For My Next Love

Is there room in my life for you?
Is there room in your life for me?
You know I don't come to you pristine, newly minted, or shiny and new.
I have felt hurt and caused hurt,
I have been broken by the random and the cruel - and by my own choices.
My body has been ravaged, charting atrocities visited on it by plague and progress.
Yet you love it - even desire it - all the same.
You don't love what I once was; you love me now, scars and all.
Of this much I am certain: where our lives intersect
There's a special space; a pocket of air, a sea of calm, a place of rest
That quickens the war-torn and restores its vigor.
You've fixed your circle on me:
Rounding out my sharp angles and smoothing the rough edges,
Like a balm against chafing.
Like sand against glass.
All without any intention of "fixing" me.
In answer to this gift, I will fight my baser self to love you back, with honor and devotion. I know myself; know this will surely be a struggle.
But I am committed to it.
And in the giving and receiving, I will be transformed into the beauty visible to your heart's eye.
Thank you. Bless you. I love you.

http://deeporshallowthoughts.blogspot.com/2014/07/for-my-new-husband.html

2014

What I’d Tell My 7-Year-Old Self

You are beautiful and worthy and perfect just as you are. Follow your heart and don’t lose your passion.
ALWAYS choose feeling over numbing, no matter how terrifying.

Don’t let your tears frighten you, Little One. They are a gift from God Himself.

These efforts will require more bravery than you can imagine or even comprehend right now.

SO LET’S MAKE A PACT:

YOU promise ME you’ll never give up, and I can promise YOU we’re going to be okay.

I’ve seen and lived our future: we survive, but it doesn’t turn out the way we planned.
I’m sorry about that.
I tried very hard, but I just wasn’t strong enough.
It’s called Failure.
Failure” happens when, as a Big Girl, you realize all of those happy, hopeful movies you made in your mind are never going to happen.
In that moment of Despair, when you notice your Dreams are slipping away,
LET THEM GO!!
Unfulfilled Dreams don’t hurt as much once you’ve learned to forget them.

Lastly, and this is what the dictionary calls a “cliché,”:

Life is SO short, Little One.

Every moment feels forever when you’re young.
Somewhere along the line, the pace picks up and Life starts playing in fast-forward.
Time attempts to escape our grasp, and we never have enough of it.
People often behave strangely when they recognize this truth.
I know us well enough by now that I can assure you we don’t deliberately treat others badly.
Instead, we’re more haunted by the risks and chances we DIDN’T take than by the poor choices we DID.

So please, I beg you:
STOP worrying about all the things you should, shouldn’t, could, couldn’t, can, can’t, will, won’t, or might do and…
JUST DO
❣️


PS. You’ll be DOing us both a huge existential favor
(try to remember to “Google” ‘existential” one day; I know you’ll find the topic interesting)

REPOST

Things to Always Remember

Journal from July, 2021

• I’m gifted and can’t lose my gifts.

• I’m physically beautiful, period.

• I’m worthy because I’m human – full stop.

• When I’m being hard on myself, I need to cease and desist and start describing myself as a friend. I must be NICE to her!

• Leaves on a Stream for 5-10 minutes.

• Breathe in colors and textures and life and breathe out rapacious, enveloping darkness.

• Engage by: how my body feels, what I hear around me, what I see around me. Focusing on the here and now and what’s in front of me.

• Practice mindfully doing things: I must do things I don’t like in a mindful way, do things I DO like in a mindful way (focus without “psychological smog” hijacking my mind and leeching my life of color), and practice doing everyday tasks mindfully.

Please don’t think I’m vain, you guys! I’d hate to think anyone thought that. This is my therapy I give to myself. I thought perhaps my notes from – and individual additions to – a few tricks I learned from Audible’s “Confidence Gap” book might make you feel better, too❣️

The Upcoming Anniversary of My Father’s Death

Journal 10/26/2021

The first anniversary of my father’s death is in 6 days, on 10/31/21.

It feels like all of the anger, shock, outrage, and righteous indignation have run their course. And now I just want to cry for a month straight.

About what we both missed as children. No one ever “mirrored” his emotions during his stoic West Texas childhood: how would he ever know to mirror mine?

How could he know that by silencing me, I never told anyone what I was truly feeling or what was truly happening?

It doesn’t change the fact that he left me alone to process a suite of emotions too complex for a small child to process on her own.

As a result, the arbiter of my worth was transferred from Me (worth self-motivated) to Whomever I Was With (worth tied to external approval).

My chaotic childhood turned me into a chameleon I often feared was dead and bone dry on the inside. I would now call that kind of person a “cypher.” Unfortunately, my emptiness isn’t easily filled. Some have tried, but none have succeeded (or stayed, for that matter). They never stay. I wish my emptiness was filled by a plain old human being, but it feels endless sometimes.

I already feel like I’ve cried enough. Isn’t 500+ months of crying enough?

Well, isn’t it?

For once, I honestly don’t know how I feel inside.

Torn? Conflicted? No.

Spent.

But still begging to be set free. Promising I’ll never tell. Pleading for my life.

Little Girl: You have nothing to say. Quit crying or I’ll give you something to cry about. And while we’re at it: you’re the most hopelessly unathletic AND the most self-centered person I’ve ever known. Look how you start every sentence with the word ‘I’” [insert ubiquitous eye roll of contempt].

You know what? I changed my mind.

YOU GO AHEAD AND STAY DEAD, Sweet Daddy.

Please just STAY IN HELL!

I beg you to leave me alone for a year – just a year!!

Please, could I have one last year?

It’s ALL I want left in this life: One Last Year of Freedom from Your Voice Before I Die.

I don’t give a DAMN about your money! All I want is for you to…

SHUT THE FUCK UP!!

My Introduction on a Discord group about being an ENFP

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?

We Live With a Homicidal Maniac

We Live With a Homicidal Maniac who desperately wants to kill all of the Jennifers under My Care. I’m a total crap parent, but I know how to play dirty. You don’t think I could plumb the depths of survivor guilt and child murder with a free-loving Inner Critic, do you?

I have seen the faces of Evil, Violence, Hatred, and Unspeakable Acts. They look like Me, and Their Voice criticizes Me all day, every day. The Voice and I are well-acquainted; fellow Ancients, “Old Souls”.

But We are both tiring of these millennia of dragon-slaying. I know I speak for both of Us when I say We’d really like to go on Vacation. Isn’t there ONE responsible Adult out there who’s willing to watch the Jennifers for a week or so? Hell, we’d be happy with a long weekend off at the Holiday Inn down the road!

Please check your calendars and get back to Us. If Nobody steps up, We’re going to send Our Inner Critic to terrorize Him. If Anybody offers, I promise You full immunity from Future Prosecution (it’ll look better on you than Botox, I swear!)

P.S. We know the above post was Juvenile, but we had an adrenalized day by noon-thirty, so we had to bleed. Our Inner Critic is momentarily appeased.

When the Heart-Soul Breaks

When the soul breaks, it tells us we’ve lost our missing puzzle piece – it’s human manifestation represents a unique shape – the ONLY shape which can return us to wholeness. We will reject people who don’t conform to the missing negative-electron-pull of that void into our Adult lives. This wound-activated expulsion of others doesn’t result in the relief we seek because it does so by what our brains are able to understand at the times when our heart was broken; at the young age we made those decisions. Puzzle Pattern Recognition at young ages doesn’t allow us to consider alternate shapes, other options all together. Since we’re closed off to these other mental paths and self-protective limitations, we stay trapped and enprisoned, jerked around by the terrifying cries from our inner Little Child – and trust me: she lives in you whether you believe it or not!

After a lifetime of consciously or subconsciously forcing other individuals to conform or leave, we die, lonely and alone.

If you want to avoid this fate, MY fate, you have to go back to the original wound, even if it isn’t a single traumatic experience. Expecting children to remember the specific events behind the heartbreaking emotions is unnecessary in my opinion. You know what first broke your heart. First and foremost, let me tell you I’m so very, very sorry that you suffered that way as a child. It wasn’t your fault, and it was wrong. I wish I could’ve comforted you then, and I know there are many decent adults out there who wish they could’ve as well. I’m sure if they heard your story, they would want to rush in and scoop you up, dry your tears, and listen as you told why you were sad or afraid. Afterwards, we’d try our very best to keep you safe from harm. If you were failed before, let’s try to heal it here and now.

You are loved, you are treasured, you are infinitely beautiful and huge-hearted. You are whole and perfect just as you are. You have individual worth and value. You are precious. You are a pearl beyond all price.

Surely you can understand we are not feeding an entitlement mentality if any human adult has never heard these words from another living soul. So you will have to be your own Another Living Soul.

In this role, you will be the Adult who then must unapologetically love, nurture, and re-parent Your Little Child to achieve the emotional stability you desire, require, and truly need to grow into the kind of Adult you want to be.

It may sound circular or ‘fluffy’, but it’s what is working for me. As long as you are seeking external solutions to this now-very concerning internal source of distress, you’ll never be free from the haunting of Your Little Child. You can INVITE the Guide, the Helper, the Guru, or even the Consultant to help, but you will always be the General Contractor for the job. No: make that the Owner Footing the Bill.

So spend your money well, do your research, document it, celebrate it, and don’t let Anyone or Anything deter your commitment, other than basic self-care. Remember: place the oxygen mask on Your Adult Self before you place it on Your Little Child.

My Devastation, 10/3/21

I don’t think I can adequately describe the devastation that results when an individual wakes up one morning to discover the Tightly-Held Beliefs She Has Clung To About Herself, Life, Humanity, and The Universe have departed. Packed up their party in hushed tones while she slept, in search of newer, fresher hearts upon which to prey.

In response and in desperation, she cuts and bleeds on the shards left behind, secretly praying for their return to her.

I don’t believe Humans are meant to survive this, though the Truly Unlucky often do.

I am sorry for bleeding on you. Writing is my own form of “cutting:”

I hurt, I bleed, I feel better.

The Exquisite Flame

Beauty was awareness and clarity
Insecurity, Trepidation, and Innocence.
It was wide-open spaces, full of promise
Daydreams and night dreams of That To Come
It was humanity and anxiety and blissful unawareness of the deeply-buried consciousness of Now
It was sleep from the touch of head-to-pillow to the alarm clock’s pre-dawn shriek
It was yesterday; and it was golden, and it was pure

And I didn’t even know.
I didn’t even know.

How I long for the fears of youth
And simple problems easily solved
I ache with the final passing of Thoughts-Future
That once roused me when I fell and propelled me forward,
Despite my child’s timidity that sought to hold me back
Time alone wasn’t the enemy, Nor the immersion in grief

Instead it was the consequence of a poor choice, seemingly therapeutic at the time

to bury,
to extinguish
that exquisite flame
which took me to the Sun
and dropped me back again.

Autum, 2016

Do I Know You?

Unlike other people on Facebook, I cannot share photos of my children and their children.

Because I could not have children.

I can only share my heart.

I write these words for the ONE PERSON who has felt my pain.

I want that ONE PERSON to know he or she is not alone.

I don’t care who I offend: my passion is for that ONE PERSON only.

That in the recognition of their pain in my expression of mine, our burdens are momentarily reduced. ❤️‍🔥

The Shape of Pain

No
Ow!
Stop
Hurts
Stop!!!
Please❣️
Why? ???
Please stop!
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.
Tell God?
Corpse
Stop
Bye
No
0

For the Decision-Makers:Why I Believe Marijuana Should Be Legal in the State of Texas (from a first-person perspective)

1. Smoking pot makes me want to turn each song on my Spotify favorites list into a Karaoke song I can actually visualize myself singing.
2. Smoking pot means I have Spotify in the first place. I didn’t listen to music for 20 years.
3. Smoking pot helps me to at least know what I’m crying about.
4. Smoking pot helps me to live in the moment, not in the thought bubbles analyzing what’s going on down below.
5. Smoking pot means that I laugh 25% as often as I cry (that’s an increase from 0%).
6. Smoking pot means I can feel pain in a tolerable way rather than numb it - and God knows we vilify “addicts” who need pain relief in this country. We treat them more like slugs than people.
7. Smoking pot brings the suppressed version of myself out to play and connect with other human beings again; before, I withdrew to shield myself from Life’s blows.
8. Smoking pot helps me to stop second-guessing myself every second of every day; it stops the onslaught of voices telling me to WATCH OUT!! To STAY SAFE or I’ll get hurt!! Again. Other people - even “loved ones” are dangerous. So is Fate, the Universe and God Himself. Smoking pot turns off that damned robot looping through my traumatized brain screaming DANGER, JENNIFER!! I don’t think most people have a clue how EXHAUSTING it is to live with PTSD.
9. And no, I don’t get a lot done, but it’s not by choice. Accumulated trauma and chronic pain had already leeched my vitality from me. At least now I see some meaning and purpose in what’s LEFT of my life. That’s good enough for me because I HAVE SUFFERED ENOUGH.
10. I don’t need your pity or pseudo-compassion, served up cold with an order of Judgment on the side. What I NEED is to not be arrested for engaging in acts of self-preservation.
11. I am willing to testify before the Texas legislature to put my story on official record, just like I did for the Medicaid for Breast and Cervical Cancer program and The Fertility Preservation Bill (which I really hope has become a law by now).

P.S. A special note for my fellow Christians: I love you and I am not “lost” or “deceived.” I haven’t lost my faith, but I did lose my hope and my self-compassion. So I’m still a “Christian,” just not a ‘Good Christian.”

Saving One’s Own Life

Pulling oneself up and out of the downward trajectory of death requires Enjoyment, Endurance, and Effort, all of which demand copious amounts of fuel.  Sometimes this fuel is mined from deeply-buried Anger or Rebellion.  Sometimes it’s sourced from unshed tears, forsaken dreams, and hopes  long-abandoned. Sometimes it looks irrational or immature.  Sometimes it involves rash decisions later cried over.  

A person actively involved in saving her own life might engage in “risky” behaviors like falling too quickly and deeply for the most inappropriate person, only to have him reject her exactly as she always knew he would, then she goes out and dances into the wee hours, starting the whole cycle all over again the following week. Her family might begin to pray for her in earnest or worry she’s having a mental breakdown. But she knows how important the Enjoyment component of the equation is, so she must persevere (Endurance) and FORCE herself to have fun. Does she remember what it feels like to laugh? From the belly? I’m sorry to inform her, but she’s going to have to invoke her Muscle Memory Rights and practice laughing and dancing again. If she has to have someone along for the ride, she could ask family or friends, but if she can’t, she needs to make some fucking new ones! Those negative influences are partially responsible for the reason her soul is now dying! She can’t afford to be too picky - she just needs someone along for the next adventure. She doesn’t have to get into a relationship with the person and should try to keep thing as lite as possible. Oh, she didn’t? Well, so what!? It’s HER life and HER choice. I just hope she’s kind to herself when she makes these “mistakes”. For the first time in decades, little shoots of green are sprouting up on the ancient and bent branches of her very old tree, and it’s a spectacular anomaly to behold; like the once-in-300-years neon flight of a Comet set into motion during Light Years Past.


The only forces powerful enough to bring back the downward trajectory at this point are of the everyday but lethal variety. They’re the murder weapons from a nearby toolbox: overthinking, over analyzing, shame, self-loathing, embarrassment, self-second-guessing, and unhealthy regret. Notice the emphasis on “over” and “self”: she must literally get OVER herself!! As in CLIMBING over herself to get away from the words Herself is telling Her.


Here is the advice I would share with Her:

“Never forget the beautiful, trusting, innocent 7-year-old child who still lives inside you. Would you say the same corrosive, damaging, and soul-crushing things to HER that you say to yourself? Would you deliberately clip her little-girl wings, binding/blinding/ confining/ paring down/and condemning her to a Life Lived In Miniature?
Of course you wouldn’t! Instead, you’d whisper into her ear over and over and over again that she is worthy, deserving, and capable of Love, Loving, and All Things Beautiful.

	

Thoughts on “True Crime” and “Mental Illness”

We’ve got to come up with some new terminology that separates our quirky recluses who’d never hurt a fly from the narcissistic psychopaths who embezzle from their friends and murder innocents.  “Mentally illl” has become an umbrella term that incorrectly groups sadistic individuals with housebound PTSD sufferers, agoraphobics, young girls with teenaged eating disorders, and people who cut themselves to relieve SELF-imposed shame.  Those that hurt nobody at all- and even those that hurt only themselves - at least deserve their own term.  I don’t know what it is, but it’s an important distinction society needs to make.  Because people who enjoy violence but feel no remorse ARE dangerous and DO need to be called something.  If we don’t have an accurate term for them, how will we warn and protect our children with information?

As someone who has experienced depression in response to an onslaught of devastating and traumatic events I did not choose, I’m sick to death of everyone acting like “mental illness” is a dirty little secret. Maybe it wouldn’t be if the term didn’t also include said violent psychopaths? Just a thought for the mental health experts.

Divorce Poem (amalgamated)

It grieves me to think that alone I’ll always be, 
No partner by my side to share and to see,
The treasures life provides, for I’ve driven you away
Since love comes and goes, but never does it stay.
At the start, you were captured, besotted as was I,
But you left me in tatters when you fled in the night.
What was it that I did that made you lose all those feelings,
So warm and so true, I was sure my heart was healing?
I will concede I often needed time for myself
To reflect on my thoughts and keep strong my mental health.
We often blamed and blazed and said words to each other
That should’ve never been voiced; that should’ve never been uttered.
I feel that those words, the ones spoken just by me
Were born from a fear that you’d leave eventually.
As we lived our days together, I reeled from your abuse,
My motives always questioned, my intentions oft’ accused.
In the eye of my mind, I labeled you a bully,
My heart always hurt and my soul felt so sullied.
As bullies often do, you pushed and you pressed:
You wanted me to speak of the Wounds I had dressed,
So you ripped off the bandage and my Wound, unconfined,
Grew big/bigger/biggest, for it soon multiplied.
Like an insect just released from a taut, forced enclosure,
You subjected where I bled to the Light’s harsh exposure.
Soon the pain of the Burn and the Searing of the Light
Birthed in me both an urgent and compelling need for Flight.
At the time, I was bound, so I stilled and I froze
And dislodged inner terror which broke free and arose.
With our problems brightly lit, Trust failed its test.
As Anger swapped with Laughter, and insults replaced jest.
I felt only judgment in the planes of your face,
Signaling contempt as love was displaced.
This soon sparked to life an old familiar Shame,
And changed you to a stranger who just bore my lover’s name.
In hindsight I’m aware you weren’t the sole perpetrator;
My disgrace a group effort and you merely just one traitor
On the list, oh so long, of the many I’d entrusted
With an open, bleeding heart, returned to me encrusted
Riddled with disease of hopes dashed and vows broken
You condemned me to live where Love wasn’t spoken.
To conclude I’ll admit that YOU rejected ME,
But I don’t give a damn, because at last I’m finally free!

Little Souls

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?

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.
Effective immediately.

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. ❤️‍🩹