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.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Monday, December 10, 2012
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.
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.
Thursday, December 6, 2012
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.
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.
Monday, December 3, 2012
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.
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
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
Monday, November 26, 2012
Feeling like a failure
I feel like such a failure today.
I stayed up WAY too late last night (actually this morning - until after 3 o'clock) knowing I had an 11:30 session with Michelle. During that time, I was also drinking; didn't help.
So I drank too much and stayed up to late, then the sound on my phone went off again (it's been doing that now for the past few weeks - the sound just shuts off so I don't hear any alarms or notifications) so I overslept and missed my appointment.
I really needed this appointment and now I feel like I've lost my best friend or something. Like I really screwed up.
So much is going on my head feels like it's spinning already...I really, really desperately needed this appointment.
Dammit.
I stayed up WAY too late last night (actually this morning - until after 3 o'clock) knowing I had an 11:30 session with Michelle. During that time, I was also drinking; didn't help.
So I drank too much and stayed up to late, then the sound on my phone went off again (it's been doing that now for the past few weeks - the sound just shuts off so I don't hear any alarms or notifications) so I overslept and missed my appointment.
I really needed this appointment and now I feel like I've lost my best friend or something. Like I really screwed up.
So much is going on my head feels like it's spinning already...I really, really desperately needed this appointment.
Dammit.
Friday, November 23, 2012
Off Kilter
I don't know what's wrong with me.
Something is broken. I don't know what.
What's wrong?
I feel like I'm watching someone else's life go on and I'm just an observer. I feel like none of this is real. It can't be real.
The good and the bad and everything in between. It doesn't fit. Everything is just confusing. What was I doing? Where was I going? What was I saying?
Nevermind, I'll just play this round of scramble or I'll water this plant. Did I remember the other one? Oh I need to fill this...I need to do that...I need to cover that...I need to ....what?
I am in this mode of isolation that is painful because it keeps me from the people most dear to me, yet it feels like.... like.......a huge fish on your hook, you feel it pulling - hard - but you don't know what it is that has ahold of it.
When I was young - 16 - I knew two guys. They were best friends. I don't recall their names now. One was short with dark hair and lots of acne. The other was tall and slim.
The short, dark-haired guy had a cyst on his neck. The cyst kept getting bigger so he asked the tall guy to cut it off for him.
I sat across from them. They sat on a love seat and the tall guy pulled out a knife - just an average pocket knife - and short guy leaned his head back, giving tall guy access to his cyst.
He took the knife and he cut the cyst as the short guy winced. I said nothing.... just sat there and watched.
The tall guy cut some more, making a sort of cross cut over the cyst, which was somewhere between the size of a golf ball and a marble. There was no blood.
The tall guy then laid the pocket knife down and began to squeeze the reddened flesh around the cyst. As he squeezed it, white stuff came out - it wasn't liquidy, more like ricotta cheese. Sorry, I know that probably ruined lasagna for a million people but that's all I can think of to describe it. He cut again, kept squeezing, pulling more out....and I just sat and stared.
The reason I am writing about this is because it seems to exemplify what I am feeling...what it looks like, to me, on the inside.
Feels like I'm being squeezed from the inside and all this gook is coming out, spreading, spreading, spreading...it just clogs up everything, blinds me, blindsides me. I don't want anyone to see this. I am absolutely terrified of it. What will come out? What is in there? Will it hurt?
Who am I?
Something is broken. I don't know what.
What's wrong?
I feel like I'm watching someone else's life go on and I'm just an observer. I feel like none of this is real. It can't be real.
The good and the bad and everything in between. It doesn't fit. Everything is just confusing. What was I doing? Where was I going? What was I saying?
Nevermind, I'll just play this round of scramble or I'll water this plant. Did I remember the other one? Oh I need to fill this...I need to do that...I need to cover that...I need to ....what?
I am in this mode of isolation that is painful because it keeps me from the people most dear to me, yet it feels like.... like.......a huge fish on your hook, you feel it pulling - hard - but you don't know what it is that has ahold of it.
When I was young - 16 - I knew two guys. They were best friends. I don't recall their names now. One was short with dark hair and lots of acne. The other was tall and slim.
The short, dark-haired guy had a cyst on his neck. The cyst kept getting bigger so he asked the tall guy to cut it off for him.
I sat across from them. They sat on a love seat and the tall guy pulled out a knife - just an average pocket knife - and short guy leaned his head back, giving tall guy access to his cyst.
He took the knife and he cut the cyst as the short guy winced. I said nothing.... just sat there and watched.
The tall guy cut some more, making a sort of cross cut over the cyst, which was somewhere between the size of a golf ball and a marble. There was no blood.
The tall guy then laid the pocket knife down and began to squeeze the reddened flesh around the cyst. As he squeezed it, white stuff came out - it wasn't liquidy, more like ricotta cheese. Sorry, I know that probably ruined lasagna for a million people but that's all I can think of to describe it. He cut again, kept squeezing, pulling more out....and I just sat and stared.
The reason I am writing about this is because it seems to exemplify what I am feeling...what it looks like, to me, on the inside.
Feels like I'm being squeezed from the inside and all this gook is coming out, spreading, spreading, spreading...it just clogs up everything, blinds me, blindsides me. I don't want anyone to see this. I am absolutely terrified of it. What will come out? What is in there? Will it hurt?
Who am I?
Monday, November 19, 2012
Tired
Shame, shame, shame.
It permeates me. The past few days have been those kinds of days where I just wished I didn't exist.
I'm tired.
I'm lost.
I am ashamed.
It's very difficult to accept "I love you" from anyone, when there's not one single redeeming quality you can see about yourself.
My last session was beyond humiliating. So much so, that I almost didn't go today, which Michelle noticed.
"I'm glad you came today," she said, knowing a million parts of me were pulling me away, telling me to run.
Sue William Silverman wrote a number of books and is also a friend of mine on facebook. She's a very brave woman - she put things in her memoir about being molested and abused by her affluent father, and followed it with a sequel about sexual addiction and finally "Fearless Confessions" - a book about how to write about these things. Quite the appropriate title, I think.
How horrible it is, to tell. How frightening. Not just the details and grit, but what's going on inside you. The reality of your every-day breaths. Every thought that stabs you with how indecent you are, unworthy you are, useless you are. It's all this fucking game you play, to make everyone happy...to make everyone love you...even if you don't believe they do, you can at least see what it's like.
I believe Bill... but that's a double-edged sword.
I believe that he loves me, but I don't feel I deserve it. That hurts. I want it, but I am so afraid of it.
Life just sucks these past few days.
I am tired.
It permeates me. The past few days have been those kinds of days where I just wished I didn't exist.
I'm tired.
I'm lost.
I am ashamed.
It's very difficult to accept "I love you" from anyone, when there's not one single redeeming quality you can see about yourself.
My last session was beyond humiliating. So much so, that I almost didn't go today, which Michelle noticed.
"I'm glad you came today," she said, knowing a million parts of me were pulling me away, telling me to run.
Sue William Silverman wrote a number of books and is also a friend of mine on facebook. She's a very brave woman - she put things in her memoir about being molested and abused by her affluent father, and followed it with a sequel about sexual addiction and finally "Fearless Confessions" - a book about how to write about these things. Quite the appropriate title, I think.
How horrible it is, to tell. How frightening. Not just the details and grit, but what's going on inside you. The reality of your every-day breaths. Every thought that stabs you with how indecent you are, unworthy you are, useless you are. It's all this fucking game you play, to make everyone happy...to make everyone love you...even if you don't believe they do, you can at least see what it's like.
I believe Bill... but that's a double-edged sword.
I believe that he loves me, but I don't feel I deserve it. That hurts. I want it, but I am so afraid of it.
Life just sucks these past few days.
I am tired.
Thursday, November 15, 2012
Whispered Wound
Forever spoken
Never heard again
The wound that rides
a whisper in the wind
Can they see it?
Will they know?
Do I look okay?
Do my scars show?
Who am I kidding?
Of course they see
It's like a disease
spread all over me.
Staring, I know
Their disdain and sneers
So I swing, swing hard
when anyone nears
The smile is pretty
beneath it, is rot
but this mask I wear
is all I've got.
It's all I've mastered
and I'm damn good
Sit still and listen
like a good girl should
Walk away quickly
when someone is kind
run, run away
they'll change their mind
There's alternate meaning
to every touch
although you ache for it
Oh so much
Remember the whisper
the wound's still alive
it's in the air
it still survives
Burning an inside
already marred
crisp with rage
with terror, charred
Memories choke me
like swallowing tar
get out, get out!
whoever you are!
Give me my mask
I'll smile a sweet smile
bitterly isolated
all the while
Because I know the truth
It's all a big front
To be perfect, wanted, loved...
To be whatever you want
This skin isn't mine
Lost long before
These chills you give me
I try to ignore
This ache in my chest
When I see your face
This dare to believe
In a different kind of place
My heart pounds
the whisper returns
Run away, Run away!
You're gonna get burned
But I peek through the curtain
and there he stands
Same as always...
same smile, same hands
Same kindness and face
green eyes that care
See beyond what I hide
Is there hope there?
Never heard again
The wound that rides
a whisper in the wind
Can they see it?
Will they know?
Do I look okay?
Do my scars show?
Who am I kidding?
Of course they see
It's like a disease
spread all over me.
Staring, I know
Their disdain and sneers
So I swing, swing hard
when anyone nears
The smile is pretty
beneath it, is rot
but this mask I wear
is all I've got.
It's all I've mastered
and I'm damn good
Sit still and listen
like a good girl should
Walk away quickly
when someone is kind
run, run away
they'll change their mind
There's alternate meaning
to every touch
although you ache for it
Oh so much
Remember the whisper
the wound's still alive
it's in the air
it still survives
Burning an inside
already marred
crisp with rage
with terror, charred
Memories choke me
like swallowing tar
get out, get out!
whoever you are!
Give me my mask
I'll smile a sweet smile
bitterly isolated
all the while
Because I know the truth
It's all a big front
To be perfect, wanted, loved...
To be whatever you want
This skin isn't mine
Lost long before
These chills you give me
I try to ignore
This ache in my chest
When I see your face
This dare to believe
In a different kind of place
My heart pounds
the whisper returns
Run away, Run away!
You're gonna get burned
But I peek through the curtain
and there he stands
Same as always...
same smile, same hands
Same kindness and face
green eyes that care
See beyond what I hide
Is there hope there?
Sexual Dysfunction (Warning: Raw, graphic)
Today was a very hard session, and I can't even identify the hardest part(s).
One thing I know is this is one of those times when I want to push away the very people I need - particularly Bill. I want to push him away so hard....no, no, no....no you can't come in, no you can't see this...Oh dear God if you knew....you can't come in.
And Cindy, I am content just letting her be there, just kinda hang out.
I don't want this. I hate this. I hate me. I hate my body. I hate what and who I am.
I will try to explain..... but it's rather um...personal and graphic and I apologize in advance for humiliating my friends and family. As far as me, well, I presently feel I have no dignity left. I am a shadow, with no substance. I feel vulgar, damaged.
I hurt myself the other night - intimately. Nothing serious, but painfully punishing.
I spent most of the day hitting myself (mostly punching my thigh or slapping myself in the head or face) as memories of my self-abuse flashed in my mind. This occurred even as I was in session today...hitting myself...it's like my arm takes on a life of it's own and I can't keep it from hitting me.
First let me clarify one thing: I do not and never have enjoyed masturbation. I've done it to satisfy my partners (mostly Gary). I don't like touching myself (barely can stand taking a shower) and I certainly don't like looking at myself. My ex-husband used to make a comment about my um...vagina that was, I suppose, intended to be a compliment but all it really did was imply that proper maintenance was required. That was back in the day when I felt it necessary to douche four times a week, or any time after sex. So, see, my body's always been ugly to me. Like it's not even mine.
I want to also point out that I have had a total of four serious relationships - two of them marriages. Yet, somehow, I am a "whore".....My father, brother, ex-husbands, and other key men in my life have said this to me and if they didn't say it, they treated me like one (like my most recent ex).
And, naturally, when you're standing on the cold tile bathroom floor with your father's penis in your hand and being told what a good little girl you are to do this for Daddy, that ugly, dirty feeling sets in, even if you're too young to understand what it means or where it comes from. Such conflicting emotions.
My family/friends yesterday encouraged me to tell Michelle (my therapist) about my most recent issue.... I wasn't going to do it. I started her an email, wrote two sentences, and then clicked "cancel"....too humiliating.
But then I thought about it....... a lot.
And today I told her. It was excruciatingly painful and humiliating but she was very kind and understanding. She asked me a lot of questions (first, obviously, if I was hurt).
So we talked about being a whore; talked about masturbation; talked about the reasoning behind my rationale.
At times I couldn't talk. At times I folded myself up into my own lap, pulled my sleeves over my hands, hiding every bit of my skin I could hide.
She kept assuring me..."It's okay, Cristina. You're okay. It's okay."
So I tried explaining to her, my rationale, stuttering breathlessly through the whole thing. It's the first time I ever told anyone that I'd done this before....sexually punished myself.
You start off as a whore, something happens and you want it, so since you want it, you're even more of a whore and since you're a whore and you want it, you must be bad, and if you're bad, you must be punished, and if you're bad enough to punish yourself, then you need to punish yourself for that, too. This is also the case when you do things for men, that you don't want to do (such as was the case with my ex) just to please them. Yep. You're a whore. The process repeats.
"Even now, sitting here, I can hear it in my head, over and over and over again. 'You're a whore! You're a whore!" (I also had flashes of an online conversation I had one, where he was drunk and put in giant bold letters, "WHORE!") - that, too, kept flashing in my mind and it was actually that image that had me crying on the way home.
That was my explanation. She sat across from me (I didn't look at her most of the time but I could feel her posture).
She sat quietly for a moment and then she asked me what I meant.
"I'm just trying to connect the dots for you so you understand what I mean."
She paused and then she said, "Cristina, I am never going to lie to you, and I am going to tell you when you're wrong. I am your barometer," she said, and I looked up briefly as she turned away to illustrate. She held her hands up to simulate a dial with a needle. She held her right hand in a circle, used her left pointer finger as the needle.
"This," she said, with the 'needle' all the way to the left, "Is okay."
She moved the "needle" all the way to the right, and said: "This is bullshit."
She didn't say it meanly, but she turned and looked at me and said, "Those dots don't line up. They don't match."
I was surprised by this. "Well, then I need new dots because these are the only dots I know."
She explained that women often try to take blame for their rape/incest, in an effort to have some control. This made me cry because it made so much sense....I had never thought of it before. I always blamed myself, "I shouldn't have been there," or "I should have said no" or "I asked for it."
Yeah....that's the mantra of many women, I suppose.
Then she made a comment that startled me: "...when you were assaulted."
Daddy never assaulted me.... well, only twice. But that was because I said "no" so it was MY FAULT. Other than that, he was always kind and benevolent.
I told her I had two lives. She asked why two lives.
"Daddy, and then the rapes."
Oh
"They were very different."
"I see," she says.
Either way, I have always been a whore.
Things got still for a moment, and I quietly cried into my kleenex, whispering to the wadded up tissue: "You know what I want?"
"What?" she asked.
And I cried harder, and I admitted, "Bill. He's never said or done one single unkind thing to me. Ever."
"That's what you deserve," she said. "I'm glad you have him."
And here I am....sitting in my office....
Wanting desperately to push him away.
One thing I know is this is one of those times when I want to push away the very people I need - particularly Bill. I want to push him away so hard....no, no, no....no you can't come in, no you can't see this...Oh dear God if you knew....you can't come in.
And Cindy, I am content just letting her be there, just kinda hang out.
I don't want this. I hate this. I hate me. I hate my body. I hate what and who I am.
I will try to explain..... but it's rather um...personal and graphic and I apologize in advance for humiliating my friends and family. As far as me, well, I presently feel I have no dignity left. I am a shadow, with no substance. I feel vulgar, damaged.
I hurt myself the other night - intimately. Nothing serious, but painfully punishing.
I spent most of the day hitting myself (mostly punching my thigh or slapping myself in the head or face) as memories of my self-abuse flashed in my mind. This occurred even as I was in session today...hitting myself...it's like my arm takes on a life of it's own and I can't keep it from hitting me.
First let me clarify one thing: I do not and never have enjoyed masturbation. I've done it to satisfy my partners (mostly Gary). I don't like touching myself (barely can stand taking a shower) and I certainly don't like looking at myself. My ex-husband used to make a comment about my um...vagina that was, I suppose, intended to be a compliment but all it really did was imply that proper maintenance was required. That was back in the day when I felt it necessary to douche four times a week, or any time after sex. So, see, my body's always been ugly to me. Like it's not even mine.
I want to also point out that I have had a total of four serious relationships - two of them marriages. Yet, somehow, I am a "whore".....My father, brother, ex-husbands, and other key men in my life have said this to me and if they didn't say it, they treated me like one (like my most recent ex).
And, naturally, when you're standing on the cold tile bathroom floor with your father's penis in your hand and being told what a good little girl you are to do this for Daddy, that ugly, dirty feeling sets in, even if you're too young to understand what it means or where it comes from. Such conflicting emotions.
My family/friends yesterday encouraged me to tell Michelle (my therapist) about my most recent issue.... I wasn't going to do it. I started her an email, wrote two sentences, and then clicked "cancel"....too humiliating.
But then I thought about it....... a lot.
And today I told her. It was excruciatingly painful and humiliating but she was very kind and understanding. She asked me a lot of questions (first, obviously, if I was hurt).
So we talked about being a whore; talked about masturbation; talked about the reasoning behind my rationale.
At times I couldn't talk. At times I folded myself up into my own lap, pulled my sleeves over my hands, hiding every bit of my skin I could hide.
She kept assuring me..."It's okay, Cristina. You're okay. It's okay."
So I tried explaining to her, my rationale, stuttering breathlessly through the whole thing. It's the first time I ever told anyone that I'd done this before....sexually punished myself.
You start off as a whore, something happens and you want it, so since you want it, you're even more of a whore and since you're a whore and you want it, you must be bad, and if you're bad, you must be punished, and if you're bad enough to punish yourself, then you need to punish yourself for that, too. This is also the case when you do things for men, that you don't want to do (such as was the case with my ex) just to please them. Yep. You're a whore. The process repeats.
"Even now, sitting here, I can hear it in my head, over and over and over again. 'You're a whore! You're a whore!" (I also had flashes of an online conversation I had one, where he was drunk and put in giant bold letters, "WHORE!") - that, too, kept flashing in my mind and it was actually that image that had me crying on the way home.
That was my explanation. She sat across from me (I didn't look at her most of the time but I could feel her posture).
She sat quietly for a moment and then she asked me what I meant.
"I'm just trying to connect the dots for you so you understand what I mean."
She paused and then she said, "Cristina, I am never going to lie to you, and I am going to tell you when you're wrong. I am your barometer," she said, and I looked up briefly as she turned away to illustrate. She held her hands up to simulate a dial with a needle. She held her right hand in a circle, used her left pointer finger as the needle.
"This," she said, with the 'needle' all the way to the left, "Is okay."
She moved the "needle" all the way to the right, and said: "This is bullshit."
She didn't say it meanly, but she turned and looked at me and said, "Those dots don't line up. They don't match."
I was surprised by this. "Well, then I need new dots because these are the only dots I know."
She explained that women often try to take blame for their rape/incest, in an effort to have some control. This made me cry because it made so much sense....I had never thought of it before. I always blamed myself, "I shouldn't have been there," or "I should have said no" or "I asked for it."
Yeah....that's the mantra of many women, I suppose.
Then she made a comment that startled me: "...when you were assaulted."
Daddy never assaulted me.... well, only twice. But that was because I said "no" so it was MY FAULT. Other than that, he was always kind and benevolent.
I told her I had two lives. She asked why two lives.
"Daddy, and then the rapes."
Oh
"They were very different."
"I see," she says.
Either way, I have always been a whore.
Things got still for a moment, and I quietly cried into my kleenex, whispering to the wadded up tissue: "You know what I want?"
"What?" she asked.
And I cried harder, and I admitted, "Bill. He's never said or done one single unkind thing to me. Ever."
"That's what you deserve," she said. "I'm glad you have him."
And here I am....sitting in my office....
Wanting desperately to push him away.
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
Untitled
My name is Cristina Johnson
I wasn't going to write this...it's very embarrassing and I have not yet decided whether or not I'll publish or post it. This is one of those catch-22's where you are so desperate to make a difference, so determined to inform and educate people, but it's at the sacrifice of your dignity, your privacy, and that of your friends and family. How much to say...how much to share? All of it? Just a little?
Today is the first time I have ever experienced the strongest urge I've ever had, to mutilate my genitalia. I hate it so much today. I want it gone, shredded, disappeared. I don't want it. It's ugly. It's sinful it's disgusting and dear God if I could take a razor to them, I would...right now. Render them useless.
I've read about this and I've even talked with and coached people who've endured this kind of "thing" and I never judged them, but I always thought, "Thank God I have never had that problem."
And now, here I am, standing in the same muddy pond with them, feeling those same excruciating feelings of wishing to God there were no such thing as a vagina, anus or penis.
Today I feel so bad, so rotten and dirty...filthy...
I have an issue with masturbation. I don't do it. My ex liked it when I did and often asked me to. He also often wanted me to use sex toys for his pleasure (sure as hell wasn't for mine). Still, when we split up, I took them with me (the toys).
I won't go into gory details but last night was the first time (that I remember) doing that...you know... on my own (that is, by myself, without trying to spare my partner [which I have often done] or please my partner). I actually didn't even remember doing it until I woke up this morning and found a broken "toy" in the garbage can. This happened to me once before: I woke up, shaken and startled that I had a "toy" in my bed. I had no idea how it got there, nor did I remember using it.
Once things started coming back to me from last night, I was utterly ashamed (the previous time, I didn't recall anything but this time it slowly started to come back to me). Even now, if I think about it, my body jolts and I am astonished. I abused myself....and now I want to abuse myself more, because I abused myself.
How fucked up is that?
Of course, the logical response to this is: "Masturbation is perfectly natural" or "Everyone has needs and everyone does it or has done it."
Yeah, but that's not me....I'm not "everyone" and to me, it's ...selfish....it's cold and disconnected...it's meaningless. Absolutely meaningless and Oh God So DIRTY! What kind of whore masturbates? Right? Must mean she wants it, right?
This is digging into my marrow....this is tearing me up. I feel like there's a sign around my neck that says "Stone me to death, I am a whore and I've done something really bad."
Another aspect is the DID....
Today I convinced myself that I would just throw them away (the toys), but then some voice inside my head just kind of laughed this wicked, frightening laugh. "Go ahead...I'll find another way..."
My DID friends will know what this means and what this feels like.
So I am stuck...stuck in this rut, hoping to get back on even ground.
Please don't be angry, disgusted, grossed out, repulsed or otherwise feel untoward, towards me. I cannot help this. I hate it. I hate it so much and I don't know what to do.
God I wish Bill was here.
I wasn't going to write this...it's very embarrassing and I have not yet decided whether or not I'll publish or post it. This is one of those catch-22's where you are so desperate to make a difference, so determined to inform and educate people, but it's at the sacrifice of your dignity, your privacy, and that of your friends and family. How much to say...how much to share? All of it? Just a little?
Today is the first time I have ever experienced the strongest urge I've ever had, to mutilate my genitalia. I hate it so much today. I want it gone, shredded, disappeared. I don't want it. It's ugly. It's sinful it's disgusting and dear God if I could take a razor to them, I would...right now. Render them useless.
I've read about this and I've even talked with and coached people who've endured this kind of "thing" and I never judged them, but I always thought, "Thank God I have never had that problem."
And now, here I am, standing in the same muddy pond with them, feeling those same excruciating feelings of wishing to God there were no such thing as a vagina, anus or penis.
Today I feel so bad, so rotten and dirty...filthy...
I have an issue with masturbation. I don't do it. My ex liked it when I did and often asked me to. He also often wanted me to use sex toys for his pleasure (sure as hell wasn't for mine). Still, when we split up, I took them with me (the toys).
I won't go into gory details but last night was the first time (that I remember) doing that...you know... on my own (that is, by myself, without trying to spare my partner [which I have often done] or please my partner). I actually didn't even remember doing it until I woke up this morning and found a broken "toy" in the garbage can. This happened to me once before: I woke up, shaken and startled that I had a "toy" in my bed. I had no idea how it got there, nor did I remember using it.
Once things started coming back to me from last night, I was utterly ashamed (the previous time, I didn't recall anything but this time it slowly started to come back to me). Even now, if I think about it, my body jolts and I am astonished. I abused myself....and now I want to abuse myself more, because I abused myself.
How fucked up is that?
Of course, the logical response to this is: "Masturbation is perfectly natural" or "Everyone has needs and everyone does it or has done it."
Yeah, but that's not me....I'm not "everyone" and to me, it's ...selfish....it's cold and disconnected...it's meaningless. Absolutely meaningless and Oh God So DIRTY! What kind of whore masturbates? Right? Must mean she wants it, right?
This is digging into my marrow....this is tearing me up. I feel like there's a sign around my neck that says "Stone me to death, I am a whore and I've done something really bad."
Another aspect is the DID....
Today I convinced myself that I would just throw them away (the toys), but then some voice inside my head just kind of laughed this wicked, frightening laugh. "Go ahead...I'll find another way..."
My DID friends will know what this means and what this feels like.
So I am stuck...stuck in this rut, hoping to get back on even ground.
Please don't be angry, disgusted, grossed out, repulsed or otherwise feel untoward, towards me. I cannot help this. I hate it. I hate it so much and I don't know what to do.
God I wish Bill was here.
Monday, November 12, 2012
Intensity in Love
My name is Cristina D. Johnson.
My session, today, was heavy. I was already shook up when I got there. I got some news and instantly started shaking, crying and got a headache, simultaneously. Funny thing is, it was good news, but it was so damn overwhelming. So I showed up to see Michelle very shaky an disoriented.
"Let's take a minute," she said, "Take a couple deep breaths."
I tried...felt silly. I always feel silly when someone says, "Breathe....take a deep breath..." (I even feel awkward doing it for the doctor, now that I think about it. Weird).
Anyway, as I predicted, she asked what my take was, on the dream I had about my father. I told her I was completely, absolutely lost. I had no idea. This surprised her.
The session kind of went all over the place - she triggered me once....one of those snapshots, like a lightning-fast emotional response to something she said, and then poof it was gone.
"What did you say?" I asked her.
She looked at me confused. I was confused. I started crying. I was reminded of something, but couldn't remember what I had been reminded of. It's so strange how those flashbacks work.
"What did it bring up for you?" she asked.
"I don't remember. What was it you said?"
She said she was talking about making mistakes ....
And I snatched a kleenex from the box on the table, where she'd set it for me. "He was so cruel," I whimpered. "So cruel." I started shaking.
"Punishment...that's what it brought up. There were no mistakes. You couldn't make mistakes," I told her, but without the emotional connection. I shed a few tears and it was gone. All that was left was the memory, devoid of any attachment. "He once punished me for holding the cat wrong."
Then we talked about re-parenting.....Cindy is doing a marvelous job at this. "Ron won't be able to re-parent you," she said. I suspect this is because of the extent of the abuse I went through with my father. Plus Ron also, unfortunately, has some of the same traits as my father....tall, powerful, and he has a way about him that's very much like my birth father. I am trying to work past that....as is Ron, to his credit.
And then...the most painful of all: the dream.
First she said she was very surprised that no therapist had ever spoken to me about sexual dreams about fathers who molest their daughters. "It's very common," she explained.
She also told me it's not uncommon to experience arousal when being molested. It's a physiological experience that the body cannot control. It's clearly more obvious for boys/men because, well, you know...it's obvious if they're aroused. But not so much for girls.
"I don't remember ever feeling aroused," I told her. "The only good feelings I recall are those of knowing that I was doing something right...doing something to make Daddy happy....Never do I recall being aroused."
She said we (women) often pile junk on top of it: how gross and disgusting and despicable it is, how wrong and dirty and we have so much piled up on top of it, that even if we were aroused, we wouldn't know it.
Which brought us to the dream. She said the dream was symbolic and - in her opinion, based on what I told her - had nothing to do with my father, and everything to do with Bill.
For me, the most difficult aspect of that dream, was the strong emotional attachment I was feeling towards my father as I initiated sex. The feeling of this very powerful love, was identical to that which I feel for Bill.
We talked a lot about this, about my authentic fear of this love for Bill.
"What are you afraid of?"
"I don't know. Doing something wrong? Saying something wrong? Being hurt. Being abandoned."
But there's more to it than that, even. Kind of like Cindy is "re-parenting" me, Bill is giving me this love that I've never had before and I am terrified of it...not used to it...
"You know," she said, "It takes a huge amount of courage for you to love him....to let him love you that way."
I cried...this heart-wrenching, desperate cry. Aching inside. So confused. So afraid. Hopeful but terrified.
The only other time I ever felt such intense love, was when I loved my father. Feeling that intensity is blindingly terrifying.
Yet....if I let it happen...if I just let it run it's course, I will (or should) re-learn love. Healthy love, instead of the toxic, abusive, painful love that I hold inside as a norm. This fearful, punishing love that sticks to me like velcro.
I wonder....
I wonder if I left Bill years ago, because of this intensity, in favor of a more superficial relationship, that would spare me from loving so deeply.
Thank you Cindy....Ron...Bill......
Bill.....thank you.
My session, today, was heavy. I was already shook up when I got there. I got some news and instantly started shaking, crying and got a headache, simultaneously. Funny thing is, it was good news, but it was so damn overwhelming. So I showed up to see Michelle very shaky an disoriented.
"Let's take a minute," she said, "Take a couple deep breaths."
I tried...felt silly. I always feel silly when someone says, "Breathe....take a deep breath..." (I even feel awkward doing it for the doctor, now that I think about it. Weird).
Anyway, as I predicted, she asked what my take was, on the dream I had about my father. I told her I was completely, absolutely lost. I had no idea. This surprised her.
The session kind of went all over the place - she triggered me once....one of those snapshots, like a lightning-fast emotional response to something she said, and then poof it was gone.
"What did you say?" I asked her.
She looked at me confused. I was confused. I started crying. I was reminded of something, but couldn't remember what I had been reminded of. It's so strange how those flashbacks work.
"What did it bring up for you?" she asked.
"I don't remember. What was it you said?"
She said she was talking about making mistakes ....
And I snatched a kleenex from the box on the table, where she'd set it for me. "He was so cruel," I whimpered. "So cruel." I started shaking.
"Punishment...that's what it brought up. There were no mistakes. You couldn't make mistakes," I told her, but without the emotional connection. I shed a few tears and it was gone. All that was left was the memory, devoid of any attachment. "He once punished me for holding the cat wrong."
Then we talked about re-parenting.....Cindy is doing a marvelous job at this. "Ron won't be able to re-parent you," she said. I suspect this is because of the extent of the abuse I went through with my father. Plus Ron also, unfortunately, has some of the same traits as my father....tall, powerful, and he has a way about him that's very much like my birth father. I am trying to work past that....as is Ron, to his credit.
And then...the most painful of all: the dream.
First she said she was very surprised that no therapist had ever spoken to me about sexual dreams about fathers who molest their daughters. "It's very common," she explained.
She also told me it's not uncommon to experience arousal when being molested. It's a physiological experience that the body cannot control. It's clearly more obvious for boys/men because, well, you know...it's obvious if they're aroused. But not so much for girls.
"I don't remember ever feeling aroused," I told her. "The only good feelings I recall are those of knowing that I was doing something right...doing something to make Daddy happy....Never do I recall being aroused."
She said we (women) often pile junk on top of it: how gross and disgusting and despicable it is, how wrong and dirty and we have so much piled up on top of it, that even if we were aroused, we wouldn't know it.
Which brought us to the dream. She said the dream was symbolic and - in her opinion, based on what I told her - had nothing to do with my father, and everything to do with Bill.
For me, the most difficult aspect of that dream, was the strong emotional attachment I was feeling towards my father as I initiated sex. The feeling of this very powerful love, was identical to that which I feel for Bill.
We talked a lot about this, about my authentic fear of this love for Bill.
"What are you afraid of?"
"I don't know. Doing something wrong? Saying something wrong? Being hurt. Being abandoned."
But there's more to it than that, even. Kind of like Cindy is "re-parenting" me, Bill is giving me this love that I've never had before and I am terrified of it...not used to it...
"You know," she said, "It takes a huge amount of courage for you to love him....to let him love you that way."
I cried...this heart-wrenching, desperate cry. Aching inside. So confused. So afraid. Hopeful but terrified.
The only other time I ever felt such intense love, was when I loved my father. Feeling that intensity is blindingly terrifying.
Yet....if I let it happen...if I just let it run it's course, I will (or should) re-learn love. Healthy love, instead of the toxic, abusive, painful love that I hold inside as a norm. This fearful, punishing love that sticks to me like velcro.
I wonder....
I wonder if I left Bill years ago, because of this intensity, in favor of a more superficial relationship, that would spare me from loving so deeply.
Thank you Cindy....Ron...Bill......
Bill.....thank you.
Saturday, November 10, 2012
Sex with Daddy, a Dream (TRIGGER WARNING)
I call it a dream, not a nightmare. I described it to Bill as if I were telling him how to bake cookies - no attachment, no feelings. I felt nothing, yet his response was, "Wow that's a nightmare!"
It is? I didn't wake up sweating or shaking or crying.... isn't that what nightmares are?
I have never (or don't remember ever) having a dream or dreams of any nature about my father (or any of my abuse or rapes, for that matter). I have a snapshot of him in my mind - this vision of him from more than 20 years ago, and though I've been told he's now fat and bald, I remember him to be beautiful...so handsome, hair that women would die for...he was a fabulously good-looking man. That is what I see in my mind...
And that is what I saw in my dream.
Begin Trigger
*
*
*
We were in my apartment, only it wasn't this apartment...it was somewhere else. I recall that I initiated sex with him. I was aroused. In my dream, I was the same age I am now. He did not say anything, just smiled as I commenced to performing fellatio on him.
From there, somehow I was able to have intercourse with him while also receiving oral sex from him. Again, I was wanting it. I initiated it.
Next thing in the dream, we are sitting on the floor, and I was leaning against a bed frame. There was no mattress or box spring - just a space where they used to be. Beneath where the bed was supposed to be, were a few pair of shoes - one of which was a pair of little girl's black shoes. I remember thinking, "Wow I haven't seen those in a long time." There were other shoes but those stick out the most in my mind.
*
*
*
End Trigger
I told my father I was going to sweep while I could get to it...
As I began to sweep, I looked over and my father was drinking a glass of wine. I didn't know where he'd gotten it because, in my dream, I had no wine. Furthermore, he was drinking this "wine" from one of the margarita glasses that I left at Gary's house when we split up. I looked at what he was drinking and it wasn't wine; it was juice.
Coincidentally, this is what Gary's father used to do. He once told me, "I like to drink cranberry juice out of a wine glass so I can fit in."
Obviously there are things that stick out - the little girl's shoes....but one thing that troubles me deeply is, in the dream, as I was initiating, I was feeling the same feelings for my father, that I have for Bill. This hopelessly in-love feeling...this complete devotion.
It's worth noting, as well, that my adoptive father recently bought me a bed frame.
When trying to interpret this dream, I struggled. Usually Dreammoods is pretty good, but this left me blank.
It's also worth noting that I recently ran out of anti-depressants and have not been taking them. I have read that anti-depressants will amplify dissociation so I wonder if not taking these medications for a few days now, might have unblocked some things, along with my getting in touch with some intense new feelings that I have had with Bill.
After it all sank in....after I thought about it, I was saturated with shame. I felt like a whore. How could I even possibly dream this?? This is despicable!! *I* am disgusting! Who dreams this shit?!
Is this possibly me, getting in touch with parts of myself that I have never touched, via new, healthy, restorative relationships and feelings with new people?
I've never once given thought to whether or not I wanted to be molested. I didn't. Ever. Yet I willingly participated for a lot of different reasons. Some are obvious, others probably not. Being told by my therapist yesterday that it's okay for me to love....did that open up something?
Will these dreams continue? Will they get worse?
It is? I didn't wake up sweating or shaking or crying.... isn't that what nightmares are?
I have never (or don't remember ever) having a dream or dreams of any nature about my father (or any of my abuse or rapes, for that matter). I have a snapshot of him in my mind - this vision of him from more than 20 years ago, and though I've been told he's now fat and bald, I remember him to be beautiful...so handsome, hair that women would die for...he was a fabulously good-looking man. That is what I see in my mind...
And that is what I saw in my dream.
Begin Trigger
*
*
*
We were in my apartment, only it wasn't this apartment...it was somewhere else. I recall that I initiated sex with him. I was aroused. In my dream, I was the same age I am now. He did not say anything, just smiled as I commenced to performing fellatio on him.
From there, somehow I was able to have intercourse with him while also receiving oral sex from him. Again, I was wanting it. I initiated it.
Next thing in the dream, we are sitting on the floor, and I was leaning against a bed frame. There was no mattress or box spring - just a space where they used to be. Beneath where the bed was supposed to be, were a few pair of shoes - one of which was a pair of little girl's black shoes. I remember thinking, "Wow I haven't seen those in a long time." There were other shoes but those stick out the most in my mind.
*
*
*
End Trigger
I told my father I was going to sweep while I could get to it...
As I began to sweep, I looked over and my father was drinking a glass of wine. I didn't know where he'd gotten it because, in my dream, I had no wine. Furthermore, he was drinking this "wine" from one of the margarita glasses that I left at Gary's house when we split up. I looked at what he was drinking and it wasn't wine; it was juice.
Coincidentally, this is what Gary's father used to do. He once told me, "I like to drink cranberry juice out of a wine glass so I can fit in."
Obviously there are things that stick out - the little girl's shoes....but one thing that troubles me deeply is, in the dream, as I was initiating, I was feeling the same feelings for my father, that I have for Bill. This hopelessly in-love feeling...this complete devotion.
It's worth noting, as well, that my adoptive father recently bought me a bed frame.
When trying to interpret this dream, I struggled. Usually Dreammoods is pretty good, but this left me blank.
It's also worth noting that I recently ran out of anti-depressants and have not been taking them. I have read that anti-depressants will amplify dissociation so I wonder if not taking these medications for a few days now, might have unblocked some things, along with my getting in touch with some intense new feelings that I have had with Bill.
After it all sank in....after I thought about it, I was saturated with shame. I felt like a whore. How could I even possibly dream this?? This is despicable!! *I* am disgusting! Who dreams this shit?!
Is this possibly me, getting in touch with parts of myself that I have never touched, via new, healthy, restorative relationships and feelings with new people?
I've never once given thought to whether or not I wanted to be molested. I didn't. Ever. Yet I willingly participated for a lot of different reasons. Some are obvious, others probably not. Being told by my therapist yesterday that it's okay for me to love....did that open up something?
Will these dreams continue? Will they get worse?
Friday, November 9, 2012
It's okay? Really??
My name is Cristina Johnson
Oh what a day today has been. I was dreading my session with Michelle. I had a specific thing to talk to her about: That "feeling" of "breaking a rule" when it comes to loving someone.
As I walk in, she makes no qualms: You look like hell.
And I did. I have cried every day since Saturday - good cries and bad ones - and my mouth is so sore with fever blisters. "Yes," I agreed. "I look about as good as I feel."
"So what's going on?" she asks, her typical starting phrase.
I was afraid to tell her. How strange, I think now. How strange that I was afraid to tell her (or anyone, really) that Bill heard back from an employer here in CT and there's a good chance he could be home for Christmas.
I was scared, so at first, I didn't tell her. Instead, I told her about "the rule" and asked her what she thought about it.
"Where does it come from?" I asked. "Does the fact that Hannah and I are incest survivors have anything to do with it?"
Oh no...she won't let me off that easy.
"Where do you think it comes from?"
I said (cleverly avoiding my own responsibility for the answer), "Well, Hannah says she thought it might have to do with not believing we deserve it."
She said nothing, just kept watching....oh she doesn't let me off easy.
"But I don't think that," I finally said.
Her eyes widened and she said, "You just threw me. This is a different 'you'," she said. I would expect Hannah's kind of answer from you.
"No, no," I said. "I mean, I don't believe it consciously, anyway. And I don't believe it for Hannah or anyone else."
We spent a few moments batting back and forth about it and she finally - thankfully - helped me weed through the marsh of my mind.
"When people go through trauma - especially complex trauma like yours and especially when it includes the people who were supposed to protect and love you - it turns your perceptions upside down," she explained.
I'll sum it up:
Love always hurts. Duh. I know that. Anyone with any experience in it, knows that. But for me, as a child, the only two times I didn't do what I was asked (oh, so benevolently) to do by my father, I was either (1) sodomized or (2) strangled and suffocated. That's why it only happened twice. I learned to never tell him no. It also happened through the rapes...the many times when, if you cry or show any emotion or physical pain, they hit you. This taught me unequivocally, that love equals punishment.
"Who is going to punish you?" she asked me.
This is where it got tough, and I shrugged, rather childishly, looked sideways to the cream-colored carpet.
"My facebook friends?" I offered.
"What do you mean?"
"They'll ostracize me and chastise me and judge me."
"Right which would be excruciating for you, since you just went through that."
"Yes," I admitted.
"Who else?
I began to tear up, I whispered, "You?"
"Why would I punish you?" she asked, incredulous. "Now, now we're back to the Cristina I know," she said half-jokingly. "Listen, unless you have a gun and you're ready to use it on yourself, none of the decisions or choices you make are really my business," she said lightly. "What do you want?" she asked. "What does Cristina want?"
I was afraid to answer...still.
She wouldn't let up. "It's okay. Whatever you want, is okay. It doesn't matter what anyone else says, it's what you want and if it's not self-destructive or hurting others, then it's okay!" she stated.
This was when I told her about Bill and the job and I read to her the end of my last blog, crying as I read the words...remembering the feelings I had that day...remembering the power of them.
"So who would disapprove of that? Obviously Cindy approves and Trevor definitely approves. So who would disapprove?"
I, again, said "My facebook friends, you (meaning, her), Bill's family..." I cried. I cried not just because of these fears, but also because I was so afraid in that moment.
She said: "My husband is my best friend and I have to tell you that if I had to walk away from every family member and friend for my marriage, I would do it without question." She said she was telling me this because relationships are personal and because some need distance, some need closeness, some need to be shut off completely.
I ached with this resounding joy in my heart....I could feel it throughout my body, that I'd just kind of gotten permission to love. To love Bill. To want him here. To miss him.
Other things were discussed but this was the most important. I left with a sense of purpose and resilience and I felt elated to have these words echoing in my mind: "It's okay for me to love Bill? Oh my God it's okay? It's okay??"
I later went to see my medical doctor and he kind of hurt me...made me feel like a worthless piece of shit (which isn't really his tendency, just my own issues) but even that - even though I sat there crying as he was telling me I was beyond his scope of care - I left almost bouncing. "I have permission to love him! It's okay for me to love him!"
Nothing about this whole situation has made sense to me until now..... it's so much of that tangled barbed wire I speak of inside, that I have to untangle, but I found a loose end, and I ain't lettin' it go, not til I figure out how to untangle it. I don't want to lose this feeling. In fact, I want to expand on it. I want it to grow and bleed into everyone and anyone in my life. I want to not fear loving them.
But Bill.... Bill I love you. I always have. I miss you.
Oh what a day today has been. I was dreading my session with Michelle. I had a specific thing to talk to her about: That "feeling" of "breaking a rule" when it comes to loving someone.
As I walk in, she makes no qualms: You look like hell.
And I did. I have cried every day since Saturday - good cries and bad ones - and my mouth is so sore with fever blisters. "Yes," I agreed. "I look about as good as I feel."
"So what's going on?" she asks, her typical starting phrase.
I was afraid to tell her. How strange, I think now. How strange that I was afraid to tell her (or anyone, really) that Bill heard back from an employer here in CT and there's a good chance he could be home for Christmas.
I was scared, so at first, I didn't tell her. Instead, I told her about "the rule" and asked her what she thought about it.
"Where does it come from?" I asked. "Does the fact that Hannah and I are incest survivors have anything to do with it?"
Oh no...she won't let me off that easy.
"Where do you think it comes from?"
I said (cleverly avoiding my own responsibility for the answer), "Well, Hannah says she thought it might have to do with not believing we deserve it."
She said nothing, just kept watching....oh she doesn't let me off easy.
"But I don't think that," I finally said.
Her eyes widened and she said, "You just threw me. This is a different 'you'," she said. I would expect Hannah's kind of answer from you.
"No, no," I said. "I mean, I don't believe it consciously, anyway. And I don't believe it for Hannah or anyone else."
We spent a few moments batting back and forth about it and she finally - thankfully - helped me weed through the marsh of my mind.
"When people go through trauma - especially complex trauma like yours and especially when it includes the people who were supposed to protect and love you - it turns your perceptions upside down," she explained.
I'll sum it up:
Love always hurts. Duh. I know that. Anyone with any experience in it, knows that. But for me, as a child, the only two times I didn't do what I was asked (oh, so benevolently) to do by my father, I was either (1) sodomized or (2) strangled and suffocated. That's why it only happened twice. I learned to never tell him no. It also happened through the rapes...the many times when, if you cry or show any emotion or physical pain, they hit you. This taught me unequivocally, that love equals punishment.
"Who is going to punish you?" she asked me.
This is where it got tough, and I shrugged, rather childishly, looked sideways to the cream-colored carpet.
"My facebook friends?" I offered.
"What do you mean?"
"They'll ostracize me and chastise me and judge me."
"Right which would be excruciating for you, since you just went through that."
"Yes," I admitted.
"Who else?
I began to tear up, I whispered, "You?"
"Why would I punish you?" she asked, incredulous. "Now, now we're back to the Cristina I know," she said half-jokingly. "Listen, unless you have a gun and you're ready to use it on yourself, none of the decisions or choices you make are really my business," she said lightly. "What do you want?" she asked. "What does Cristina want?"
I was afraid to answer...still.
She wouldn't let up. "It's okay. Whatever you want, is okay. It doesn't matter what anyone else says, it's what you want and if it's not self-destructive or hurting others, then it's okay!" she stated.
This was when I told her about Bill and the job and I read to her the end of my last blog, crying as I read the words...remembering the feelings I had that day...remembering the power of them.
"So who would disapprove of that? Obviously Cindy approves and Trevor definitely approves. So who would disapprove?"
I, again, said "My facebook friends, you (meaning, her), Bill's family..." I cried. I cried not just because of these fears, but also because I was so afraid in that moment.
She said: "My husband is my best friend and I have to tell you that if I had to walk away from every family member and friend for my marriage, I would do it without question." She said she was telling me this because relationships are personal and because some need distance, some need closeness, some need to be shut off completely.
I ached with this resounding joy in my heart....I could feel it throughout my body, that I'd just kind of gotten permission to love. To love Bill. To want him here. To miss him.
Other things were discussed but this was the most important. I left with a sense of purpose and resilience and I felt elated to have these words echoing in my mind: "It's okay for me to love Bill? Oh my God it's okay? It's okay??"
I later went to see my medical doctor and he kind of hurt me...made me feel like a worthless piece of shit (which isn't really his tendency, just my own issues) but even that - even though I sat there crying as he was telling me I was beyond his scope of care - I left almost bouncing. "I have permission to love him! It's okay for me to love him!"
Nothing about this whole situation has made sense to me until now..... it's so much of that tangled barbed wire I speak of inside, that I have to untangle, but I found a loose end, and I ain't lettin' it go, not til I figure out how to untangle it. I don't want to lose this feeling. In fact, I want to expand on it. I want it to grow and bleed into everyone and anyone in my life. I want to not fear loving them.
But Bill.... Bill I love you. I always have. I miss you.
Thursday, November 8, 2012
It's Complicated
My name is Cristina D. Johnson
I was talking with Hannah last night via text, as we do almost every night. I was also talking to Bill, simultaneously - also, as every night.
I've cried, I think, every single day since Saturday, when Bill showed up for my birthday. Sometimes it's just a little cry, sometimes it's a sobbing, snotty cry. Sometimes it's just a quiet, keep-to-yourself cry...today it was an all-out, shaking, confused, terrified, time-for-a-klonopin-and-a-beer kind of cry.
My eyes hurt. My nose hurts. My lips hurt. (My lips don't hurt from crying, though....f'n fever blisters!)
Anyway, it was interesting to get validation from my 18-year-old protege' ...so young in her years, yet in many ways, so, so wise.
I was talking to Bill, as I mentioned. I took him to the airport Wednesday. My adoptive mother - Cindy - went with me (Bill asked her because he was concerned about me being alone, once I dropped him off). The ride home was relatively quiet, although we did talk a little bit.
But as soon as she was out of the car and I pulled out of her driveway on my way home, I cried all the way. Snow and rain began to beat the windshield as Winter Storm Athena rolled in. It seemed suitable, given the circumstances.
I must first, I suppose, try as best as I possibly can, to sum up what makes him so spectacular. First of all (and anyone who has ever met him, will attest to this), EVERYBODY loves Bill. Everyone. I've never seen an exception. His energy is calm. He is so laid back, so "chill" and open-minded. So, so calm. Just being around him and breathing him in, is soothing.
While he was here, we:
I'm sure there are many more things...many more.
I talked to Bill - told him this - and also told Michelle (my therapist) that there was this moment. This moment when it just hit me "I love you!" - it was the moment I saw him standing there in the front yard with roses on my birthday. When I felt every cell in my body explode, when I couldn't control my screaming and my legs couldn't move fast enough and I couldn't wrap my arms around him quickly or tightly enough. When I couldn't even speak, when my legs wanted to collapse...that was that moment, when it hit me, "Oh my God, you love him."
Of course, I've always loved Bill (don't forget we went through a lot over the past 10+ years) and when we dated before, it was just about the same - a few differences, but he was always consistent and loving and attentive.
Throughout my relationship with Gary he was my sounding board and although he never said a bad thing about Gary, he was always there to listen. Of course, now, it's different. Now he admits all along that he knew Gary wasn't right for me, but he waited...he waited for me...
I don't know what to think of that...
So back to the conversation with Hannah....
I told her, as I cried, (paraphrasing), "I feel like I'm bad if I love him. Like I'm being bad."
"Yeah, like you're breaking some rule or something."
"Yes! Exactly!"
It is a child-like feeling. You don't want anyone to know that you love someone....you don't even want to admit to yourself that you might love someone, so much that just a mere memory of his face, brings tears to your eyes that just won't stop falling. I'm afraid to tell anyone....why?
Where does this come from? And what does the fact that Hannah and I are both incest survivors have to do with this 'rule-breaking' thing?
Bill, through the conversation, said, "It's okay. I want you to question it. I want you to be sure about everything. I want you to question everything and be sure it's what you want," because, well, that's how Bill is. But he didn't really understand - probably can't understand - what even I and Hannah fail to understand.
What is this unspoken "rule" we hold ourselves to? Do not love. You cannot love. It's against the rules!
Where does this come from?
Today, I panicked, full-blown....oh God...that fear of that "rule" combined with this desperate need to see him again, have him touch my face the way he does, hold my hands the way he does, make me laugh the way he does, treat Trevor the way he does.... with so much love, appreciation and devotion.
I love him...I am afraid.... I love him....I miss him...I am afraid...
I want him home.
I was talking with Hannah last night via text, as we do almost every night. I was also talking to Bill, simultaneously - also, as every night.
I've cried, I think, every single day since Saturday, when Bill showed up for my birthday. Sometimes it's just a little cry, sometimes it's a sobbing, snotty cry. Sometimes it's just a quiet, keep-to-yourself cry...today it was an all-out, shaking, confused, terrified, time-for-a-klonopin-and-a-beer kind of cry.
My eyes hurt. My nose hurts. My lips hurt. (My lips don't hurt from crying, though....f'n fever blisters!)
Anyway, it was interesting to get validation from my 18-year-old protege' ...so young in her years, yet in many ways, so, so wise.
I was talking to Bill, as I mentioned. I took him to the airport Wednesday. My adoptive mother - Cindy - went with me (Bill asked her because he was concerned about me being alone, once I dropped him off). The ride home was relatively quiet, although we did talk a little bit.
But as soon as she was out of the car and I pulled out of her driveway on my way home, I cried all the way. Snow and rain began to beat the windshield as Winter Storm Athena rolled in. It seemed suitable, given the circumstances.
I must first, I suppose, try as best as I possibly can, to sum up what makes him so spectacular. First of all (and anyone who has ever met him, will attest to this), EVERYBODY loves Bill. Everyone. I've never seen an exception. His energy is calm. He is so laid back, so "chill" and open-minded. So, so calm. Just being around him and breathing him in, is soothing.
While he was here, we:
- Played in the leaves they raked in the yard (he got me good, dumped a whole load on my head)
- Danced in the front yard, to nothing but the wind
- Played cards and chess with Trevor almost every night (a real treat for Trevor - he adores Bill)
- He fixed all my storm windows (I couldn't get most of them closed)
- Put together my new office chair (no way I coulda done it)
- Looked at my car (I am apparently leaking antifreeze...he tightened the hose clamp, for now)
- Went to Aggie's Village Restaurant in Ivoryton - just down the street. Sat at the little bar and had breakfast together. Ordered almost exactly the same things.
- Sat outside on the porch, wrapped in blankets
- Cooked dinner together (twice)
- Went to Oliver's Tavern and restaurant on his last night here - ordered exactly the same thing, except I got bleu cheese and he ordered raspberry vinaigrette. (I have to point out that as we were sitting down, he stood there, and I asked, "what's wrong?" and he said, "I'm trying to decide if I want to sit next to you or across from you." So I moved over and he snuggled in next to me because sitting across from me was too far).
- He helped Trevor to earn money he needed to buy a couple things he wanted
- Cleaned up after me when I threw up (not alcohol-related), washed the clothes (twice) and cleaned out the washing machine.
- Went to the laundromat with me, helped me do the clothes
- Took out the trash
- Cleaned up while I was at my therapy session
- Sat on the couch, with every candle and incense lit, just talking after Trevor went to bed (we did this a lot)
- Went to Yankee Candle and he bought me another candle and himself a tart warmer with some great tarts, plus treated me to some, too.
- Bought Trevor a winter coat
I'm sure there are many more things...many more.
I talked to Bill - told him this - and also told Michelle (my therapist) that there was this moment. This moment when it just hit me "I love you!" - it was the moment I saw him standing there in the front yard with roses on my birthday. When I felt every cell in my body explode, when I couldn't control my screaming and my legs couldn't move fast enough and I couldn't wrap my arms around him quickly or tightly enough. When I couldn't even speak, when my legs wanted to collapse...that was that moment, when it hit me, "Oh my God, you love him."
Of course, I've always loved Bill (don't forget we went through a lot over the past 10+ years) and when we dated before, it was just about the same - a few differences, but he was always consistent and loving and attentive.
Throughout my relationship with Gary he was my sounding board and although he never said a bad thing about Gary, he was always there to listen. Of course, now, it's different. Now he admits all along that he knew Gary wasn't right for me, but he waited...he waited for me...
I don't know what to think of that...
So back to the conversation with Hannah....
I told her, as I cried, (paraphrasing), "I feel like I'm bad if I love him. Like I'm being bad."
"Yeah, like you're breaking some rule or something."
"Yes! Exactly!"
It is a child-like feeling. You don't want anyone to know that you love someone....you don't even want to admit to yourself that you might love someone, so much that just a mere memory of his face, brings tears to your eyes that just won't stop falling. I'm afraid to tell anyone....why?
Where does this come from? And what does the fact that Hannah and I are both incest survivors have to do with this 'rule-breaking' thing?
Bill, through the conversation, said, "It's okay. I want you to question it. I want you to be sure about everything. I want you to question everything and be sure it's what you want," because, well, that's how Bill is. But he didn't really understand - probably can't understand - what even I and Hannah fail to understand.
What is this unspoken "rule" we hold ourselves to? Do not love. You cannot love. It's against the rules!
Where does this come from?
Today, I panicked, full-blown....oh God...that fear of that "rule" combined with this desperate need to see him again, have him touch my face the way he does, hold my hands the way he does, make me laugh the way he does, treat Trevor the way he does.... with so much love, appreciation and devotion.
I love him...I am afraid.... I love him....I miss him...I am afraid...
I want him home.
Sunday, November 4, 2012
Best Birthday Ever
This blog is going to fall incredibly short of what it is about, simply because there just aren't any words....for something like this.
Yesterday was my birthday. Started off pretty slow...actually it was pretty dull and even at times a bit depressing.
I went to the store to stock up on beer because my parents (Ron and Cindy, adoptive parents, not the parents I usually blog about) were coming over around 4:00 or 4:30 and I wanted to grab an extra 18-pack because they're on sale for $20. I also bought the ingredients to make my signature salad, some soda for Trevor. On the way home, stopped at the package store and picked up some nippers of UV Cake flavored vodka because my parents LOVED it, and so do I - just gotta do it in moderation!!
Also splurged a little and went to Homegoods and picked up a salad bowl ($9.99)....can't beat it, especially if you don't own a salad bowl.
I spent most of the morning texting Bill...he was actually the first one to wish me happy birthday, since he'd texted me at 12 a.m. to do it. He also called me and sang Happy Birthday to me. It was rather funny. He's so amazing and funny.
Anyway, a few weeks ago, I sent him an electric skillet so he could cook in the motel room in the god-awful city where he's working. I suggested yesterday that he have chilli and sent him the ingredients and a quick way to make it. He was grateful, as always.
That's pretty much how my morning went. Texting Bill, didn't hear much from Ron and Cindy (she texted me once, to tell me happy birthday) but I figured that was just because she was hard at work, preparing one of my favorite foods: Baked stuffed shrimp.
Finally got a text around 3 o'clock: "ETA 1 hr" (from Cindy).
I was in the kitchen - I was texting Hannah how to make my signature salad - which I'd just finished and put in the fridge, ready to go. So I was texting Hannah and Ron and Cindy came into the mudroom. I opened the door to see handsful of bags and whatnot....apparently Ron was famished so we opened up some crackers and Hellagood dip. They had with them a silver-wrapped bottle and Cindy says, "I bet you know what THAT is!" and of course I knew - it was a bottle of Cake LOL! Anyway when I showed them the nippers I'd bought, they wanted to do one. Right Then!
So I got three out, we opened the nippers, cheered to my birthday, drank them down and I immediately was overwhelmed with sadness that Bill wasnt there - that he couldn't do a nipper with us, he couldn't be there with me.
"I need to call Bill," I told them. "I don't want him to be left out."
I called him, put him on speakerphone so everyone could talk to him. "Hi Bill!" they said, and I spoke to him and told him that I'd just done a nipper and I felt bad!
I told him I missed him. Told him I wished he was here.
"Well, then, why don't you come out into the front yard and give me a hug?"
All I remember after that is screaming, "OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD!" as I ran - RAN - to the front door and there he was....standing there, roses in hand.... I couldn't get the door open fast enough...
I flung the door open, ran outside, still screaming, "OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD!"
I jumped at him, wrapped my arms around him, sobbed....just cried and cried...
We hugged. We kissed. Ron and Cindy stood at the front door watching. I don't know who else might have been watching - I didn't even think about it. Even now, I can't think of a single word to describe what I was going through in that moment.
I put my hands to his face, crying, "You're here...you came! You're here..." I could barely speak. We shook, I shook. My whole body was shaking - which lasted for quite awhile. I was so discombobulated. It occurred to me that I should bring him in the apartment...
He came in...Cindy was crying...
I was shaking.
I didn't know which direction to walk in. I was completely thrown. My head was swimming. I couldn't believe it was real. I kept touching him. I didn't want to let him go. It was like a dream.
At least two more times, as I hugged him through the evening, I sobbed. I cried. Bill even cried once.
Nobody was hungry....it was the funniest thing...and naturally, once things calmed down a little, we did another nipper, with Bill included this time. My hands shaking...
I was still crying.
"You should put those flowers in a vase, honey," Cindy said.
"Oh..oh yes..oh okay..."
Bill was there for me to ask, "Can you do me a favor and give me that vase?" (I have only one and it's on the top shelf where I can't reach it).
He got the vase down. I was so confused....I trimmed the roses so they'd fit...I didn't know what I was doing. I carried it to the sink...
I stood there, just lost... and Cindy said, "Cold water, honey. On the right." I laughed at myself, with a shaky laugh.
Finally as things settled a little more, we sat in the living room. I sat in a chair, Bill sat on the floor next to me, his arm resting on my lap. Cindy made dinner (a fantastic dinner), and Ron, Bill and I sat in the living room. I was just stunned.
"These are good memories," Ron told me. "These are the ones you hold onto."
Everything seems to be a blur, until we sat down at the table to eat, though none of us were really hungry! We were so overwhelmed! But dinner was fantastic and as we sat there, Bill said...
"Now that we're all together, Mr. and Mrs. Kuptzin, I would like to officially ask your permission to court your daughter."
My mouth fell open. Literally. (thankfully there wasn't any food in there)
"Absolutely!" they said, almost in unison.
Then at some point Bill gives me a box - a little white box - and he says, "I'm sorry I didn't have time to wrap it." I open it and it's a silver and gold butterfly necklace. So beautiful....
I was also given a pair of butterfly earrings from my canine sister - Bailey - as well as a new office chair from my parents.
I cannot adequately put into words, how astonishing this birthday was. It is very difficult to surprise me, but this past few weeks have been full of surprises.
Thank you...thank you Ron, Cindy and Bill for the most incredible, memorable, unforgettable, fantastic birthday I could ever have dreamt of.
I'm still reeling.
Bill leaves Wednesday and I will be so, so sad...but I have until then to enjoy the best birthday present I have ever gotten.
Yesterday was my birthday. Started off pretty slow...actually it was pretty dull and even at times a bit depressing.
I went to the store to stock up on beer because my parents (Ron and Cindy, adoptive parents, not the parents I usually blog about) were coming over around 4:00 or 4:30 and I wanted to grab an extra 18-pack because they're on sale for $20. I also bought the ingredients to make my signature salad, some soda for Trevor. On the way home, stopped at the package store and picked up some nippers of UV Cake flavored vodka because my parents LOVED it, and so do I - just gotta do it in moderation!!
Also splurged a little and went to Homegoods and picked up a salad bowl ($9.99)....can't beat it, especially if you don't own a salad bowl.
I spent most of the morning texting Bill...he was actually the first one to wish me happy birthday, since he'd texted me at 12 a.m. to do it. He also called me and sang Happy Birthday to me. It was rather funny. He's so amazing and funny.
Anyway, a few weeks ago, I sent him an electric skillet so he could cook in the motel room in the god-awful city where he's working. I suggested yesterday that he have chilli and sent him the ingredients and a quick way to make it. He was grateful, as always.
That's pretty much how my morning went. Texting Bill, didn't hear much from Ron and Cindy (she texted me once, to tell me happy birthday) but I figured that was just because she was hard at work, preparing one of my favorite foods: Baked stuffed shrimp.
Finally got a text around 3 o'clock: "ETA 1 hr" (from Cindy).
I was in the kitchen - I was texting Hannah how to make my signature salad - which I'd just finished and put in the fridge, ready to go. So I was texting Hannah and Ron and Cindy came into the mudroom. I opened the door to see handsful of bags and whatnot....apparently Ron was famished so we opened up some crackers and Hellagood dip. They had with them a silver-wrapped bottle and Cindy says, "I bet you know what THAT is!" and of course I knew - it was a bottle of Cake LOL! Anyway when I showed them the nippers I'd bought, they wanted to do one. Right Then!
So I got three out, we opened the nippers, cheered to my birthday, drank them down and I immediately was overwhelmed with sadness that Bill wasnt there - that he couldn't do a nipper with us, he couldn't be there with me.
"I need to call Bill," I told them. "I don't want him to be left out."
I called him, put him on speakerphone so everyone could talk to him. "Hi Bill!" they said, and I spoke to him and told him that I'd just done a nipper and I felt bad!
I told him I missed him. Told him I wished he was here.
"Well, then, why don't you come out into the front yard and give me a hug?"
All I remember after that is screaming, "OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD!" as I ran - RAN - to the front door and there he was....standing there, roses in hand.... I couldn't get the door open fast enough...
I flung the door open, ran outside, still screaming, "OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD!"
I jumped at him, wrapped my arms around him, sobbed....just cried and cried...
We hugged. We kissed. Ron and Cindy stood at the front door watching. I don't know who else might have been watching - I didn't even think about it. Even now, I can't think of a single word to describe what I was going through in that moment.
I put my hands to his face, crying, "You're here...you came! You're here..." I could barely speak. We shook, I shook. My whole body was shaking - which lasted for quite awhile. I was so discombobulated. It occurred to me that I should bring him in the apartment...
He came in...Cindy was crying...
I was shaking.
I didn't know which direction to walk in. I was completely thrown. My head was swimming. I couldn't believe it was real. I kept touching him. I didn't want to let him go. It was like a dream.
At least two more times, as I hugged him through the evening, I sobbed. I cried. Bill even cried once.
Nobody was hungry....it was the funniest thing...and naturally, once things calmed down a little, we did another nipper, with Bill included this time. My hands shaking...
I was still crying.
"You should put those flowers in a vase, honey," Cindy said.
"Oh..oh yes..oh okay..."
Bill was there for me to ask, "Can you do me a favor and give me that vase?" (I have only one and it's on the top shelf where I can't reach it).
He got the vase down. I was so confused....I trimmed the roses so they'd fit...I didn't know what I was doing. I carried it to the sink...
I stood there, just lost... and Cindy said, "Cold water, honey. On the right." I laughed at myself, with a shaky laugh.
Finally as things settled a little more, we sat in the living room. I sat in a chair, Bill sat on the floor next to me, his arm resting on my lap. Cindy made dinner (a fantastic dinner), and Ron, Bill and I sat in the living room. I was just stunned.
"These are good memories," Ron told me. "These are the ones you hold onto."
Everything seems to be a blur, until we sat down at the table to eat, though none of us were really hungry! We were so overwhelmed! But dinner was fantastic and as we sat there, Bill said...
"Now that we're all together, Mr. and Mrs. Kuptzin, I would like to officially ask your permission to court your daughter."
My mouth fell open. Literally. (thankfully there wasn't any food in there)
"Absolutely!" they said, almost in unison.
Then at some point Bill gives me a box - a little white box - and he says, "I'm sorry I didn't have time to wrap it." I open it and it's a silver and gold butterfly necklace. So beautiful....
I was also given a pair of butterfly earrings from my canine sister - Bailey - as well as a new office chair from my parents.
I cannot adequately put into words, how astonishing this birthday was. It is very difficult to surprise me, but this past few weeks have been full of surprises.
Thank you...thank you Ron, Cindy and Bill for the most incredible, memorable, unforgettable, fantastic birthday I could ever have dreamt of.
I'm still reeling.
Bill leaves Wednesday and I will be so, so sad...but I have until then to enjoy the best birthday present I have ever gotten.
Thursday, November 1, 2012
In or Out
What a horribly difficult and trying several days. Hurricane Sandy came in to visit. I was so mixed up over this...part of me was ready to take over and jump but part of me was crushed by memories of the last storm - Irene. I thought of Gary...thought of Tony....cried... questioned my own ability to do this right, so that Trevor would be safe and taken care of and fed.
The storm was supposed to hit New Jersey sometime Monday but Friday, preparations were already underway. They were telling us it was unprecedented and we faced days to weeks without power. There are many trees around my apartment and I was going through worse-case scenarios in my mind, wondering, questioning myself, "Can I do as good as Gary? Can I keep Trevor safe? What if a tree falls through his bedroom window?" (I moved his bed away from the window). What if one crushes my car? What if we go weeks without power and have no food and no transportation? Who would I call? Hah!
Nobody.
They're all probably over at Gary's house enjoying the provisions afforded by owning a boat. Propane stoves, ice chests galore, etc.
But that's not all.
Friday night, I received a text from an 18-year-old girl. She's been an online.....protege' if you will, for almost a year now. We grew very close because of our incest stories and other issues that are very similar.
Friday night the text reads (paraphrasing): "I am going out tonight so I won't be around much. Just wanted you to know so you wouldn't worry."
"Okay," I say, thinking nothing of it. Great! She's going to a party.
Ten minutes later, another text. "I'm nervous."
Oh shit.
"Why?"
And we played this little guessing game where she kind of beat around the bush which she does quite often (Understandable - I used to do the same thing at her age) until I finally figured out she was going to a place where she'd been drugged and raped before....and not long ago, either.
Now, as I explained in therapy today, we all have our own frame of reference. We can only see, truly, things through our lenses of experience. My experience has been - in such situations - horrendous terror, dissociation, anger, you name it, depending on the situation and the perpetrator.
Being surrounded by a group of pimps ("The Goodson Brothers" - they even had business cards. Get that!), locked in a room with a two-way deadbolt lock and tortured all night by several men. Unable to cry. Unable to feel anything except the thought - I must escape. Which I did. Under the guise of having to go to the bathroom. They wouldn't give me my clothes, just a blanket, so I wrapped up in the blanket and jumped from the second-story bathroom window. Not an easy feat.
Having a teenager pull a gun and point it straight at my face as his friends stood around and say, "Fuck this shit, I'm gettin' me some white pussy!"
"Then you better shoot me mother fucker, because that's the only way you'll get it."
He was tackled by his friends and they admonished me, saying he was about to shoot me because he was on whack (pcp).
Whatever. I didn't care.
These are the images I get when she tells me she's been raped or she's putting herself in a position to be raped.
I don't fault her for this - these self-destructive behaviors are actually common. One of the bases of our relationship was that there was never any judgment. I've been there. I know. I don't judge.
However, I have also repeatedly tried to explain to this young woman whom I've grown to truly admire, that I am not a therapist. Yes, a life coach, but no not active and I, too, am struggling on my journey. I, too, am trying to heal from the mental and emotional hemorrhaging that comes from so much trauma.
But me being the "motherly" type, I have grown and I am wiser now, than I used to be so the "situations" I get myself into are a bit more precarious and pose no physical threat. Mostly just emotional threats, dependency, etc.
A bunch happened that night. Some things just didn't add up and for the first time in our relationship, I didn't believe her and I was devastated.
Why? Why would she deliberately hurt me that way?
Obviously she doesn't know what images it conjures up for me. The demons it shakes, threatens to awaken. The pain and suffering I went through, that I've yet to confront....and am not yet ready to, either.
She says she didn't lie. Swears she didn't.
So ...okay she didn't.
Why the texts? Why worry me, just after you've said you didn't want me to worry?
All while questioning my capabilities as a mother with Trevor, getting through this storm, the pending holiday (which I HATE and spent in the dark the entire time), not knowing where my son - Tony - was, nor if he was somewhere safe.
Did I get enough water? Did I get enough food? I don't think I did. I have to go back to the store. I need to stock up on gas and cigarettes. Oh, and beer of course. Cuz God only knows how long we'll be without power.
And my birthday is Saturday. I don't like my birthday because it's uncomfortable to receive gifts. Another thing on my plate.
Too much at once....and then this? In the middle of all of it?
It may sound small, but So many rapes...oh God...dear god so many rapes and beatings....being awakened in the middle of the night by at least ten men ripping your clothes off, holding down your arms and legs, as one sits on your chest, attempting to shove his penis in your mouth. Yes these are the images she brings to me and I don't want to touch them. Can't yet.
I can't take it... and she's never even known.
In or out. That's how it is. You're either in or out. In my life or out of my life and by "life" I mean, access to my weaknesses and vulnerabilities, my efforts and trials and errors and my fears and all the things that I hide from view.
Once you're in, you're in and it takes a lot to be pushed back out, but once you're pushed out, it's hard as hell to get back in. I have very few people "in" - she was one of them, to a degree, given her age. I tried to be a nurturing figure for her and now I'm seeing this as a mistake, when I should have just been a friend, even though I understand that insatiable hunt for a mother....for a family.
I've said, I need time....I just need time.....
That's how I work.
The storm was supposed to hit New Jersey sometime Monday but Friday, preparations were already underway. They were telling us it was unprecedented and we faced days to weeks without power. There are many trees around my apartment and I was going through worse-case scenarios in my mind, wondering, questioning myself, "Can I do as good as Gary? Can I keep Trevor safe? What if a tree falls through his bedroom window?" (I moved his bed away from the window). What if one crushes my car? What if we go weeks without power and have no food and no transportation? Who would I call? Hah!
Nobody.
They're all probably over at Gary's house enjoying the provisions afforded by owning a boat. Propane stoves, ice chests galore, etc.
But that's not all.
Friday night, I received a text from an 18-year-old girl. She's been an online.....protege' if you will, for almost a year now. We grew very close because of our incest stories and other issues that are very similar.
Friday night the text reads (paraphrasing): "I am going out tonight so I won't be around much. Just wanted you to know so you wouldn't worry."
"Okay," I say, thinking nothing of it. Great! She's going to a party.
Ten minutes later, another text. "I'm nervous."
Oh shit.
"Why?"
And we played this little guessing game where she kind of beat around the bush which she does quite often (Understandable - I used to do the same thing at her age) until I finally figured out she was going to a place where she'd been drugged and raped before....and not long ago, either.
Now, as I explained in therapy today, we all have our own frame of reference. We can only see, truly, things through our lenses of experience. My experience has been - in such situations - horrendous terror, dissociation, anger, you name it, depending on the situation and the perpetrator.
Being surrounded by a group of pimps ("The Goodson Brothers" - they even had business cards. Get that!), locked in a room with a two-way deadbolt lock and tortured all night by several men. Unable to cry. Unable to feel anything except the thought - I must escape. Which I did. Under the guise of having to go to the bathroom. They wouldn't give me my clothes, just a blanket, so I wrapped up in the blanket and jumped from the second-story bathroom window. Not an easy feat.
Having a teenager pull a gun and point it straight at my face as his friends stood around and say, "Fuck this shit, I'm gettin' me some white pussy!"
"Then you better shoot me mother fucker, because that's the only way you'll get it."
He was tackled by his friends and they admonished me, saying he was about to shoot me because he was on whack (pcp).
Whatever. I didn't care.
These are the images I get when she tells me she's been raped or she's putting herself in a position to be raped.
I don't fault her for this - these self-destructive behaviors are actually common. One of the bases of our relationship was that there was never any judgment. I've been there. I know. I don't judge.
However, I have also repeatedly tried to explain to this young woman whom I've grown to truly admire, that I am not a therapist. Yes, a life coach, but no not active and I, too, am struggling on my journey. I, too, am trying to heal from the mental and emotional hemorrhaging that comes from so much trauma.
But me being the "motherly" type, I have grown and I am wiser now, than I used to be so the "situations" I get myself into are a bit more precarious and pose no physical threat. Mostly just emotional threats, dependency, etc.
A bunch happened that night. Some things just didn't add up and for the first time in our relationship, I didn't believe her and I was devastated.
Why? Why would she deliberately hurt me that way?
Obviously she doesn't know what images it conjures up for me. The demons it shakes, threatens to awaken. The pain and suffering I went through, that I've yet to confront....and am not yet ready to, either.
She says she didn't lie. Swears she didn't.
So ...okay she didn't.
Why the texts? Why worry me, just after you've said you didn't want me to worry?
All while questioning my capabilities as a mother with Trevor, getting through this storm, the pending holiday (which I HATE and spent in the dark the entire time), not knowing where my son - Tony - was, nor if he was somewhere safe.
Did I get enough water? Did I get enough food? I don't think I did. I have to go back to the store. I need to stock up on gas and cigarettes. Oh, and beer of course. Cuz God only knows how long we'll be without power.
And my birthday is Saturday. I don't like my birthday because it's uncomfortable to receive gifts. Another thing on my plate.
Too much at once....and then this? In the middle of all of it?
It may sound small, but So many rapes...oh God...dear god so many rapes and beatings....being awakened in the middle of the night by at least ten men ripping your clothes off, holding down your arms and legs, as one sits on your chest, attempting to shove his penis in your mouth. Yes these are the images she brings to me and I don't want to touch them. Can't yet.
I can't take it... and she's never even known.
In or out. That's how it is. You're either in or out. In my life or out of my life and by "life" I mean, access to my weaknesses and vulnerabilities, my efforts and trials and errors and my fears and all the things that I hide from view.
Once you're in, you're in and it takes a lot to be pushed back out, but once you're pushed out, it's hard as hell to get back in. I have very few people "in" - she was one of them, to a degree, given her age. I tried to be a nurturing figure for her and now I'm seeing this as a mistake, when I should have just been a friend, even though I understand that insatiable hunt for a mother....for a family.
I've said, I need time....I just need time.....
That's how I work.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Relationships and PTSD/DID
My therapist and I have talked about relationships...how you're always in a relationship, whether with your partner, children, neighbors or the grocery store clerk. These are relationships.
In having these discussions, we've talked about regulating emotions - something that's super hard. I wish I had a map, or some way to draw a picture of how it works.
I can have a relationship with someone and if they're doing things that hurt themselves, I try to be a good friend to them, I try to help and support and encourage. On some level, there's compassion and understanding and it doesn't put me off. I don't take it personally, for example, if someone cuts. I know it's part of their journey and struggle. I just try to be there for them.
I can also have that same relationship and have them do something that frightens or angers me and I shut down. It goes through my brain, processed immediately - instantaneously - and I completely shut down.
Intellectually, I am realizing, "Okay people are fallible. Everyone makes mistakes." but this part inside of me that's shut down is saying, "No, HELL no! DANGER! DANGER!"
I recently had a falling-out with a friend. A good friend. A good, good, good long-time friend. And the timing was really bad, too, because I was "mourning deeply" (as my therapist put it) the loss of my relationship with Gary and all the friends that went with it.
It affected me so badly, that I essentially cut everyone off. I really didn't want to talk to anyone, although I did briefly. For days, though, I screened my calls and was relatively unavailable. I mean, if it could happen with this person, it could happen with anyone!
But because we're so close - and always have been - we're kind of talking about it. Kind of. I'm trying to be different, trying to handle things differently than in the past where I would simply walk away....fast.
I'm trying to use my intellect, rather than my emotions....people are fallible, it's not fair to blame him, it's okay... but the dialogue inside is so much different. The fear of abandonment; the fear of hurt and pain...the story that plays in your head your whole life about not being good enough (all on the heels of a very loud and clear such message from Gary and his friends). It hurts and even if I recognize the irrationality of it, I don't know how to fix it.
Regulating emotions. I've written about it before....it's a struggle. The emotions are so intense.
That's why relationships - at least for me, and I'm sure, many other incest survivors - are so intense.
To my dear friend: I love you. I always have and always will. I'm so sorry that I am so damned difficult. I know I am fortunate to have you in my life. There is absolutely nobody in this world like you and I know you love me... I'm just afraid and trepidatious right now.
All my love.
In having these discussions, we've talked about regulating emotions - something that's super hard. I wish I had a map, or some way to draw a picture of how it works.
I can have a relationship with someone and if they're doing things that hurt themselves, I try to be a good friend to them, I try to help and support and encourage. On some level, there's compassion and understanding and it doesn't put me off. I don't take it personally, for example, if someone cuts. I know it's part of their journey and struggle. I just try to be there for them.
I can also have that same relationship and have them do something that frightens or angers me and I shut down. It goes through my brain, processed immediately - instantaneously - and I completely shut down.
Intellectually, I am realizing, "Okay people are fallible. Everyone makes mistakes." but this part inside of me that's shut down is saying, "No, HELL no! DANGER! DANGER!"
I recently had a falling-out with a friend. A good friend. A good, good, good long-time friend. And the timing was really bad, too, because I was "mourning deeply" (as my therapist put it) the loss of my relationship with Gary and all the friends that went with it.
It affected me so badly, that I essentially cut everyone off. I really didn't want to talk to anyone, although I did briefly. For days, though, I screened my calls and was relatively unavailable. I mean, if it could happen with this person, it could happen with anyone!
But because we're so close - and always have been - we're kind of talking about it. Kind of. I'm trying to be different, trying to handle things differently than in the past where I would simply walk away....fast.
I'm trying to use my intellect, rather than my emotions....people are fallible, it's not fair to blame him, it's okay... but the dialogue inside is so much different. The fear of abandonment; the fear of hurt and pain...the story that plays in your head your whole life about not being good enough (all on the heels of a very loud and clear such message from Gary and his friends). It hurts and even if I recognize the irrationality of it, I don't know how to fix it.
Regulating emotions. I've written about it before....it's a struggle. The emotions are so intense.
That's why relationships - at least for me, and I'm sure, many other incest survivors - are so intense.
To my dear friend: I love you. I always have and always will. I'm so sorry that I am so damned difficult. I know I am fortunate to have you in my life. There is absolutely nobody in this world like you and I know you love me... I'm just afraid and trepidatious right now.
All my love.
Sunday, October 21, 2012
The "First Time" (sexual content)
My name is Cristina Johnson
It's been a tough week. I went through my phone and deleted all but one photo:
I was mesmerized by this picture. I cried as I deleted photos ...oh did I cry... but this one...this one I couldn't delete. It seemed to epitomize so much of our relationship. How much we looked like the "perfect couple" which - I'm sure - Gary always looks like with any woman. The "perfect couple." People never imagined we would split. This photo for some reason, had me bawling all day, all evening.
I cried. I called him. I left a sobbing voice mail. I was torn apart. So many memories...gone with a tap on the trash can icon.
My supporters have encouraged me to delete the photos from facebook as well. "Time to let go," they say kindly, supportively.
Then, today, I braved the hundreds of photos I have on my facebook, in an attempt to delete some, but not before offering (over voice mail) to let Gary have whichever ones he wanted. He never responded, so I will try to pick and choose the ones he'd like and try to get them to him.
But as I was going through them, deleting those of me and "Dee" and some of him and I (interestingly almost ALL at the bar or on the boat), I came across this one:
and I couldn't stop crying.
I sat in the living room, in the dark, except for two candles burning. I kept looking at this picture, which I couldn't bear. Across from me, on the coffee table is a beer bottle, cigarettes and a green lighter, the two candles going and a plate - given by "Dee" which I deliberately use as an ashtray because of the negative energy tied to it...I've already thrown away most of the junk she gave me). There's a small remote that goes to the shelf stereo where I sometimes listen to David Lanz, Leonardo Ludovico and George Winston (I prefer the sounds of piano, cello and piano in harmony)....
And a razor blade. It sits on the table, occasionally reflecting the flames on the candles. I hold my head and cry.
I used the blade last night, ran it along my thigh. Nothing major.
But I was in so much pain....
One thing taken from an incest/rape victim at the age that I was, is the first time.
At the risk of embarrassing my daughter (which probably won't happen - she doesn't read my blogs), she texted me when she was 16. Told me she'd "gone all the way" with her boyfriend of a little over a year.
My feelings were mixed. I called her immediately.
My first question was obviously, "Did you use a condom?"
"Duh, yes."
My second question, spoken rather awkwardly, "Well...how was it?"
"It hurt like hell!" she said. She gave me further details - I suppose that's one of the good aspects of having her live so far away. She talks to me about everything. I listened intently. I was secretly so elated that her first experience was with someone she 'loved' (at the time)...that it wasn't traumatic.
I once told Gary that I was "still waiting for the first time," and he got angry, stormed off.
A couple years later, it came up again. This year - 2010 - we went to Selden's Creek. It was always awkward for Gary and I to be alone together. We never really knew how to "be" with each other. But this night, I drank a couple beers as we sat tied to a huge tree and a limb that was tangled in the marshy grass near the boat.
I started talking with him about sex. About that "first time" thing ....I explained it to him.
"I want to know what it was supposed to be like," I told him, afraid, ashamed.....not really knowing what his reaction would be.
We were surrounded by nature, not a soul in sight. We watched beavers and otters swim by, took the dinghy out and saw a whole flock of beautiful white swans. Trees like you've never seen. It was truly beautiful.
And by sunset, we were alone on the boat again. I made dinner. We continued talking, although I can't remember about what.
And then he attempted to give me my "first time"
He was attentive, gentle, kind....much different than usual. He spoke to me, kind words. He went slow, calmly, rather than treating me like a conquest, the way it typically felt.
I opened up that night, more than ever before. Tried - tried so hard - to stay present and be there with him, throughout the experience. Mostly accomplished, but still struggled. (I dissociate during sex).
It was a truly beautiful experience....
...I thought.
After that, we took a trip to Shelter Island. We anchored out at Sag Harbor. Oh the wind was horrendous. The boat wagged in the water like an excited dog's tail and neither of us could sleep. We anchored there about two or three nights.
We hadn't made love since Selden's Creek, so I was still lost in that emotional experience, as far as intimacy and I kind of believe that he, too, was somehow touched....although that belief was short-lived.
Anchored out about two hundred yards away from another boat, he decided he wanted to have sex in the cockpit, out in the open, in view of the other boat.
I completely shut down and every thought that he might have "gotten it" (as far as my need for tenderness, gentleness, slowness, calmness), disappeared in the wind. I did whatever he wanted....as usual. The "first time" was instantly deleted from my brain. I thought he cared....I thought he got it...Oh....I was so wrong.
That was in 2010....when he carved our initials in the picnic table at the beach at Coecles Harbor.
The First Time, I realize now, will never come. The reason is because for me to experience the "first time," I'd have to experience it hundreds of times, to replace the hundreds of times I was molested or raped. He thought, by giving me one "first time," I would suddenly be "fixed" and we could just go back to being an emotionally devoid, sexually perverse couple.
He was wrong, and so is anyone else who thinks they can give us back our first time. Our first time was taken. Taken. Oh my God how that hurts.
I'll never have that "first time" like my beautiful daughter did.....I envied her, I admit it, shamelessly but with utter love.
What's the first time supposed to be like?
It's been a tough week. I went through my phone and deleted all but one photo:
I cried. I called him. I left a sobbing voice mail. I was torn apart. So many memories...gone with a tap on the trash can icon.
My supporters have encouraged me to delete the photos from facebook as well. "Time to let go," they say kindly, supportively.
Then, today, I braved the hundreds of photos I have on my facebook, in an attempt to delete some, but not before offering (over voice mail) to let Gary have whichever ones he wanted. He never responded, so I will try to pick and choose the ones he'd like and try to get them to him.
But as I was going through them, deleting those of me and "Dee" and some of him and I (interestingly almost ALL at the bar or on the boat), I came across this one:
=I sat in the living room, in the dark, except for two candles burning. I kept looking at this picture, which I couldn't bear. Across from me, on the coffee table is a beer bottle, cigarettes and a green lighter, the two candles going and a plate - given by "Dee" which I deliberately use as an ashtray because of the negative energy tied to it...I've already thrown away most of the junk she gave me). There's a small remote that goes to the shelf stereo where I sometimes listen to David Lanz, Leonardo Ludovico and George Winston (I prefer the sounds of piano, cello and piano in harmony)....
And a razor blade. It sits on the table, occasionally reflecting the flames on the candles. I hold my head and cry.
I used the blade last night, ran it along my thigh. Nothing major.
But I was in so much pain....
One thing taken from an incest/rape victim at the age that I was, is the first time.
At the risk of embarrassing my daughter (which probably won't happen - she doesn't read my blogs), she texted me when she was 16. Told me she'd "gone all the way" with her boyfriend of a little over a year.
My feelings were mixed. I called her immediately.
My first question was obviously, "Did you use a condom?"
"Duh, yes."
My second question, spoken rather awkwardly, "Well...how was it?"
"It hurt like hell!" she said. She gave me further details - I suppose that's one of the good aspects of having her live so far away. She talks to me about everything. I listened intently. I was secretly so elated that her first experience was with someone she 'loved' (at the time)...that it wasn't traumatic.
I once told Gary that I was "still waiting for the first time," and he got angry, stormed off.
A couple years later, it came up again. This year - 2010 - we went to Selden's Creek. It was always awkward for Gary and I to be alone together. We never really knew how to "be" with each other. But this night, I drank a couple beers as we sat tied to a huge tree and a limb that was tangled in the marshy grass near the boat.
I started talking with him about sex. About that "first time" thing ....I explained it to him.
"I want to know what it was supposed to be like," I told him, afraid, ashamed.....not really knowing what his reaction would be.
We were surrounded by nature, not a soul in sight. We watched beavers and otters swim by, took the dinghy out and saw a whole flock of beautiful white swans. Trees like you've never seen. It was truly beautiful.
And by sunset, we were alone on the boat again. I made dinner. We continued talking, although I can't remember about what.
And then he attempted to give me my "first time"
He was attentive, gentle, kind....much different than usual. He spoke to me, kind words. He went slow, calmly, rather than treating me like a conquest, the way it typically felt.
I opened up that night, more than ever before. Tried - tried so hard - to stay present and be there with him, throughout the experience. Mostly accomplished, but still struggled. (I dissociate during sex).
It was a truly beautiful experience....
...I thought.
After that, we took a trip to Shelter Island. We anchored out at Sag Harbor. Oh the wind was horrendous. The boat wagged in the water like an excited dog's tail and neither of us could sleep. We anchored there about two or three nights.
We hadn't made love since Selden's Creek, so I was still lost in that emotional experience, as far as intimacy and I kind of believe that he, too, was somehow touched....although that belief was short-lived.
Anchored out about two hundred yards away from another boat, he decided he wanted to have sex in the cockpit, out in the open, in view of the other boat.
I completely shut down and every thought that he might have "gotten it" (as far as my need for tenderness, gentleness, slowness, calmness), disappeared in the wind. I did whatever he wanted....as usual. The "first time" was instantly deleted from my brain. I thought he cared....I thought he got it...Oh....I was so wrong.
That was in 2010....when he carved our initials in the picnic table at the beach at Coecles Harbor.
The First Time, I realize now, will never come. The reason is because for me to experience the "first time," I'd have to experience it hundreds of times, to replace the hundreds of times I was molested or raped. He thought, by giving me one "first time," I would suddenly be "fixed" and we could just go back to being an emotionally devoid, sexually perverse couple.
He was wrong, and so is anyone else who thinks they can give us back our first time. Our first time was taken. Taken. Oh my God how that hurts.
I'll never have that "first time" like my beautiful daughter did.....I envied her, I admit it, shamelessly but with utter love.
What's the first time supposed to be like?
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Good feelings that hurt
My name is Cristina D. Johnson
I have so much to say tonight. I hope I don't ramble. I had a very exciting session today.
Something really huge happened Monday, but I didn't realize it at the time. In my blog, "To Show or Not to Show," I wrote:
"She brought her other hand up to gently squeeze my shoulder. This made a part of me scream inside, "DON'T BE KIND TO ME!!!! STOP IT!!"
It hurt more to have her be that kind - to touch me despite my wound - and say those words, than anything else."
This session brought up something very deep, that I wasn't expecting, but being willing to explore it, I looked within myself and started questioning why I felt that way. Why I reacted like that internally, though I didn't say a word. That session affected me so deeply, in fact, that as soon as I got home, I vomited. It was that powerful.
I talked with Cindy at length about it and then later, talked with Bill but it was right before dinnertime, just after he'd gotten off work. I said to him in a text, that I loved him - I truly love him - in a place that hurts. He couldn't have known this, but I was speaking from that wounded place - that place that feels this intense feeling. But since he didn't know, his response frightened me and shut me down. I almost went to bed but instead, this time, decided I would tell him.
And we talked about it at length....I told him I have this huge, huge wall but there are pinholes in it and every once in awhile, he or Cindy will reach through it and touch that part of me. It's very childlike and afraid.
It's also very frightening to feel so I am always on guard - always have been - and I'm only now realizing this.
The next day, I wrote "Tenderness Kills," and I wasn't going to post it on my facebook page like usual, but I did send it to my therapist. It's always been easier for me to write than speak. I never heard back from her so I was very nervous to go see her today.
"So, tell me about your email," she said after our opening pleasantries.
I told her, as I was writing it, that I envisioned a child, cowering, always afraid...always waiting for the next foot to fall.
So she asked me about that...and I explained.
Family meetings.
These were meetings held every day where Daddy and his wife and her two kids (ages 13 and 16) would meet in the family room with my brother and I. We were five and six years old. Each time, Daddy would have us stand in front of him and he would tell us all the things we'd done wrong that day. He would then make us take off our clothes as the rest of them looked on, and he would put us over his knees and beat us with a wooden spoon. He would then tell us to get our clothes and go to our rooms. We could hear the others snickering behind our backs. Perhaps the worst parts of these meetings was when Daddy would cry, making me feel as if I were the lowest life form on earth (he also did this when he molested me, and I would do whatever he wanted, hoping to stop him from crying).
I told her about my mother's lying - so many lies - and how, when I tried to tell her about my abuse, she said to me, "Oh that's nothing. You should try...." and then she went on to tell me some story of her childhood, completely invalidating me. That was when I was 12 and I never talked with her about it again.
I lived on the streets and in the system from age 12 until I ran away and got pregnant at 15. I was kidnapped, first though, at age 11. When we lived in North Carolina with my father, he strangled me and smothered me as he molested me. He beat us and constantly stormed around, punching holes in the walls or breaking furniture. He was unpredictable and frightening (except for most of the times he molested us when we were younger).
"So no wonder you envisioned a child cowering," Michelle said. "It seems that's all you've ever done."
"Yes, it is," I agreed.
As we began to talk more about this "part," I became increasingly excited to have an explanation for what had happened the night of our previous session so now, hopefully I won't confuse the reader by going back to Monday night, when I'd told Bill what I had.
Part of me shut down with Bill's response to my profession of love for him.
But I emailed him - it was too much to say in texts - trying to explain it. All cerebral, but with this new awareness of this FEELING that I didn't realize I had.
The rest of the night, we texted back and forth but I remembered very little of it the next day. I discovered the next day I'd emailed and called my attorney, I'd opened a window and I'd gotten coffee ready to be brewed. I did not remember any of this. This is where DID comes in. If you understand the Internal Family System's Model, there are three "types" of parts: Managers, Firefighters and Exiles.
Managers (to cope) are the "parts" that handle day-to-day stuff, keep things in order, get groceries, pay bills, etc. They manage.
Exiles (hurt)are the "parts" that hold very powerful, intense emotions - pain, rage, fear, shame, among others - and are usually young parts, stuck in a place in time where they are still being abused.
And the Firefighters (compulsive) are the ones who come in when the exiles are starting to emerge and the managers can't handle it. The Firefighters either watch over and soothe the Exiles or they hush them by any number of means, including binging, cutting, distracting, drugs/alcohol, shopping, etc. There's a whole list but when the "system" (the term used to describe the multiple parts of someone with DID) becomes disrupted, the Firefighters step in and take over.
This is what happened Monday night: First the overwhelming session with Michelle, then the issue with Bill - all surrounding this young, wounded part of me.
One of the Firefighters said, "Oh no, no way" and I think has always said, "Hell no. Do not be tender to me!" because this other part - this part that loves so intensely, is very authentic and young and open.
So if I go by the Internal Family Systems model, it would seem that I have an Exile that is beaten down, terrified and wants to be loved, that's being protected by a firefighter that's saying "hell no, stay away!"
But now that I understand it more, it makes more sense and I feel like there's going to come a time when I can talk to that part - or those parts (?) - and soothe them myself.
I never truly understood why it hurt so much to hear my grandmother say, "Oh honey, I'm so sorry," when she came to the police station and found me beaten and bloodied after my kidnapping. In my mind, for all my life, I've always felt that it was the worst possible thing she could have said to me.
Now I know why: Don't be kind to me!
Of course, there were constant reiterations and reinforcements of this belief....going through so many rapes by men who said they were there to help me; being molested by men in the system; being attacked in hospitals. Why would a child expect kindness or tenderness after that? Why would I expect (or feel comfortable receiving) kindness or tenderness. For years, a soft, tender touch would make me cry. I still sometimes whimper.
Over the past few months, I've felt that terrifying feeling for Bill and for Cindy. Through those pinholes.
I want to explore it more...open them up....break down that wall....
I'm both afraid and excited about it.
I have so much to say tonight. I hope I don't ramble. I had a very exciting session today.
Something really huge happened Monday, but I didn't realize it at the time. In my blog, "To Show or Not to Show," I wrote:
"She brought her other hand up to gently squeeze my shoulder. This made a part of me scream inside, "DON'T BE KIND TO ME!!!! STOP IT!!"
It hurt more to have her be that kind - to touch me despite my wound - and say those words, than anything else."
This session brought up something very deep, that I wasn't expecting, but being willing to explore it, I looked within myself and started questioning why I felt that way. Why I reacted like that internally, though I didn't say a word. That session affected me so deeply, in fact, that as soon as I got home, I vomited. It was that powerful.
I talked with Cindy at length about it and then later, talked with Bill but it was right before dinnertime, just after he'd gotten off work. I said to him in a text, that I loved him - I truly love him - in a place that hurts. He couldn't have known this, but I was speaking from that wounded place - that place that feels this intense feeling. But since he didn't know, his response frightened me and shut me down. I almost went to bed but instead, this time, decided I would tell him.
And we talked about it at length....I told him I have this huge, huge wall but there are pinholes in it and every once in awhile, he or Cindy will reach through it and touch that part of me. It's very childlike and afraid.
It's also very frightening to feel so I am always on guard - always have been - and I'm only now realizing this.
The next day, I wrote "Tenderness Kills," and I wasn't going to post it on my facebook page like usual, but I did send it to my therapist. It's always been easier for me to write than speak. I never heard back from her so I was very nervous to go see her today.
"So, tell me about your email," she said after our opening pleasantries.
I told her, as I was writing it, that I envisioned a child, cowering, always afraid...always waiting for the next foot to fall.
So she asked me about that...and I explained.
Family meetings.
These were meetings held every day where Daddy and his wife and her two kids (ages 13 and 16) would meet in the family room with my brother and I. We were five and six years old. Each time, Daddy would have us stand in front of him and he would tell us all the things we'd done wrong that day. He would then make us take off our clothes as the rest of them looked on, and he would put us over his knees and beat us with a wooden spoon. He would then tell us to get our clothes and go to our rooms. We could hear the others snickering behind our backs. Perhaps the worst parts of these meetings was when Daddy would cry, making me feel as if I were the lowest life form on earth (he also did this when he molested me, and I would do whatever he wanted, hoping to stop him from crying).
I told her about my mother's lying - so many lies - and how, when I tried to tell her about my abuse, she said to me, "Oh that's nothing. You should try...." and then she went on to tell me some story of her childhood, completely invalidating me. That was when I was 12 and I never talked with her about it again.
I lived on the streets and in the system from age 12 until I ran away and got pregnant at 15. I was kidnapped, first though, at age 11. When we lived in North Carolina with my father, he strangled me and smothered me as he molested me. He beat us and constantly stormed around, punching holes in the walls or breaking furniture. He was unpredictable and frightening (except for most of the times he molested us when we were younger).
"So no wonder you envisioned a child cowering," Michelle said. "It seems that's all you've ever done."
"Yes, it is," I agreed.
As we began to talk more about this "part," I became increasingly excited to have an explanation for what had happened the night of our previous session so now, hopefully I won't confuse the reader by going back to Monday night, when I'd told Bill what I had.
Part of me shut down with Bill's response to my profession of love for him.
But I emailed him - it was too much to say in texts - trying to explain it. All cerebral, but with this new awareness of this FEELING that I didn't realize I had.
The rest of the night, we texted back and forth but I remembered very little of it the next day. I discovered the next day I'd emailed and called my attorney, I'd opened a window and I'd gotten coffee ready to be brewed. I did not remember any of this. This is where DID comes in. If you understand the Internal Family System's Model, there are three "types" of parts: Managers, Firefighters and Exiles.
Managers (to cope) are the "parts" that handle day-to-day stuff, keep things in order, get groceries, pay bills, etc. They manage.
Exiles (hurt)are the "parts" that hold very powerful, intense emotions - pain, rage, fear, shame, among others - and are usually young parts, stuck in a place in time where they are still being abused.
And the Firefighters (compulsive) are the ones who come in when the exiles are starting to emerge and the managers can't handle it. The Firefighters either watch over and soothe the Exiles or they hush them by any number of means, including binging, cutting, distracting, drugs/alcohol, shopping, etc. There's a whole list but when the "system" (the term used to describe the multiple parts of someone with DID) becomes disrupted, the Firefighters step in and take over.This is what happened Monday night: First the overwhelming session with Michelle, then the issue with Bill - all surrounding this young, wounded part of me.
One of the Firefighters said, "Oh no, no way" and I think has always said, "Hell no. Do not be tender to me!" because this other part - this part that loves so intensely, is very authentic and young and open.
So if I go by the Internal Family Systems model, it would seem that I have an Exile that is beaten down, terrified and wants to be loved, that's being protected by a firefighter that's saying "hell no, stay away!"
But now that I understand it more, it makes more sense and I feel like there's going to come a time when I can talk to that part - or those parts (?) - and soothe them myself.
I never truly understood why it hurt so much to hear my grandmother say, "Oh honey, I'm so sorry," when she came to the police station and found me beaten and bloodied after my kidnapping. In my mind, for all my life, I've always felt that it was the worst possible thing she could have said to me.
Now I know why: Don't be kind to me!
Of course, there were constant reiterations and reinforcements of this belief....going through so many rapes by men who said they were there to help me; being molested by men in the system; being attacked in hospitals. Why would a child expect kindness or tenderness after that? Why would I expect (or feel comfortable receiving) kindness or tenderness. For years, a soft, tender touch would make me cry. I still sometimes whimper.
Over the past few months, I've felt that terrifying feeling for Bill and for Cindy. Through those pinholes.
I want to explore it more...open them up....break down that wall....
I'm both afraid and excited about it.
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