The day before Thanksgiving, all my lightness is gone.
Desiree came and pulled me back to hell.
Not that she knows the way; only I do.
The day before Thanksgiving, all my lightness is gone.
Desiree came and pulled me back to hell.
Not that she knows the way; only I do.
You start with a perfectly decent heart and a perfectly decent mind and a perfectly decent body
your perfectly decent heart
and your perfectly decent mind
and your perfectly decent body
And you wonder why I don’t take things seriously anymore?
Pour out your heart and with it do lavish
Your love onto me, and my body please ravish.
The strength of your presence, it beckons me close;
Banishing fear that leaves me exposed.
Yet with you my exposure is no cause for shame:
I feel full of beauty when you breathe my name.
The confidence you engender calls out to my heart,
And tells me it’s fine that I don’t want to part.
Instead, what I want is to grow a great union
Of mind, soul, and spirit in True Cosmic Fusion.
No longer searching for places to hide,
As all that I am warms to beckon you inside.
Again and Again and Again. Forever.
Example Number One:
Yes, I know I’m not supposed to use enumeration when there’s only one example, but why are you quibbling over something so silly?
Anyway, as I was saying,
Example Number One (which I feel is more than adequate, but whatever):
All these young kids spend a fortune these days in time, dollars, and pain to get tattoos which tell their stories on their bodies.
Well, I haven’t spent a dime on such frivolities (don’t you dare take away my magnetic eyelashes, though!)
Why? If you’d ever seen my body, you wouldn’t ask!
Wasn’t it that Vile John Mayer who ditched Poor Jennifer Anniston (anyone with that first name must be an angel!) that crooned “Your Body is a Wonderland?”
Well, my body looks like Hiroshima or Nagasaki circa early post-WW2. For starters, it starts (is that redundant?) with my boobs. Obviously! You can’t get a biopsy, lumpectomy, re-excision surgery, port placement surgery, port removal surgery, 12 infusions of the ball buster known as Taxol, 1 infusion of the other ball buster that goes by Adriamycin, aka “The Red Devil,” 33 radiation whatevers (which they didn’t tell me at the time totally shreds your skin), 3 reconstruction surgeries, a double mastectomy where they took out the old implants and put new ones under my pectoral muscles which later had to be “expanded” to stretch the skin on numerous unpleasant occasions because I was too skinny, and they also had to pull that muscle from back there by my shoulder blade around to the front so I’d have enough skin as well as put in “cadaver shelves” (honestly, I didn’t ask for the details), and then the final surgery 4 months later plus the nipple procedure that didn’t take and then the nipple tattoos…
I’ll be damned! I do so have tattoos!!
Anyway, I kind of forgot where I was going with this one. Write it off to the premature menopause I went through 14 years ago. That can really screw with your brain and bones, so no wonder my short-term memory is so bad, right?
Anyway, I was trying to say that my body is totally destroyed. I’m fully in agreement.
But it’s also totally badass! You could spend hours just counting my scars and hearing the stories behind them. They go all the way back to my age 3.
And I wouldn’t trade them for anything. They’re so fucking gorgeous I can hardly stand it❣️
I don’t have a work ethic at all anymore. In fact, I often feel and behave like a 54-year-old adolescent.
But please remember this:
I came out of the womb responsible. I drove carpool 40 miles away as soon as I got my used car at 16, delivering two little girls to school safely and soundly every day.
I skipped 4th grade, graduated from college at 20 and graduate school at 24. I never missed a day of work unless I was violently ill.
After taking time off for frivolous things like trying to have a family and fighting cancer, nobody wanted to hire me anymore.
So remember this when you judge me (because you will):
I’m the big oak tree you had cut down 10 years ago because of a wicked case of oak blight.
Now you’re confounded by those strange green shoots growing out of the stump that’s me. The one with the roots that extend under your house?
Don’t write me off yet.
I don’t want to sound paranoid or racist, and I most certainly don’t want to insult sensitive Nigerians in ANY way. But can someone out there explain the recent explosion in my Nigerian “audience?” I can assure you I am seeking illumination only. I’m actually BEGGING YOU to school me on my ignorance of how my admittedly-externally-privileged upbringing between two Southern United States between the late 1960s and mid 1980s, experience with chemotherapy and similar exhilarating adventures, and feeling abandoned by my husbands after choosing personal relationships over my career actually RESONATES WITH YOU??
I’M. ON. MY. KNEES. LITERALLY. BEGGING. YOU.
To tell me how my experiences with those experiences resonate with YOUR experiences of your experiences over in Nigeria.
Because I want us to collaborate on a book. Apparently we are kindred spirits, true soul mates, in spite of the fact we have absolutely nothing in common. I mean, you could pretend to be someone you’re not, but why would you want to do that? No, if my words RESONATE WITH YOU, YOU MUST BE TRUSTWORTHY.
So don’t be afraid to step forward, Sensitive Nigerians❣️ I want to provide a safe place to “connect“: a virtual community for those processing traumas from childhood, breast cancer, and divorce. And other VULNERABLE, Middle-Aged Women. Divorcees and the like.
All of us sharing freely and openly. Right here. Just waiting.
I can’t tell anybody this, but…
I’m simultaneously the most insecure AND the most intelligent person I know.
No wonder I’m no good at Marriage.
But what are the alternatives for a woman, aged 54, who still desires connection and love? When I’m being serious, people think I’m interviewing for a husband. When I write “I’m not interviewing for a husband; I have no set agenda” on my online dating profile, I get NO responses (or if I do, I’m asked what I’m wearing).
I don’t mind admitting I’m very confused by the dating scene in 2021 for middle-aged people (God, am I going to have to call myself a “senior” next year?). I seem to be very attractive to WOMEN and COUPLES these days, which kind of freaks me out. I think these women want to be my friend, but they don’t: they want to be my friend. I don’t even know if they want me for themselves, their husbands, or both.
This really weirds me out because I’ve relied on my gut instinct my whole life, but it seems to be failing me these days.
I admit that, as a heterosexual who came of age when gender was a binary concept, I’ve become a clumsy reader of the signals and vibes I get “out there.” I’ve also been accused of being things I’ve never considered myself to be, like:
•too liberal, and [in the absence of closure, I’d have to go with]
How does a person who religiously goes to therapy every week fix being “too damaged?”
I honestly don’t think I’m the problem. I’d love to go out with a male version of me. I think maybe the ones who think I’m too damaged are too damaged themselves to see my [inner] beauty?
I surely don’t want to have to fish for compliments and ‘status reports” all the time in my next relationship. In fact, let’s say it out loud together:
WE ARE DONE WITH THAT❣️
WE WANT AND DESERVE ONE GREAT BIG MESSY, DESPERATE PASSIONATE LOVE AFFAIR BEFORE WE RELOCATE PLANETS❣️
WE ARE FASCINATING – just think of all the boring first date conversations we’ve carried and made interesting. Not everyone can do that!
LET’S JUST TRY TO LOVE OURSELVES FOR A WHILE, because:
WE ATTRACT WHAT WE PUT OUT, and what WE put out is highly unique. It probably takes decades for huge Humpback whales to find their mates-for-life. I don’t imagine they have mixers and matchmakers. And they must be practically extinct or there wouldn’t be “Save the Whales” bumper stickers everywhere (maybe not everywhere NOW, but everywhere ONCE).
I think I’m comparing myself to a Humpback Whale now, which reminds me that I use metaphorical language a lot. I’m just not a typical, normal person.
And you know what? I’m so frigging glad❣️ The worst type of lonely is being anxiously attached and disconnected from the person lying next to you in bed. In a dry and dead marriage with someone you never should’ve married in the first place.
Been there, done that, paid my dues.
We’ll just hang out here with the Whales for a while, Thank You. 🐳
My name is Jennifer, and I’ve been taking the Myers-Briggs for over 25 years trying to get the correct results- but I kept coming out as an ENFP. I think we are chameleons and that’s why I didn’t believe my results. I’ve dealt with a lot of trauma and chaos in my life, and my enneagram (new to me) says I’m a 4 with a 3 wing. I’m not really sure what that means, but I like Joyce’s YouTube content and that’s why I’m here. I wasn’t able to have children, so I’ve not had that grounding influence in my life that grows up many ENFPs, but I feel like my traumas have more than qualified me as a deep person. I hate to hear ENFPs are shallow because we’re anything but! In fact. I feel like I’m condemned to life in the Deep End, so I only enter the Shallow to catch my breath.
By the way, the attached photo is of bald (thank you, Taxol) 39-year-old Jennifer in one of her “chemo wigs.” She’s trying to laugh and be a good sport about it all, but she’s really hurting inside (and it’s not the port under the skin in her vena cava that hurts).
Sadly, she’s so busy fighting, she’s really out of touch with her feelings. How I wish I could warn her she needs to process these strong emotions, but it wouldn’t do any good. I honestly think she didn’t know the best words to use, so she suffered in silence, even though she was technically married to Jeff at the time. He divorced her soon after, despite a brief reconciliation after her first breast reconstruction surgery, so I think we can go ahead and say his heart wasn’t “in it” at this time. She knew the truth of this all the way down to her bone marrow.
Jeff was always traveling for work and was never around, so Jennifer drove herself to her chemo and radiation appointments. She also drove back home again, alone, arriving at an empty house after each session.
How can you blame her for her failures? Who could survive so much heartache and betrayal – because you know this was just the start – and emerge unscathed? WHO, I want an ANSWER, damnit! WHO???!
I’m so sorry, Jennifer. I know you think you shouldn’t Be Here Today because others you knew and loved are Gone. But that’s NOT your fault! Why won’t you let it go? Why do you keep punishing yourself like this!!?? You MUST stop or you will get sick again. You know how that happens with you. You are alive and THIS is your time❣️ Step in and embrace the joy already!! Relax. Have fun. GET OFF THAT FUCKING CROSS NOW!!
I’m coming to peel you down, pull out those nails, and trust me: it won’t be pretty! I honestly don’t know why you do such stupid things and think such stupid thoughts! You’re like the priest in The Scarlet Letter (you read it in the tenth grade) who self-flagellates. Only crazy, GUILTY people sit around feeling sorry for themselves all day! What in God’s name is WRONG WITH YOU!!??
Welcome to 5 minutes in my Head. I try to be nice to myself, but I literally can’t. Myself punishes Myself too much to be happy, but loves Myself too much to subject Myself to physical pain. So I’m Here Whether It’s Pleasant Or Not. Physical pain is avoided because we’ve already dealt with that, had our share of that. and are done with that. So STAY AWAY, PHYSICAL PAIN!! We’ve got enough of YOU HERE!!
Psychic pain is Jennifer’s ancestor-approved, ancestor-generated specialty, however, so she’s quite adroit at inflicting it upon herself. She’s quite the Unyielding Bitch if we’re not mincing words: Life would be so much better if she LEFT US ALONE!
Unfortunately, that’s not currently possible, so we have to mute her. It’s all we can do if we want to have any fun.
Does anyone have any duct tape?
“Women who are diagnosed with breast cancer at its earliest stages have a 93 percent rate of surviving for at least five years, according to the American Cancer Society. The survival rate drops to 81 percent once the disease has progressed to Stage II. If the breast cancer was at Stage III when it was discovered, the survival rate drops to 67 percent. Women with Stage IV breast cancer have a 15 percent survival rate. The American Cancer Society notes that every woman’s situation is different and that new treatments are continuing to improve survival rates among women with breast cancer.”
Thank you, Jesus, for bringing that little pea-sized pellet to my attention so early. I’m ready to war against this disease again, and I hope I learn something this time that will prove useful to others heading down the same path. I thank you also for the brilliant team of doctors you have assembled for me – even as I must depend on government assistance for their services. These men (the last time, in Dallas, you provided me with a gifted team of women) are truly a “dream team.” Knowing 3 members of this team will be diligently working on me for 6-7 hours next Wednesday confirms Your Presence in all things. I thank You that I am truly in the palm of Your hand – the safest, calmest, and most protected place I could hope to be. Thank You for giving me a spirit of power, love, and a sound mind. Anxious fear never comes from You, and though it tries to infect me with a vigorous and continual onslaught, I have only to praise You to obtain a blessed and calming reprieve. I know that you inhabit the praises of Your people, and I am proud to count myself as one of Yours. Please give me the guidance and supernatural strength to glorify You throughout this process…. let my words be Your words, and my steps those You have chosen in building a path for me. Lastly, Lord, I ask You to fill in for me where I fall short on this journey. For, even though my goals are high and spiritual, I am still bound by an earthly body of flesh and bone. And even though I want to resist the desires of my flesh, I am sad to be losing some very important (to me!) parts of that flesh. You alone can turn my mourning into dancing; You can bring addition from what is taken away; joy from loss and grief. After all, I’m just a girl – and a flawed one at that – but You see me as so much more. You’ve adopted me, justified me, cleansed me, and turned me into a much-beloved Royal Daughter. You gave up SO much more on the cross than what I am reluctantly parting with – and You did so willingly and absolutely! Thank you for turning me into a Princess the moment I chose You, despite what You know about me. For you have known me from my mother’s womb, even before the foundations of the earth. Still my fast-beating heart, Lord, and help me keep my focus on You. Amen and amen.
You’ll notice I don’t write about Jesus very much anymore. We’re not on the outs, we’re just taking a breather. 9/2021
You’re hurting me.
YOU’RE HURTING ME‼️
WHY are you doing this?
What did I ever do to you?
I’ll do anything; please stop.
FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, JUST STOP!
Okay, I guess I must deserve it
I was never very good at all
I probably deserve this 🥲
Could you just kill me?
I’m already dead.
Please bury me.
Tell my Mom.
Why do WOMEN:
- [ ] Spend a small fortune on cosmetics, camouflaging our natural beauty?
- [ ] Spend a large fortune on gyms, diets, and whatever undergarments are necessary so that we can tolerate looking at ourselves in the mirror?
- [ ] Get big brown caterpillars tattooed onto our eyebrows?
- [ ] Wear false eyelashes (including the magnetic type which literally burns our eyeballs?)
- [ ] Inject Botulinum Toxin into our faces to “blur” the wrinkles?
- [ ] Inject Dermal fillers to “plump back up” the natural baby fat we’ve lost in our cheeks and our lips?
- [ ] Pay for professional facials, microdermabrasion treatments, laser skin refinement, eyebrow lifts, breast implants, tummy tucks, and other forms of cosmetic enhancement?
- [ ] Spend up to $100 per month getting hair removed from the places deemed “un-hair-worthy” in 2021?
- [ ] Think we need, purchase books about, and then relentlessly execute vagina-tightening and/or vagina-loosening exercises, depending on the way we personally feel insufficient (and by aged 54, we only have two options: the droopy post-childbirth vagina and the dried-up, post-menopausal vagina: if I’ve failed to consider a third option, by all means please do let me know below).
- [ ] Suffer the indignity of the stirrups in middle age to get prescriptions for hormones we no longer produce, some of which can be very dangerous to us, in order to be “as feminine as possible”?
- [ ] Get therapy to process our issues because the last thing we ever want to do is to HURT SOMEONE ELSE?
- [ ] Immediately blame ourselves if anything goes wrong in one of our friendships or romantic relationships?
- [ ] NOT tell the whole world how smart we actually ARE? As in: all day long?
- [ ] Not say what we’re really thinking (example: “It actually scares me how much I’m dumbing myself down to be with you”)?
- [ ] Stick around in abusive, unfulfilling, unsatisfying, and/or unsupportive long-term relationships, all the while buying books like “How to Be Present for Your Partner’s Inner Child” and “How To Be Smoking Hot in The Bedroom”?
- [ ] Feel compelled to share our failures, catalogue our flaws, and admit to our shortcomings?
- [ ] Will gladly repeat that list of failures to us, lest we forget it,
- [ ] Won’t get therapy, and
- [ ] Won’t even consider getting a prescription for Viagra?
No wonder these new generations of women are going “Rogue Lesbian”: if you don’t have something to bring to the party, well… it’s a really boring party, okay? And I’m REALLY tired of pretending like it’s not and then blaming MYSELF for the fact that YOUR PARTY IS BORING!!
When I was a girl I wanted to play house.
I thought of the day I’d be mother and spouse.
I’d picked out the names of my children with care.
I had it all planned out and no detail was spared.
So I must admit it was a surprise
When I hit my 30s with no eligible guys.
Then I came across Jeff at aged thirty-three,
I was sure he was the one God had chosen for me.
He came as a package with three very young daughters
I loved them at once; I soon was besotted.
The reverse situation however was tough:
They liked me somewhat, they liked me enough
But their passion for their mom trumped any feeling
Towards me and always left my heart a’reeling.
The only situation that I could see
Was to add my own baby to this family.
So this became our Priority Number One,
And oh, how I wanted to give Jeff a son!
Learning each time that I was with child
Gave me great joy and an indelible smile.
But even though God said to multiply
Each baby in Me was unable to survive.
I lost my three babies before they developed.
The grief of their leaving completely enveloped
Me, so broken, so full of despair:
I carried a burden that Jeff didn’t share.
We moved to high-tech, it was fully insured.
Needles, injections, and hormones to endure.
And “beautiful embryos” all said that we made.
The problem, again, they weren’t able to stay.
My womb I was sure was completely defective,
We then found ourselves a conception detective.
Four surgeries I underwent to improve
Our chances of adding to the Wilson Brood.
At this point in time I thought of all options.
I seriously thought our hopes lay in adoption.
With sadness I learned Jeff rejected this way:
“It costs too much money,” is all he would say.
This final misfortune - it caused me to break;
Deep down inside me lived constant heartache.
Then cancer thrust nail through the motherhood coffin,
Forcing me to give up what I’d wished for so often.
The dream I had nurtured above any other:
The dream that one day I’d be somebody’s mother.
Where were you when Death was standing over me, holding my life in His hands?
Where were you when I pulled the car I was driving over to vomit up the chemotherapy I had just been infused with through a device inserted under the skin into a vein leading directly to my heart?
All thirteen times?
Where were you when cold hands directed my torso into precise locations underneath terrifyingly large machines that emitted radioactive beams into my body?
All thirty-three times?
Where were you when I was so crippled by pain, I actually lost consciousness?
Where were you when I had all of my reproductive organs removed the week I turned 40, plunging me into overnight menopause?
Where were you when I had to measure the hourly output of three drains sewn into my body after an 8-hour surgery to remove both of my breasts because of a second occurrence of breast cancer when I was a 45 year-old divorcee?
Where were you when I miscarried a perfectly beautiful baby, not a piece of tissue, onto the tile of my bathroom floor; with no alternative but to flush it down the toilet?
Where were you when I spent 4 days in the cardiac ICU because my organs were shutting down; Death showing up again just to toy with me?
Where were you when I was betrayed; abandoned and alone; heartbroken; lost; torn to shreds by the ruthlessness and relentlessness of grief?
Were you by my side?
Did you SEE how I suffered?
I didn’t think so.
Yet somehow you feel qualified to judge how I survived.
The “How” is none of your business.
You should be happy “That” I survived at all.
Many far better than I did not.
You may see me as Damaged Goods.
But let me tell you something:
I’m a SURVIVOR and I will never be ashamed of my scars or my wounds or my choices.
They are mine and no one else’s, and if you do not like them, please see yourself out.
For those of you who were present AND supportive for ANY of the above, thank you from the absolute core of my heart. I love you dearly. ❤️🩹