. This also left us with enough money to stop in and see the donut lady and play a game of pinball. The donut lady was always very nice to us. She always had a lot of big gold necklaces on and they seemed magical to me against her chocolate skin. She knew what we were doing and she sometimes ordered us to go so we wouldn't miss the city bus.

Sometimes we would just hide behind the bushes and deliberately miss the bus and go home. Grandma let us stay home on those days.

One day when we were walking home, there was a big semi truck parked on the side of the road next to the vacant lot where our block ended. We read the words on the trailer: Health Examinetics. We couldn't remember  the name Grandma had said, but we knew "Health" was the first part and the second part was too long so we knew, instantaneously, that Daddy was there.

Simultaneously, we began running as fast as we could. Daddy was there! Daddy came!

We rushed into the house and there he sat with Grandma and Pop at the table. His hair was long - long and beautiful. His glasses the same. He had a chain that went from his belt loop to his back pocket. He wore jeans.

I don't remember a lot of what was said or how long he stayed or even when he left, but I do remember him telling my brother and I to bring our piggy banks to him.

Our "piggy banks" were Parkay butter dishes that Grandma had cut a slit into. Mine was yellow.

Daddy took the lids off and dumped a bunch of change into each of our butter dish piggy banks.

I know we were told he was working on getting a house for us to all live in: me, him and my little brother. I know this because at some point, my little brother and I became upset when we found out that Daddy was marrying Margay and we were going to all live together - including her.

I remember this because one day, my little brother and I took a tape recorder downstairs into the basement and plugged it in. We recorded ourselves talking to Daddy, telling him we didn't want to live with Margay. We wanted to live in the woods - like he'd told us - just the three of us. We wanted what he'd told us.

It was a fantasy.

The day came when Grandma told us we were moving. This time, to Greensboro, North Carolina. Summerfield, to be more specific.

I was in fourth grade - 9 years old.

The fantasies I shared with my little brother of living with my father in the woods in a cabin, just the three of us, were quickly replaced with terror. Living with Daddy again was now going to be a reality and I was terrified.

For  weeks, I was uncertain of how to handle the situation. I knew we couldn't live with Daddy. I knew it was unsafe but I couldn't tell Grandma about Pensacola. I couldn't tell her about the things I knew and the things that happened.

Yet, I couldn't bear to go to North Carolina, either.

Grandma didn't want us to go, either.

Because Grandma was a frequent television watcher, I was very familiar with drama. I sometimes mimicked things I saw or heard on the t.v.

One night at the dinner table, as our time to leave was nearing, my little brother and I were horseplaying - kicking each other under the table, like we often did.

"Knock it off!" Grandma ordered.

But, as usual, that only worked for a minute at best, before we were back at it again.

Grandma admonished us a couple of times before finally Pop spoke. "Knock it off!" he said with a rugged, firm tone.

"That's okay," Grandma said tearfully. When I heard the troubled sound of her voice, I was immediately sorry. "It's just one more reason for me to be glad when they're gone!" she said, and she stood abruptly, crying silently, and walked up the stairs.

My brother disappeared, too. Everything was silent and I sat there at the table, stunned and ashamed.

I knew she didn't mean it. It reminded me of something I'd seen on The Little House on the Prairie or Days of Our Lives. I knew she didn't mean it because she was crying when she said it.

Not knowing what to do, I stood and started clearing the table. I took everything into the kitchen and started washing the dishes. Pop came in and I tensed. He never liked me.

"Thank you," he said to me, and I was stunned again. It was the nicest thing he'd ever said to me.

I just nodded and finished the dishes.

I then went upstairs and found Grandma sitting on the edge of her bed. She was crying. She had a kleenex in her hand. I said nothing, but sat next to her.

She reached a crippled hand over and rubbed my back, as if I needed comforting.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean it."

"I know," I said to the floor.

Just then, my little brother appeared from beneath the bed. He had been under there from the beginning.

Grandma hugged us both and in that instant, I knew I had to do something.

I had to do something.

Life became very heavy and I had to figure out how to make it lighter.

--------------

The weight of my choices was heavy. It was both selfish and selfless: Even though the things Daddy had made my little brother and I do together, had created a huge chasm in our relationship, I still felt a need to protect him, even if in some ways it was to a lesser degree than I wanted to protect myself.

One night, I made the choice to tell Grandma we couldn't go live with Daddy again. I'd really thought long and hard about it. I was terrified to tell her.

He was, after all, her son. What would she think of me?

I came down the stairs. I'm not sure what it was that gave him a clue about what I was going to do but my brother - who was perched in front of the television - saw me come down. He was laying with a soft cotton blanket over him, tan colored with satin trim, and he immediately got up from his spot on the floor and came into the dining room where Grandma was sitting in her usual spot with her usual beer mug - a huge Hamm's mug with funny, fingertip-sized circles etched around the base - watching the television.

I don't remember what I said at first, just know I couldn't bear to look at her. But I also knew what I had to do. By the time I'd reached her and stood in front of her, my little brother was standing behind her. I looked at him and he was desperately, frantically shaking his head as if to plead with me, "no no no please don't tell!"

I will never know how he knew what I was about to do.

"Grandma?" I said to her pink slippers.

"What?" she responded, matter-of-factly.

"I need to tell you something," I said, again to the floor, ignoring my brother's terrified face.

"What?" she asked again, as if she wanted to hurry it up so she could get back to her show. She couldn't have known what I was about to say.

"I don't want to go live with Daddy," I said. "We can't."

"Why not?" she said, this time more attentive.

I stared at my feet; at the speckles of the dining room tile; at her swollen ankles. I couldn't think of the words so I just said what I knew, which was entirely too much for a fourth grader.

"Because he abuses us," I said, hoping that would be enough.

"What? How?" she asked.

Oh God.

I was frozen. Silent. What are the words? What words do I use? I knew words.

"Sexually," I finally said.

I felt my little brother's body deflate. I caught it, somehow, in my periphery.

I didn't see her reaction. I don't know if she was shocked or hurt or surprised or angry. I don't know because I didn't look, even when she answered.

"Okay, I will talk to him about it."

That was the last thing I wanted her to do. I just wanted her to say "Okay you don't have to go," but it seemed all the air was gone from my lungs and I couldn't say another word. I just nodded and went back upstairs to my room, hoping Grandma would handle the situation and we wouldn't have to go.

For a couple weeks, nothing more was said about it and I was partly relieved - some part of me felt relief that we wouldn't have to go live with Daddy. Some part of me believed Grandma had made arrangement so we wouldn't have to go. Yet, another part of me was leary of the silence, afraid. Afraid... did she blame me? Had she talked to him? What had he said? Was he in trouble? I hoped not - I didn't want my Daddy to be in trouble - I just didn't want to live with him.

Finally one day, Grandma announced that Daddy would be there in a couple of days to get us.

It seemed the floor beneath me caved in. I felt a punch to my stomach. I was stunned. The little part of me that was clinging to the belief that we wouldn't have to go, crumbled and burned to ashes.

I looked at her in disbelief and for the first time since I'd said anything about it, I inquired: "But, what about..." and my voice trailed off.

"Oh I talked to him," she said. "He says it won't happen again."

That was the end of the conversation. The end of my hope. I lost all faith in Grandma that night.

The way she'd said the words was very casual, as if she'd talked with him about driving too fast or drinking too much soda.

She never offered any words of comfort or solace. Never protection. Never validation. Just "He says it won't happen again."

But Grandma you don't understand!  I screamed inside, words I wouldn't dare utter. I'd never disrespect her that way. What Grandma says, goes.

My brother was, I believe, relieved.

I, on the other hand, was determined not to go.

So one night, I decided to take a bunch of pills. I would steal Grandma's aspirin from the medicine cabinet upstairs and sneak them downstairs. She would suspect nothing because I went to the basement often - usually to write. It was a dank place, the basement with it's stone walls and concrete floor, exposed rafters and huge round furnace that always reminded me of the places where they burned bodies when people died. Although you could see the fire through the little opening in the  furnace which my brother and I often opened, it was cold in the basement. I was always afraid my cat - Smokey - would fall through the top of the furnace where he liked to lay. Of course, he never did.

I had a plan. I'd take all the aspirins in the bottle and I'd fall asleep. I'd sleep until Daddy came, and I'd still be sleeping when he left and he wouldn't take me, because I'd be sleeping and I'd get to stay at Grandma's.

I went downstairs, pulled up the litttle rickety foot stool to the equally rickety laundry table. The mint green paint was chipped from most of both pieces, revealing old, rough wood, unsanded. I took out the bottle of aspirin and began swallowing over and over, with a glass of water, until they were gone. Then I laid my head down on the laundry table and picked at the splintering wood and chipping paint as I waited to go to sleep.

I awoke feeling dizzy and disoriented. I became aware that not enough time had passed - that it was still the same night and Daddy was still coming.

I fumbled around the basement, stumbled up the stairs and as I reached the top, tried pulling myself together so Grandma wouldn't know what I'd done.

I opened the door and she was there, with her Hamm's mug, wearing her pink nightgown and slippers, watching T.V.

I was still dizzy and I was seeing double so I had a hard time focusing.

Grandma looked at me, said nothing.

"I'm going to bed," I told her.

"Okay," was all she said.

I managed to get to my bed. I laid down. Resigned.

I gave up.

Daddy was coming and there was nothing I could do.

And it was all Grandma's fault.

-----------------------

Untitled

Beyond mortified over the events of the other night, I spent yesterday feeling miserable on SO many levels and last night was unable to go to sleep, ended up on the couch.

However, I was proactive in getting our phones back. It didn't really occur to me until this morning. At least I accomplished something, despite my deep fear, although I wasn't able to speak to the Trooper (in person) without breaking down and stuttering.

Talking with the Trooper last night, we were informed that the location our phones were stolen from has had numerous complaints and is known as a trouble spot. Obviously we did not know this before we went, although we did know it could be a bit low-brow and certainly not the nicest place. Thankfully we know it now.

Today I awoke, still feeling sick to my stomach over the way the crowd there, handled the situation. I won't go into details but really there were two situations; one involving me, one involving someone else, both at the same time.

Yesterday I spent a lot of time and energy talking with the owner of the place (and receiving hate mail and comments from some of her "flock" [as I call it]) whose attitude reflects a lot of peoples' attitudes: get over it. I changed my profile picture to solid black - I did not want to be seen. I was terrified all day yesterday.

I was really hurt Sunday night. Deeply hurt by the actions of a number of people who would not listen when Bill tried explaining to them that I was having a panic attack.

Yesterday and this morning, I felt like sandbags were tied to my arms and legs. Heavy. Just so heavy.

But then I thought, isn't this what you're so against? Isn't this what you have wanted to try to help fix for so long? Isn't this why you chose to share your story to begin with? To stop this kind of stuff?

So now, still feeling heavy and hurt and bewildered and confused and a host of other things, I also realize it was a heavy dose of reality: people don't understand and those who might, won't ever admit it because incest and molestation and rape are all so taboo that they don't want to talk about it. I can guarantee at least one person in the mob that was attacking us had been sexually assaulted, considering the statistics, but more likely, there were several. Still, they participated in the verbal and physical brutality. Better and easier to run with the pack, than to show weakness, I suppose.

It seems to be almost a catch 22: the uneducated and poor (such as those where we were the other night), don't want to know anything about it (they have their own problems) and the educated and wealthy don't want to know anything about it because you should just get over it and get a job (besides, they have their own problems and it's easier to donate to Easter Seals or some Cancer organization than to help with child abuse and rape. You don't have to get involved).

Of course, there are exceptions.... I'm sure there are. I'd like to meet them.

My safety was taken away that night and as much as I missed singing karaoke for all these months, I doubt I'll be doing it anytime soon again.

Compassion. It's been sucked out of people by the condition of this world.

What a shame.

Safe Place

My name is Cristina D. Johnson

From deep inside me, comes a whisper: "The only safe place is in here. The only safe place is inside."

I can't even talk right now.... and that's why I'm writing.

It seems true: the only truly safe place, is inside. Inside where my thoughts, feelings, beliefs....are held tightly, close to me. So close that nobody can see them or hear them or touch them.

Or beat you for them.

Last night was a barbaric scene.

Karaoke - oh how I looked forward to it. And to seeing Tony.

It was safe to go because Bill was going to be with me. Ron and Cindy were going, too, which was a bonus but mainly, Bill was there and I feel safe with Bill.

I once felt safe with Tony. That was quite awhile ago.

Like a human shield, Bill shrouded me but it didn't stop the kicks and punches and grabs and hair-pulling I endured while cowered on the ground as Bill kept telling the crowd, "Back off! Back away! Don't touch her!"

Nobody listened.

Barbarians.

The perfect simile, I think, of society.

The perfect example of why people like me are "fucked up" and "unacceptable" and "unlovable" because if we panic and are afraid and this weakness comes through, we are kicked, punched, laughed at, mocked, grabbed, pushed and pulled.

The voice went right out of me. I wish nobody would talk to me. I don't want to talk. I don't want to answer any questions or say anything. I feel as small as a speck...even smaller.

I don't feel like singing. I don't feel like dancing or laughing or talking or visiting or seeing anyone. I spent all day afraid to be near any windows....afraid someone might see me. Hearing the rumble of the UPS truck stopped my heart. I sat as still and stiff as a icicle in my chair, until I was sure UPS wasn't coming here.

A thousand steps back, seem to have been taken last night.

Tonight, I stay in the safe place. The only safe place I know.

Inside.

Relationships and Reenactment: I Married My Father

My name is Cristina D. Johnson

For decades, I've wanted to write a book. This is not some fantasy. This is a lifelong dream of mine. Having a 7th grade education makes that a bit difficult, though. Still, I worked my way up and landed a job as a journalist. I faked my way through it. I watched like a hawk. I could always write well - intuitively - as a child (I don't say this to boast. Just to merely point out that even as a child, words and sentences; grammar and punctuation; the way these strange characters on a page came together to create something new and remarkable that made sense, was fascinating to me).

At least, it started off as wanting to write "a" book. It's morphed into wanting to write articles, papers and several books. But for now - as I go through this process I never saw myself having to experience; this process of "healing" - I kind of "wish-write."

That is, I write in my head. Often I even say to Bill, "I'm writing in my head."

I've started "a" book, many times - always for a different reason but never with a different foundation: child abuse. I suppose at first it started off as a way to 'get even' or vent, then it gradually began to mature into something healthier going from that angry, bitter young woman who was pissed that Oprah wouldn't listen to her story, to where it is now.

Which leads to the "wish-writing" I've been doing lately. The mind-writing. It goes like this:

"Where does my story start?"

"Where does it end?"

And this is repeated in my mind, but not without silent, cognitive (and even sometimes emotional) responses.

I once told Michelle (my therapist) that I've had two lives. She did a double-take.

"What do you mean, 'two lives'?"

"Daddy, and then the rapes."

"Oh," she nods...I know she doesn't quite get what I mean but I do. I understand it.

Problem is splitting everything up since then: my two marriages; my children; my work; my relationships; my family; my many lives.

So here I am now, it seems, standing on a wire. It could go both ways.

Where does this story - this moment - end and the next story begin?

Was Gary the end of the last story? Is Bill the beginning of the next story?

Some would wisely say, "No, they're all chapters in the same story" but that's not how I view it.

It's segmented. Fractured.

First I must talk a little about reenactment.

When I was 16 and married, my drunk husband of 22 almost killed me by shoving me out of the second-story window. That was when I left him. If his mother had not come up, screaming in her native Puerto Rican language, "Siéntate! Siéntate!" at me, I would not be here today. It wasn't the first time he'd beaten me, but it was the first time he nearly killed me. There were times, as well, when I was terrified he would kill our child. For the first time, I defied my mother-in-law (of whom I was deathly afraid) and said, "No. No mas. No mas." and I cried as I walked out the door. No more.

A child, with a child and that story took a long time to end. That life was several lifetimes ago.

When I was 17, I met my (then married) future-husband. Of course, I did not know he was married. He was strong, cocky, arrogant and sexual. Very sexual. At 17, though, you don't really know (at least, I didn't, because of my past lifetimes), that if they'll cheat with you, they'll cheat on you. So he, too, became an emotionally and mentally abusive partner, controlling, dominant and I feared him. I also feared losing him. For 15 years (and with two of our own kids), I endured the pain of constant belittling, arrogance and infidelity. I felt I deserved it. I felt it was the best I could ever get. I should be grateful.

He, like my first husband, was very much - in many, many ways - like my father but it was so cleverly veiled, so ingeniously disguised, that I never saw it. I wouldn't have seen it if it were a flashing neon sign. I would have kicked the sign out a bitter, angry roundhouse and swore at it, "But he loves me!"

But after 15 years, that lifetime ended. Pretty much.

Then began a different lifetime - one with Bill. That was in 2002. This lifetime was frightening. He was nice to me. He made love with me, instead of acting as if he was doing me a favor by allowing me to do/say/be things I never wanted to do/say/be anyway. In fact, he wouldn't even accept them and even made me uncomfortable doing what I'd always done: Being promiscuous. He didn't take me for granted. He listened to me. He didn't just listen to me but he heard me. At times, back then, sometimes I'd be on the verge of tears and he would hold me and he would say, "It's okay. Let it out," and as soon as he spoke the words, my insides froze and the tears went away. I couldn't possibly cry. I couldn't let him see me unless it was the way I wanted him to see me. I needed control. That way if he changed (and surely he would; certainly he'd at least yell at me, if not hit me, rape me, or cheat on me or something. Anything), at least I had some semblance of control over it. At least I could say I asked for it. I deserved it. I have always deserved it because that's the way all men are.

I left him. He never changed, hit, screamed, yelled, cheated - hell, he never stopped opening my car door for me. Not one single time. He never denied me, always listened to my songs, always read me like a book.

I left him. I didn't believe him. I didn't deserve him and I didn't know how to be with someone like that.

Please get mad at me. Please stop being so open and honest. Please stop being so goddamn perfect for me.

I left him because I couldn't handle being loved. Not truly, authentically loved, despite the many, many tests I applied to the relationship - like all relationships I've ever had. Every one. He passed every test. How? He was consistent. He was always, always consistent. And me, well, I have an Eagle's eye for inconsistencies.

Which leads to the next lifetime.

Gary.

Like my father; my first husband; my second husband (and that one boyfriend I had between my second husband and Bill, Mike): He was emotionally unavailable. Perfect.

Me too.

By now I was in my 30's and I had developed my intellect enough that I knew I could survive on it alone, which was important in this relationship because - like my exes - Gary had a constant tendency to put me down and attempt to make me look stupid. He was constantly condescending and I fought back - hard. Never again would I depend on a man. Ever. Never again, would I open up emotionally. Ever.

What I would do, though (because I know so well how child abuse works), is I would nurture and be a motherly figure for him because of the emotional suffocation he suffered as a child. This, too, worked to my favor. I could keep my emotions in check. I had to because, truly, I did love him, despite our many differences and despite how little attention he paid to me. Really paid. He couldn't tell you my favorite color, gemstone, song(s), movie(s) and the only reason he knew the name of my childhood cat was because it was the answer to one of my banking security questions. He didn't know much about me at all. He was also - like my father and the men before me (Bill excluded) - sexually perverse. He'd been much more so in his past, but there still lingered with every touch, an absenteeism; no warmth, no love, no affection. Just this purpose that needed to be served and I was to serve it.

I was, after all, the woman (and Gary has zero respect for women).

So I played the role. Four years. Played the role - lived Gary's life. Got sucked into his way of living. Friends? Nope. All his. Places? Nope. All his. Whatever we did, whoever we did it with and wherever we went, it centered around Gary and his image, what he wanted, what he needed and what image he wanted to project. Which meant I had to be something I was not.

Which was okay, since my emotions were bundled up tightly inside.

Until that fifth year....When we talked and when I began to grow (going through Life Coach Training which Gary was adamantly opposed to but for which Bill enthusiastically footed the bill) and I realized how unemotional our relationship was - how unemotional I was.

I was encouraged by Gary to pursue therapy and I did, in earnest.

He promised to be there; promised to support me; repeatedly swore that he wasn't going anywhere - even on public forums. Reassured me frequently, even as I began to become more and more immersed in this unfathomable pain and darkness.

Despite his words, I felt alone. I know, now, that this is because he - like always - was incapable of emotional attachment (although I do believe that some part of him did love me).

However, the profundity of what I was experiencing was too much for this man who "loved" me and he, in turn, began abusing me in exactly the same way my father had.

I'm not going to rehash it, except to say that day by day, I got worse. Things got worse. I was inconsolable. I was out of control. I was drained, exhausted, terrified. I was having flashbacks and I was drinking to numb the pain I was going through. I was losing people I loved (my son, specifically, and my granddaughter) on top of the EMDR treatment I was going through in an effort to "heal" with essentially no help.

I had Gary and I had "Dee" (who has asked that I not use her real name): Both of whom did not and probably never will have the fortitude to endure the process I have to experience. This lifetime.

After two suicide attempts, a new lifetime began...

Or, re-began.

Bill came.

He came to see me. He saw me. And in his own words, "had never seen me that bad."

It sickens me now, to think about it. It hurts. It twists my insides. It sets me on fire - my skin literally feels alight.

Rage, anger, pain, torment, torture, uncertainty, fear....fear....fear... oh my God fear.

All of these things that I've never felt towards my father, step-father, brother, uncle, kidnappers, rapists, pimps, gangsters and thugs - all of these things that I have never, ever felt - I feel now, because of Gary. And because of "Dee."

Gary: the father, rapist, womanizer, woman-beater, pimp, wife-beating, abandoning, drug-dealing, ex-convict child molester.

"Dee": The mother, "poor-me" victim, I-don't-care-about-your-story, talk-behind-your-back, drink-myself-stupid (always with a great excuse), poor, live-vicariously-through-some-other-means, nobody loves me, I have no friends or money...

I do not say these things to imply that Gary and "Dee" are these things. I say these things because finally, finally I understand these intense emotional reactions I have to them. I drive by "Dee's" house every day. It's taken me months to not sneer down her driveway and wish harm to her. Wish her to feel the pain she caused me. The truth is, she's a fun person. Intelligent. Witty. Actually, very intelligent. But she, like me for years, has not yet found herself, so she lives whatever she supposes she's supposed to.

And Gary is, I suppose, a good man - though his flaws are many. I still loved him. He's not a child molester or woman-beater (although he did abandon me and he was horribly mentally abusive).

So that lifetime is ...ending?

And now Bill is here - consistent as usual. Same Bill, only this time I'm a different Cristina and I don't know what to do or how to be or how to act because I have my experiences with Gary and "Dee" to look back on and know - without a doubt - that I do not want to be that "fake" person I was required to be. Problem is, what am I now, in this lifetime?

And even though Bill has never been in any way, shape or form, anything like any of my former abusers, what if he does? What if I'm reenacting again, and I don't know it, and it doesn't happen until I get further into this crazy ass psyche of mine? What if ...what if.... What if I let go of control?

Will he let me run into a tree? Fall of a bridge?

I know, somewhere inside, that he won't but he treats me too good and he treats me too right and he's too nice to me and he pays attention to me and he reads me like a book. He shares all my interests and he makes me laugh he's good to my children and he is everything a woman could possibly want. Why would he want me?

And Cindy - my adoptive mother - how do I know she won't hate me? Hurt me? Betray me? Abandon me?

Making new friends. I don't understand. It's like talking Chinese. I don't understand this language or this foreign place, where I am supposed to just be myself (whoever that is), and be accepted and loved for who I am. I don't understand.

Shouldn't I be being abused right now?

One thing I should thank Gary and Dee for is this: making me feel these intense, painful, agonizing emotions that have kept me captive my entire life. It's just the tip of the iceberg, according to Michelle, but it's an important one. So though I hold such deep humiliation, anger, hurt and feelings of betrayal for the wrongs, I suppose being hurt, betrayed and abused (particularly by Gary), was a necessary evil.

It brought me to a new lifetime.

Hardest Year?

I happened upon his Facebook page, wherein, for Thanksgiving, he says he's had the hardest year ever.

That he's thankful for his friends and family. How fortunate.

I'm not being sarcastic. I truly mean it - I'm happy that he had those to help him through his difficulties.

But I completely resent being the reason behind his "hardest year" and how there is nothing - hasn't been anything - from him or his friends or his family to acknowledge the pain and anguish I have gone through for that same period of time.

It makes him that much more of a "them."

It makes "them" that much more of a "them."

It makes me afraid to show my face.... he boasts about being taken care of when he was sick? I babied him because that's what he was when he was sick: a baby. Oh, so typical of the male species. A baby. Even if it was just a headache.

I took care of him. I made sure he had clothes; made sure he ate; made sure he had everything he needed.

I wasn't enough and poor, poor him...well.... now he's the luckiest man in the world.

Good for him.

But he's a liar and a fake.

Hard year? HARD YEAR?!

Try flashbacks and therapy for the hundreds of times you were physically, sexually, physically, emotionally and mentally violated and invaded by your parents, step parents and countless strange men. Try doing this with NO SUPPORT FROM THE MAN WHO SWORE TO LOVE YOU FOREVER!

Hard year?!

You don't KNOW HARD, YOU ASSHOLE!

You took EVERYTHING from me! EVERYTHING!!!!

No sentimentality was left. You yanked it away, like candy from a baby, without even looking back and then, you threw it to the ground, stomped on it and said, "So what? You're just crying for show!"

No words.......there are no words....

no words

Just no words.

It's my hope that I make friends that are truer than the friends you have. Fairer. More honest and more REAL.

I will.

For now, you paralyze me. I am paralyzed because of what you did to me. I will never forget.

Us Versus Them (and other things)

My name is Cristina D. Johnson

Had a good session today. And by "good," I mean: I cried.

To me, crying feels almost as good as sneezing.

There was a lot to talk about and even though I've been seeing Michelle for several months, I still struggle opening up.

We talked a lot about Bill, who is home now. Interestingly, I have shut down. While I've spent months talking to him and he's been so loving, supportive, giving and wonderful, now that he's here, my body has shut down.

To be quite honest (skip this part if you don't want TMI), I asked Michelle, "Can I be frank?"

She looked around the office as if to say, "Uhm..hello, you're in a therapists office. This is about the only place in the world you can be frank."

I told her I've had intimacy issues with Bill - not because of Bill, but because of me. Bill is particularly....gifted, let's say, in this department, however I have been unable to fully participate. And, by fully participate, I mean: we've never had intimacy issues - EVER - and now all the sudden I'm having these issues.

So anyway, she said she is not surprised to hear this because - with the latest issues I've been having; nightmares, losing time, panic, etc. - it would seem that we are touching the tip of the iceberg, so to speak, and tapping into deeper things. She acknowledged (which I believe fully) that our bodies store things subconsciously and because we're getting closer to those more painful things from my past, my body is just shutting down.

I cried and I agreed.

But then we talked about something that's been eating at me more than realized...

I was invited to an event at June's Outback Pub in Killingworth. So were over 900 other people. My son works there, too. That's a slight stressor in itself since our relationship has gone through so many changes over the past year. But that isn't the problem.

The problem is that Gary was also invited. I found out through facebook that he, too, is on the list of invitees and this, I told Michelle, is weighing heavily on me.

This is when we started talking about "us versus them" and I told her I'd struggled with it..I haven't gone out (as in, out for drinks), since moving here and I only went out once since breaking up with Gary. I told him multiple times during that painful process that he'd ruined my life here. And he had. He did. I can't go anywhere to sing karaoke. I can't go to the old places I used to go to because he made sure to ruin me everywhere he could, for the sake of making himself look better. Whatever. That's fine.

But Junes, well, I figured it was a safe place to go, plus I'd have Bill with me and (I am hoping, hoping, hoping) a few other friends, plus my adoptive parents. They're going to have karaoke, which I haven't done in months and miss terribly. It's my therapy, outside of therapy. It's the only place I've ever had a voice.

I had it in my head that I would go and just be me. Just be there with Bill and my friends and just have fun... and sing! I want to sing a new song; a song for Bill. A song that I've practiced for weeks because it's so fitting for our relationship. Oh I was so excited about it.

But Gary, see, never goes anywhere alone. He brings all of the "thems" with him. The "thems" that he swore to me never existed when I would talk to him about it.

Oh yes, there are "us's" and "them's"

The "us's" are those of us who have been raped, molested, brutalized, and abused. We are the ones who feel like everything ugly shows and there's nothing about us that anyone could possibly love. There's something inherently wrong with us, because if there wasn't, then none of that stuff would have happened to us. The "us's" believe the "them's" are stuck-up, snobby, snooty and will never get it. They're dispassionate and out of touch with reality. Not all of "them" are like that - some are just devoid of any connection to it at all and it's not that they don't care, it's just that they don't acknowledge that.

That's the kind of "them" that Gary is.

So I told Michelle I was terrified of showing up with the intention of seeing my son, having a good time and singing my new song to Bill, only to find Gary showed up at the ONE PLACE that he didn't destroy for me. The ONE PLACE I feel okay going to.

Please, don't take that away from me. Please just let me have this....this one night.

So much more going on, so much happening it's like being caught in a whirlwind that's about to turn into a tornado.

You're swirling around and things feel out of control - and they are - and everything feels uncertain but you know you're about to get hit with a bunch of shit...heavy, hard shit and it's gonna hurt.

One thing about the "us versus them" mentality that I said to Michelle was, "It's a mentality I've had all my life. Or, well, at least since I got old enough to understand society--" and she cut me off.

"Cristina, honey," she said. "You've been living an 'us versus them' life your whole life. It has always been 'us versus them' for you. It started with Cristina and [my little brother] against your parents."

I nodded, silent, and quietly cried. I let the tears fall, and let acceptance slowly creep into my cerebrum. I will need to give some more thought to this.

If any of my friends read this, I'd love to see you at June's on the 9th. I miss having friends; I miss singing karaoke; I miss going out and not being so isolated and having friends there, helps me feel less afraid. So, if you read this, join us.

-C