I think the yearning for romantic love is all about wanting… hoping… to the point of desperation… for a “perfect” person to somehow complete “imperfect” us.
It’s total bullshit.
I think the yearning for romantic love is all about wanting… hoping… to the point of desperation… for a “perfect” person to somehow complete “imperfect” us.
It’s total bullshit.
Why does my heart bleed for teenagers when I never had any of my own? I try to give them (probably misguided) advice – see my reply to a young girl’s comment. I know: wisdom from the woman known as Karaoke Konnection on YouTube. It’s laughable.
Then, please tell me if it’s misguided. Because I really need to know. It’s profoundly, remarkably, achingly important to me that my words never damage these young people. I want them to excel and to thrive and to keep Humanity alive!
More than anything…
I’m 54, and I feel like you’re telling my story. I know it feels like your father has betrayed all of you (because he did) and everything that once seemed so certain now seems terribly uncertain. And you don’t even get to be mad because you’re being such a little adult, keeping up your end of the deal, while the adults are abandoning their roles as if they never existed in the first place. I’m so sorry that the pressure has fallen on you during this time. My only advice for all of you teenagers who are hurting now is:
Please never bury the real and unique you that burns inside. You know your dreams and your passions and your heart in a way no other person does. Your circumstances will change frequently throughout your life, but your essence, your personhood, won’t. Please don’t EVER bury yourselves so much in your efforts to make others happy that you extinguish the beautiful flame that burns in each one of you❣️
P.S. Tell your parents a lady older than them said so‼️
I thought my traumas aged me.
All the childhood crap, the losing of all my pregnancies, the searing betrayals, the fights with death and disease, the ongoing fights with death and disease, and the psychological fallout from all of the above.
Yada, yada, yada.
But no: nothing ages a person like wearing her (or his) heart completely exposed and unprotected on the prosaic sleeve; aware of the devastating effects of every tiny particle of dust and vaporous breeze that touches and then and has no choice but to scar it.
At which point you’re trying to fly low behind the radar, attempting to allude Cosmic Scrutiny and trying hard not to attract more pain than is unsurvivable.
Multiplied by the number of children you have.
That’s the Crucible that turns Ordinary Sitizens into Old Souls.
“I frigging love this❣️ I don’t know why we insist on only using “lovely” and “lavish” language in poetry. Poetry should reflect life, an observation you and only you are equipped to make. So if I didn’t already say it: I love it!”
This was the comment I made on the poem Your Design by Kait King. I’m linking it, not because I have any exposure to offer Kait [she’s a professional, and I’m not], but because I obviously like what she wrote. I can guarantee you that if you like anything I’ve written, you’ll feel the taut determination of justice in this piece. It’s also important for you to read it for us to move forward. So please, 30 seconds:
Okay, you’ve read it. I want to link a poem I wrote about a murdered child after binge-watching true crime videos on YouTube. Please do me the honor of reading it. I believe it honors predated children by shining a light on their predators. And again, it’s necessary to proceed with this.
I know: it’s not a light read. I didn’t know it at the time, but I’m starting to realize that my more imaginative writings have a way of amplifying my inner voice. I don’t know if that requires elaboration (which is a bad sign at this point), but I’ll try:
The week I wrote that poem, my first-ever (of 2) based on lyrical patterns in songs I particularly like, I was thinking a lot about the time I was “sexually molested” (I don’t even know the term for it anymore) as a 6-year-old in a K-Mart in Atlanta, Georgia.
Those were different times and I don’t blame my mom that this happened. She didn’t even know about it until I told her years later. It was during the summer, and every time we went to the store, my mom had to “struggle” all five of us “summer siblings” into an impossibly-small car. Seriously, there were no Tahoes in the ‘70s! I don’t even know how we got to the store in the first place, I just…don’t. I only know that as soon as the car officially came to a stop, children and adults had dispersed and were on their ways to their own favorite dark corners of the store.
Of course, I was the child who made a bee-line for the Toy Section…because that’s where the Barbies were. And I adored Barbie, Skipper, PJ, Ken, and their “Malibu” cousins. All I wanted whenever I had a birthday was a Barbie. And if I didn’t have enough birthday money saved, I’d buy barbies clothes instead. I had a large vinyl box that held all of my barbies and all of their clothes and accessories. I had a mental inventory of every single item in that box.
So I didn’t see the old man near the toy section until I was next to him, separated by an aisle that was about 3 feet high (I’m not very good with height and depth perception). I just remember looking (up?) to see an old (because he’s bald, like my Grandaddy), nice (because again, he looks like my Grandaddy, and Grandaddy loves me) Man standing there.
Who looked DOWN at me and said “Come Here, Little Girl.”
He must need my help, because Grandaddy only ever tells me to do something in that mean kind of way if it’s an emergency. So he must need my help. And you’re not supposed to not mind your parents or grandparents, especially when you and your mommy and sister used to live with your grandparents. Since your Daddy didn’t live with you anymore.
Now you only know that your new Daddy Mike says it’s very important to mind grownups, and you’re a good girl. Maybe your older sister Stephanie isn’t, but you are.
So you go to help, and the nice old man tells you he has an emergency (good thing you listened!). He describes his emergency as this:
“I have a “pin” stuck in my [this is one thing I don’t remember: the term he used for it] __________,” but it really didn’t matter because he was busy demonstrating with what he was holding in his hand.
He said he needed me to help get the pin out.
I remember I sucked in my breath very quickly, because immediately I knew I was seeing something that I shouldn’t see.
And there wasn’t a “pin” in it, either.
That man, positioned right in front of the toy section, proceeded to shake his grown man’s penis in front of my little girl’s face. Why? Because he got a thrill from trying to crush the Innocence out of a
Well, guess what, Cocksucker (because I’m sure if you’re not dead, you’re professionally sucking cock in prison right now):
You’re a sick pedo fuck and you and the rest of your kind with your disgusting shriveled cocks can rot in your own level of hell for ten eternities, alone and with no one to keep you company but each other.
P.S. You didn’t succeed. I refused to let you steal my Innocence.
P.P.S. I know you sick pervs get off on reading shit like this, but as does Kait’s character in Your Design, I want to expose you for the cowardly, crude, contaminated criminal you are.
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?
MY INTENTIONS HERE
I tend to censor myself on Facebook because, in my head, I’m certain “Everyone” thinks I’m having a nervous breakdown when I attempt to express myself creatively. Maybe it’s because my mother and I share 107 Facebook friends? Or because Family Members and many Friends Since 8th Grade are there?
It doesn’t really matter since the problem is my own.
To tackle it, about 3 months ago, I started expressing myself emotionally on a [Wordpress] blog and physically, through Karaoke, on my [YouTube] channel…of 20 wonderful followers❣️
Both have been anonymous enough for me to feel free to put words to (writing)- and then exorcise (publishing)- the vicious lies and hateful slurs I didn’t even realize I was telling myself. Since forever.
I’m incredibly grateful to these social media platforms for helping me to rediscover my voice. By providing me with therapeutic outlets for energy and conversations too long suppressed, they’ve served as my freedom fighters, rescuers, and liberators.
So please, Friends, here on Instagram (where I’m a total newbie): if you know me personally, know my family, or have known me a long time, don’t judge me by the words I write. Sharing openly and honestly is a life-preserving activity for me. If I don’t do it, my body makes cancer. And I really don’t want to die! For the first time in a long time, I want to stick around. I’m having so much fun, and I feel like I have cried enough. I’m getting really tired of these tears, my Friends❣️
Please extend me the benefit of the doubt and don’t make any assumptions from my words. Some of my angriest ones could be directed at a disease or a traumatic experience.
I want and need to be my most authentic self for what’s left of This Journey. Having gotten a taste of it, I want to actually BE Jennifer instead of play her on TV. I just can’t play the “role you never knew I was playing” anymore❣️
#socialmedia #selfexpression #honesty #transparency #authentic #authenticity #facebook #conversation #creativewriting #writerscommunity #writersofinstagram #womensupportingwomen #women #mentalhealth #breastcancer #traumahealing #vulnerability
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…
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)
Everybody knows Successful “Social Medians” must have an Instagram account! So this is MY story of MY 2021:
I grew up a conflicted people-pleaser, swapped back and forth between parents. I learned that the only way to be “seen” was to be “good” – because my older sister had already taken the role of “bad” and got yelled at for it. I’ve always been highly adaptable like that. I learned that the best way to feel the kind of love that felt good I probably needed to get good grades or say something clever first.
I was treated like a princess with my mom during her rare inter-husband periods and dismissed as too-sensitive by my much-more-financially-comfortable father. There were multiple marriages on both sides with lots of joinings and new family members and disjoining of families and family members. At a very minimum, I’d describe my childhood with one word: Goodbye.
You understand that the earlier this happens, the greater the psychological impact, right? The process began to me when I was 18 months old.
In my life, I’ve been the Heroine, the Victim, the Golden Girl, the Failure, the Loser, the Tragic Figure, the Cautionary Tale, as well as both Goldilocks and Cinderella.
This once “one in a million” girl has finally dropped down to a “one in one” girl, because I’m happy to just be myself. For the very first time in my whole entire life.
I’m actually happy to be:
If you’re dealing with a broken heart, I suggest this mini-manual (monograph, really). It is broken into several sections.
1. Cry a bunch of sloppy wet tears. Make sure to put Kleenex on your Amazon Subscribe & Save list. You’ll need them. And you might want to buy some extra mascara or false eyelashes; just in case your current supply gives out.
2. Listen to a bunch of Toni Braxton songs (loop “He Wasn’t Man Enough For Me”; it’ll make you feel better). At least it did me. I listened to it over and over again, along with lots of what my younger friends call “Emo” music, or something like that. No one’s ever been able to explain the actual time period that defines it, so I’m just going off my own personal understanding of “Emo Music” here. I think its Poster Child is Alanis Morisette. So that would be what, the ‘90s? Okay, enough about her.
3. Tell at least one person the whole ugly story, soup to nuts. You have to get that shame out of you, sister! It helps if you have a “help-you-bury-the-body-and-give you-an-alibi” friend like my friend Gina. Who I met on Bumble Friends of all places! Can you even believe that? I find these kinds of conversations often require a solid stomach with some greasy Mexican food and frozen margaritas coating it. That’s your stomach and the conversation: they’re both better with margaritas. Unless you have too many, and then you’ll have a hard time with tequila, and you definitely don’t need an adverse relationship with tequila if you’ve got a broken heart.
4. Try to go out with your oldest and dearest friends, but you might want to make some new ones, too. I’m just saying that “Sometimes new friends ask really good new questions.” And can provide a whole new outlook on you and your “situation.” They can also gently force you out of your comfort zone in brand new, buttery soft kid gloves. The kind that never ever go on sale at Macy’s. They just don’t, and neither does the crystal or china. I can understand why with the china because people are always getting married, but surely there’s an off season for gloves in San Antonio, Texas?!
5. Also, try to do something you haven’t done in a really long time. The activity should be something you used to do easily as a child or adolescent. This is to help you avoid too much over-thinking. And you know how easily we can do that when somebody dumps us! I personally have a tendency to sit around and obsess about what I did wrong, but I’m sure as shit getting sick of that song and dance (and you know how I love the combination of song and dance). Especially since I have been getting therapy every single week for the last two years, so I don’t think it’s all about me. But whatever. You can’t fix everybody. Okay, so we were trying to get you to stop overthinking by avoiding activities which require overthinking in the first place. It’s got to be something you can lose yourself in on a visceral level. Like riding a bike, going swimming, miming if that’s your thing and you’ve been doing it long enough that you can honestly say you’re on autopilot when you’re miming and NOT over-thinking it. In fact, shoot for an activity which requires no analytical thinking whatsoever. For me, this state is achieved through immersion in music; music I have loved forever as well as new [to me] music. And a teeny tiny little bit of marijuana in moderation, but I really do have PTSD, okay? So let’s go ahead and stay away from that topic: I’m most certainly not advocating lawlessness here! But Girlfriend, there isn’t a Heartbreak Alive without a soundtrack! And if yours doesn’t have one, you need to get one yesterday, so go ahead and sign up for Spotify now. Trust me: you’re going to need it. It’s only $10.81 per month and you can cancel at any time. You’ll also need a decent pair of earbuds if music is also going to be your “visceral thing” (a good soundtrack is a fluid concept, so you’ll need to be listening to it practically 24/7). Just remember to take the earbuds out before you shower or go to sleep, as I had two ENT appointments in as many months because those plastic ear cover thingies came off and got stuck deep down in my ear canal. Yikes! The same ear both times, because I always sleep on my left side. Isn’t that so gross? Not to mention it felt like the guy was poking an icepick into my ear both times to fish them back out. Not to mention, I even had to take antibiotics, I shit you not! But if YOU are willing to be responsible with your earbuds, you won’t need to spend more than $35.99 [in my humble opinion, okay, and this is just my opinion!] for a decent and relatively durable pair. Especially if you’re an Amazon Prime Member ($10.99/month). Plus, if you add an Audible membership ($16.99/month), the earbuds practically pay for themselves. Except for the fact the analogy doesn’t work because you’re getting nothing back, but Amazon ($0) always offers rebates and sales on earbuds, so that’s where I recommend you start. And REMEMBER: these are merely investments towards your recovery, so garbage-in/garbage-out❣️ Or is that FIFO vs. LIFO? I can never remember the difference.
6. Okay, we’re upping the ante and hitting our crescendo now, so buckle in, girls. Do one thing – just one tiny little thing – that you’ve never ever done before. Just to say you did. And to see what happens. For me it was Actually Going To A Bar By Myself. I’m 54 years old (I know I don’t look it), and I literally had to talk myself into it 4 times [out loud, that’s why I said “literally”] in my car before I was able to Walk. Through. That. Front. Door. I had to psych myself up for it like the worst session of arachnophobia de-sensitization training ever! But what’s really important is that I did it❣️ And guess which bar I chose for This Little Experiment? I chose the karaoke bar down the street. I chose it because it was [like I said] down the street, next to the sushi place I always go to (literally always because I’ve been there 25 times in 2 months), and the parking was and is extensive and “up close” (think 7-11 vs. Kroger). Which is important if you’ve shellacked your hair and makeup in preparation for your Terrifying New Adventure and you live in San Antonio (aka “Little Hades”), Texas. The windows were blacked out so I googled it first to make sure it wasn’t a “gentleman’s club” for my first-ever “Looking for Mr. Goodbar” experience. Yes, some people and a throuple-in-waiting gave off a weird vibe, but the female bartender made sure nobody slipped roofies into my drink. And the miracle of the whole night is that I had such a wonderful time! I got up for my virgin karaoke performance on my virgin “night to a bar by myself” and belted out, in my terrible voice, Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap by AC/DC. I found my muse in Karaoke and She is Me! A fellow female patron videotaped my performance, and I can tell you that empirically and undeniably, it is SOLID! Nothing like what I’m capable of now, but it was A Night of Two Firsts, so I couldn’t be prouder. Not to mention, I looked totally hot (or at least that’s what a grubby looking guy at the bar said).
<<put your finger to your tongue, get it slightly (just slightly!) wet, put it back up in the air, and make a sizzling sound; yes, that gesture>>.
7. Take solace in familiar comforts which have soothed your abrasions in the past (because those comfortable things are indeed comforting), but also:
8. Make the decision to spice up your heartbreak this go around. Be willing to switch things up a little bit. At the very least, be willing to just do one or two things differently. C’mon, let’s say it together: We can and will heal our hearts better/quicker/deeper this time❣️
If I were your Official Love Doctor (that’s an OLD, so you know I’m highly qualified), I’d write you a prescription for “Karaoke On an Off-Night”. Which is the perfect time to practice for an “On-Night.” And look: what started out as a new Guilty Pleasure for me has now turned into my very own YouTube channel called Karaoke Konnection with 15 captivate-ated subscribers to prove it! I like to go to MY “local karaoke place” as often as I’m able (anywhere from 0 to 2 nights per week) to video-capture both talented and artistic local Karaoke performances. I don’t know what differentiates the two, only that no one would mistake my karaoke performances for either one. But the Big Picture here is that now I’m starting to envision myself as the Restaurant Critic of the Karaoke Industry: the one who’s known for spotting the hidden gems. Kind of like social media’s version of American Idol. With me hosting❣️ My mission will be: To travel the world in search of the Best Karaoke Performances. I’m fully aware there’s a decent chance I’ll get picked up by the networks, but I know it probably isn’t likely. As in 100% guaranteed. But at the very least, I have a good reason to go to ALL karaoke bars by myself now❣️ And I make sure someone videotapes me when I get up there to conduct my performances. Then, as the channel’s Founder and Visionary, I get to bury my videos among the videos of the truly talented and artistic. Don’t let anybody tell you the company you keep isn’t important! At the end of the day, my last heartbreak just might be responsible for revolutionizing Global Popular Music. It’s an indisputable win for humanity❣️ And that makes me feel personally fulfilled in a whole new way. I know it can happen to you as well. Dreams really can come true at any age. ❤️
III. Q & A:
Question: You don’t think you ever stand up and sing in front of a room full of strangers.
Answer: “Where better to find out?”
Question: You’re worried you’ll make an complete and utter ass out of yourself.
Answer: “Where better to find out?”
IV. PARTING WORDS:
No one will care [too much] if your voice is horrible when you go out and do this New-Old Thing. Mine certainly is! In fact, I have objective proof that one Karaoke Jockey [referred to as a “K.J.” by those of us in the Biz] in particular always turns off the mic when it’s my turn to sing. And I don’t blame him! He’s working for tips, after all. And for me: it’s all about the “dancing and prancing in front of a crowd” [gerund] for me, anyway.
But regarding YOUR Passion Process To Be: continuing with our Karaoke metaphor (you didn’t realize it had become a metaphor yet because it hadn’t before now), don’t forget that you’re PAYing to PLAY the rock star in this fantasy, so why not maximize your investment?
Oh, wait, I do have one final piece of advice for you before you all head out to your local Karaoke bars tonight, all alone and by yourself: Don’t try to sing any of The Dark Child’s songs yourself because then you just will be making a total ass out of myself. I’d suggest avoiding songs by Beyoncé as well. Let’s start with the low-hanging fruit, shall we?
#DarkChild #LoveMeSomeToniBraxton #HeartsHeal #BabySteps #Don’tJudgeABookByIt’sCover #MoreStallsInWomens’Bathrooms! #MissSmartyHearts #MissLonelyPants #KaraokeKonnection
After binging on videos, audiobooks, and other digital media about All Things Enneagram, I’ve come to a few revelations about myself. And all I can say is: THANK GOD FOR MY TRAUMAS!!
1. I’m so charming and relatable and [was once so incredibly] accomplished
2. That I could easily become narcissistic, shallow and depraved, especially since I also
3. Look to others to provide me with my sense of self-worth, while still feeling like
4. A misunderstood and highly-individualized person, who can get tired of suppressing who I am for millions of years, to the extent that
5. If I become too unhealthy, I could turn into one of the most ruthless, depraved, and sadistic mass murderers the world has ever known.
Yeah, lite read.
So let’s all break out the bubbly that I’ve been so severely traumatized, my flesh and blood flayed and then bathed in acid, leaving only a skeletal husk to commemorate my existence.
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❣️
Exercises to Be Kind to Yourself, Even if You Sometimes Hate Yourself
1. Be Nice to Jennifer: think of yourself as your friend. Would you be so harsh to your friends?
2. Assume the Best Intentions: as you imagine the possible negative intentions of others towards you, force yourself to generate just as many positive or benign intentions, choose the one that provides you with the most peace and actively begin the work of believing it. Imagine it in practice: what things would look like if you believed this. Imagine the actions you would take if that best intention were true. Plus, why not give the benefit of the doubt to others’ intentonas? You certainly offer it to them?
3. Don’t Second-Guess Your Choices: remember that every single decision you’ve made (all the way down to turning right instead of left in 1998) has carried you through Survival As Of Today. All other outcomes of all other choices are uncertain. So though you might be The Walking Wounded, you’re still in The Game. And that’s not nothing❣️
4. More to come as I figure them out!
“I’m so thankful you recommended the Enneagram to me! I wrote this post on my blog 5 days ago:
Then I listened to the Enneagram-based Sleeping at Last songs on Spotify, and my reaction to the different “types” or “wings” was:
Atlas ONE: YES!!
Atlas TWO: sweet
Atlas THREE: yes
Atlas FOUR: sure
Atlas FIVE: all right already
Atlas SIX: umm hmmm
Atlas SEVEN: again
Atlas EIGHT: WHO’S BEEN READING MY ANONYMOUS BLOG POSTS AND STEALING MY MATERIAL!!?? I KNEW I SHOULD HAVE COPYRIGHTED IT!!Atlas NINE: who cares? I’m still feeling betrayed about #8!!
I’m also aware this is a relatively new position for me over the last year or so (after 53 years of unremitting Self-Flagellation). However, I can’t remember when I didn’t feel like I never got to have a childhood because I had to be such a Little Adult all the time!
I think it’s why I’m STILL so maddeningly self-critical about seeming puerile and immature NOW… at aged 54!!
Anyway, I damn well hope this didn’t wake you! I just wanted to get it down before I forgot it. You can shrink my head the next time we chat! Oh, and I also just heard that the 8s were the most “mentally unhealthy” of all Enneagram types! This on top of being a bleeding heart ENFP❣️
Oh well, FUCK THEM!! I adapt; I survive; rules change; I adapt again; I keep on surviving – like a cockroach!!
I Love you❣️”
P.S. Turns out I got this whole Enneagram thingy wrong despite my unwavering conviction that I got it right.
Anyway, turns out I’m a 4-3, with a little bit of all 9 numbers. Except for numbers 1 and 8. So much for knowing myself so-much-better after processing all these long-buried feelings on my blog! It appears I am as clueless as always about the goings-on in Jennifurrville (they never tell me a blooming thing!).
P.P.S. I really hate being such a deep, mysterious, complicated, alluring, complex, multi-layered woman with a gorgeous body Engraved by Life who always keeps you on your toes.
It’s a dirty job, filthy actually; but somebody has to do it❣️
I used to feel guilty about watching true crime stories on TV or listening to true crime podcasts. I think it came down to the idea I was receiving recreational entertainment from the suffering of others.
Then I had an epiphany that upended my views on the topic, and it’s this:
In society we honor the bravery of our survivors, but we do very little to honor the suffering of those who perished.
By the time we read the salacious headlines or hear the horrific details of a mass shooting, child abduction, or [violent, sadistic, evil; all redundant terms] murder, someone has already endured an agonizing death. Alone and Afraid.
I know it sounds weird but I honestly think it honors the victims’ memories when other people listen to how they suffered and feel an infinitesimal amount of their pain.
It’s the closest thing we can do now to holding their hands as they died then. It’s not a religious thing, it’s a “compassion for the victims and their families” thing.
So I never feel guilty for watching true crime shows: it helps me do my humanitarian duty to the souls who were forced to depart early.
#RIP, Heaven’s Favorites.
In spite of the fact I owe Spotify an apology and in fact am not the devil, I have been contemplating all things insanity and the ways it might manifest in later life. I started searching for an overview of the early warning signs over on YouTube (where I have been getting in fights lately!! Even instigating them!!)
Anyway, since I have A.D.D., I had to stop to get in a few good fights over on the true crime channels. Side note: I usually am the most vociferous judge of the “evil psychopaths” and poor innocent victims in every story. Wouldn’t they just love to know that the snarky bitch who calls herself “Karaoke Konnection” blabs about her own inner evil over in WordPressLand!!??
So again, I got sidetracked. Side note number two: why do I always get sidetracked?
Anyhoo, up pops my feed after my “cyber-altercations.” And I feel the Universe must be trying to get me away from all that Cosmic Aggression. Side note number three: it can get really toxic over there, people! You wouldn’t believe the bitchy people who will pick fights with you! But y’all would have been proud of me: I started protecting myself by refusing to allow anyone to ever draw first blood again. So I’m finally sticking up for myself against those cyber-bullies!
Where was I? Oh yes!! So like I felt The Man or The Force pull me out of that pit of vipers and return me to The Light.
By bringing my vision-distorted eyes to the videos about inner healing and, when I really need an ego boost, the Myers-Briggs and Personality Type videos. And the reason they’re all so personally gratifying is no matter when I take them, I always come out as THE COOLEST TYPE! It doesn’t matter which test it is, it literally is a Test I Cannot Fail, so strong is my charisma!
Yes, it can be a burden having to be so exceptionally charming all the time, but I’ve learned to live with it. As all good ENFP-T, Enneagram 4-3s must!
What can I say that isn’t said below? We are the unicorns of which I write and it’s our planet the rest of you inhabit! We just let you lease our space.
By the way, if y’all get directed over to YouTubeVille, tell ‘em Karaoke Konnection sent you. My people will keep an eye out for you.
I’m starting to get worried.
Most people have a mid-life crisis when they realize they’re eventually going to die. For me, it’s realizing I might actually live that’s throwing me for a loop.
It’s like I finally decided: WTH, I’m here, I might as well have some fun! But the way it’s showing up is very confusing and unfamiliar to me. Let me link my advocate video below for you, my beloved subscribers. Just watch this nice and sweet lady talk.
You can’t help but like her, right? She’s very “relatable” as they say. I hate her. She’s a judgmental bitch, but y’all still don’t believe me.
The problem is that the more and more I expose her, the darker what’s left seems to be getting.
Like I said, I think it’s about having some fun for a change, but I’m not sure that’s it. Instead, it might be about my questioning [and subsequent jettisoning] of the Rules I Have Lived by My Entire Life.
With expulsion of said rules, I’m no longer troubled by those pesky “trials of conscience” and “ethical dilemmas.”
No, I’m just sitting here with my dirty mind and the same determination I’ve used to stay alive the last 54 years. Which has not been insubstantial, let me assure you! We are talking about a Determination the likes of which you might not have witnessed up close and personal before.
So how did I go from an Ingenue to a Succubus in such a short period of time? How did I go from being so nice and sweet to wanting to mercilessly use you for my own selfish purposes and then break your shriveled little heart into a million tiny pieces? While I sit back and laugh hysterically…
Because let’s not forget: you didn’t lose any sleep over the tears you caused me.
Yet somehow it’s not pretty on ME, is it?
Me, a public figure and a viral social media sensation. Should I curb my recent appetites to maintain my reputation so that I can continue to advocate for other breast cancer survivors without a sullied path of discarded lovers to minimize my message?
Hell no! I told you I was no longer troubled by ethical dilemmas! That includes how many tears you’ll shed this time.
P.S. It’s 4 days later, and I haven’t been able to sleep since posting this. Mostly because I know I threatened to break the Cardinal and ONLY rule on Jennifurrville, and that’s to NEVER deliberately break another person’s heart. That’s akin to murder in my opinion, and I’m many things, but I’m not a murderer. Will you forgive me?
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.
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!!
Booking a private karaoke room so I can sing about 6 hours’ worth of songs in my shitty voice to ONE OTHER LIVING PERSON. And not freaking out if I cry in some of them. I’m talking about the kind of tears that come with some snot.
I know it will be hard to recover from the snot part, but should he find himself able:
It really bothers me that I can’t see the stars at night anymore. I used to see them every night when I parked my car in the driveway when I was a teenager in Atlanta, Georgia.
I just want to go see the stars in the sky again. That’s the key.
P.S. The Karaoke comes with lots of dancing. So there’s always that.
Thank you for listening to the conversations I’ve suppressed since Always (if not Before).
“Speaking” them here is the most lightening and emotionally levitating exercise I’ve ever experienced.
Each conversation I suppress has a funny way of refusing to be silenced. At least on the inside. However, when I convert these esoteric thought vapors into fully carved words brimming with consonants and vowels, something truly magical and miraculous happens to me.
It doesn’t even matter if anyone reads what I have to say. What’s important is that I’ve finally said it. And what’s so beautiful about it all is these whispers I never really heard but felt suddenly stop feeling so painful. And guttural. And harsh.
In fact, something dislodges a little bit as these words start being forced to enter my Prefrontal Cortex [GPS coordinates unknown; excuse my lapse in exactitude.]
I just needed to get this down. Once I’ve explored whatever it is I need to address – using different characters and scenarios along the way – the insights solidify and then Oilá! They blaze, clear, continue to percolate, morph and glom onto other insights, potentially resulting in complete shift in my worldview (at the moment, anyway). Sometimes it takes awhile to reach every cell in my body.
But once truth reaches every cell in my body, my body starts to heal itself. On the inside, outside, and in the invisible parts. This feels like all kinds of things, sometimes all at once. It can be a supreme peace in my spiritual core or a firework display of emotion. It can mine the detritus of my past and return to me with scaled and hidden gems that merely require a little rock tumbling in order to sparkle.
Wearing my new jewelry and exorcising those suppressed words feels like the emotional equivalent of wearing my softest pair of pajamas all day.
It’s a lightness I haven’t felt in so long, I almost don’t recognize it anymore. Bottom line: my headspace is turning into a much nicer neighborhood!
Of course, I knew all of the truth and some of the answers all along. I just didn’t know that I knew it, and I didn’t know what I didn’t know (a la “Jocari’s Window” for my philosophers).
So thank you from the deepest place in my bloody heart. Again and Again. Simply for being here. 🌹🍎🩸❤️
P.S. The photo is in merciless hi-def, but you guys deserve the “good stuff” from my Hidden Archives❣️