The Replacement Queen

My once “Lifetime Love” stole my whole identity,
And all the while, right there in front of me,
He dangled with pride his shiny new love
Who, he proclaimed, fit as snugly as a glove
On the hand of the fam’ly who now said I was too small.
After years of gifts aplenty, I had given them my all.
My fam’ly’s new adventures were no longer shared with me,
All access was cut off, and my presence sold as cheap.
I was barely out the door when the new Queen took my place
Taking on my name and usurping my old space.
With barren, empty pockets, I was banished from my home,
And told to hurry up so they could shine the new Queen’s Throne.
As this richer, clever Queen with great cunning took my place,
The nine years of my footprints were summarily erased.

2020, REPOST

Sexual Molestation at Your Local Neighborhood K-Mart

“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:

https://kaitkingthewriter.blog/2021/11/15/your-design/

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.

https://comewordplaywithme.com/2021/09/23/a-child-cries-unheard/

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

Little.

Tiny.

Baby.

Girl.

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.

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

“This is My Story and I’m Sticking to It”

by Just Jennifer

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:

Just Jennifer.

What the Enneagram has Taught ME About ME

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!!

Because:

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.

Daniel Day-Lewis and Other Writers

I want to ask a question of The Writers here on WordPress. I don’t qualify as one because I only play one on TV, and even that’s just over on my own YouTube Channel with only 15 concrete [but who knows how many potential and therefore relentlessly harassed!] subscribers. (?)

So my question is this (and I already know you’re going to catch me in multiple “grammar fails” throughout the duration of this, so I’m just gonna save us both some time by going ahead and copping to it):

When YOU write, do you prefer the dark to the light, the pain to the joy, the HEAVY to the LIGHT-AS-A-FEATHER? Because it all comes down to just being human, doesn’t it?

And what’s our alternative to THAT, even with all the “slings and arrows” that come with said territory? We can’t become dolphins, after all. And honestly we probably wouldn’t want to: it’s terrible what happens to them when they get tangled up in nets and the next thing they know, they’re all cut up and part of your tunafish sandwich. So think about that for 1 or 2 seconds!

#startingtomaybeunderstandthis”kharma”biznessbutnotsureI’mthereyet

Anyway, I ask all of this of you because lately – and at a not-young age – I’ve noticed that ditching my feelings of shame and [reasonable? unreasonable?] guilt by writing about them on my blog has led to some strange feelings of nearly-unbearable lightness.

In fact, for my younger writers, there’s actually a movie about that very same topic from the early ‘90s featuring a SMOKING HOT 🔥 Daniel-Day Lewis. His name is Tomás in the movie, and he WILL try your patience, I can assure you!

I’ve never really understood what the movie’s about, though. And I’ve even read the book predating the movie by Milan Kundera. A couple of hundred of times!

I think it’s about LIFE getting so bad for the characters that they become “lite” as a way to cope. Or that everyone responds that way when they’re exposed to seemingly-unsurvivable suffering. Like I said: I honestly can’t remember! I was probably just looking at Daniel Day-Lewis, anyway. 🤷🏼‍♀️

So anyway, my point is I don’t know what Your Muse looks like. As for me and Mine, we kind of feel like we’ve [maybe? possibly? hopefully? please?] just finished 15-20 years of all that pain. And all that “seemingly-unsurvivable suffering”. All the time, or as I’m fond of saying: 25/8/9,162.

So I just kind of feel like it’s finally my time to be Lite in all Matters of Mind, Body, Heart, Soul, and Spirit.

And I’m having so much fun I can hardly stand it❣️ There’s something very inspirational in The Unbearable Lightness of Being.

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❣️

How To Heal a Broken Heart or Soul (I think):

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!

The MBTI, DISC, Enneagram, OPT, and All Other Star Signs

My Text to Best Friend from Aged 12-High School, Uber-Qualified Therapist of 30+ Years, Fellow ENFP:

“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❣️

Lavish & Ravish Me (2019)

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.

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.

The Biggest Loser

First and foremost, I’m not looking to marry you, so PLEASE get over yourself.  
All I want is one last torrid, passionate love affair before I die - or at least while I can still enjoy it.

Should we meet, I won’t be auditioning for a role; I will be interviewing you for one.

I don’t really care if you think I’m beautiful. I’ve fought in many wars and have the scars to prove it. I happen to find them beautiful and unique (p.s. why aren’t we talking about your body here?).

I don’t need your help. C’mon, Dude, I’m a two-time breast cancer survivor. Do You honestly think I need your help??

I don’t need your money, I’m fine in that department, thank you very much.

I don’t need a supervisor, but I would enjoy spending time with (one or more) fellow travelers and/or adventurers.

I don’t need your advice, though I know you love to give it. I’m actually far more resourceful than you apparently think.

I’m not looking for Someone To Take Care of Me, thank you very much. I’ve pretty much done that my entire life. Do you honestly think I abandoned my sensibilities when I met you?

I never asked you to tell me I’m “an amazing woman” while breaking up with me by text. I only asked you to tell me over the phone. Was that really such an unreasonable request?

I never asked you to fix me. I only asked you to accept me as I am.
(Oh, and I almost completely forgot about this part and had to add it later)…
We are both broken people: if we haven’t made some horrible choices by this age, then we haven’t lived at all.

I never asked you to love me. I only asked for a temporary oasis; an emotionally safe place where Little Jennifer could occasionally come out and play. Loving her is all that matters to me, because she’s been hurt enough.

Last and most importantly, I NEVER asked you to pity me! I refuse to allow another human being to turn me into a victim again. So you go right ahead and pretend like WE never happened. I’m fulfilled by being alive enough to have made such a bad impression in the first place!

Let’s Change Topics Now and Take a Little Inventory of What I DO Have to Offer:

•I’ve got my own car and my own money.
•I’ve got a bucket list of sexual fantasies I’ve yet to fulfill.
•I’ve got an entire wardrobe of fluffy, frilly, and sexy lingerie.
•I’ve got a scary high IQ
•I have no small children, adolescent children, adult children, or grandchildren.
•I’ve got a dirty mind and
•Too much time on my hands.

So in the End,
Who was the Biggest Loser?

It’s hard being an ENFP in an ISTJ world.

Journal, 9/29/21

It’s hard being an ENFP in an ISTJ world.

In fact, I want to start my own planet and fill it with ENFPs (certain other types can always visit). On this planet, we measure time in cycles, stages, and “phases,” rather than in boring old linear order.

We also get to run this planet according to “ENFP Rules:”

No need for dusty legal books filled with obscure laws. Our Rules can be summed up as follows:

Be nice, follow your heart, love deeply, assume the best but prepare for the worst, sing Karaoke, and don’t EVER consider yourself better than anyone else.

Also, you MUST call if you EVER need my help. Of course I can’t promise to be available that far in advance, but I can and do promise I’ll get back to you just as soon as possible.

Nursery Rhymes & Fairy Tales

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall
And all the kings horses and all the kings men
Couldn’t put Humpty Dumpty together again.

We whisper these horrible words into the ears of small children. How hopeless Humpty Dumpty must have felt!

Next project: a brand new set of fairy tales about ordinary people doing extraordinary things. Let’s get poor victimized Cinderella some therapy and a new place to live. Let’s give Rapunzel a key to that wretched tower, a good haircut, and a new job where she’s appreciated. I guarantee one day she’ll know her own strength.

While we’re at it, Prince Charming needs a vacation and some hobbies. He’d probably cry tears of relief just to learn he doesn’t have to be charming all the time (I know I certainly would). And talk about a high-stress job?!?! Not only does he slay dragons all day, he’s on call all night should any of his damsels find themselves in distress. Or need rescuing. Or have a flat tire.

I know that I don’t want to lose our one and only Prince Charming to Adrenal Failure.

Your thoughts?

Crayonz & Skyscrapers

We live in a world of Ladders, Construction, and Skyscrapers.   
As such, we value striving, upward progression, and the brick-by-brick determination to build Something from Nothing.
Without complaining.
Ever.
We design a social system and infrastructure that reflects our collective values.
This includes laws, penalties, procedures, forms, filing, timelines, deadlines, highway lines, and grocery store lines.
Society reveres its Builders, Climbers, Implementors, Maintainers, and Worker Bees.
Language reflects our values, so we use phrases like:
Reaching the top
Climbing the ladder
Hitting the glass ceiling
Working his way up


Will there ever be an alternative world for the few who live their lives in non-linear cycles?
Will there ever be a time when we don’t judge the souls flailing and thrashing about under the weight of so much structure?
Will we ever truly value the Quirky and the Strange among us?
Will we ever see the Beauty in the stories of our Exquisite Oddballs?

These are the people who add color and contrast to the world. I, for one, don’t want to swap out my 43-inch technicolor plasma screen for an old black and white set.

The Attack on My Heart


My heart is an organ you seem to enjoy
Batting around, like a cat with its toy.
It’s been so very long since you took your love back,
My heart’s now a target for skillful attack
With such a zeal that it seems clear to me
These assaults must spur in you maniacal glee.
How did your feelings so easily flip,
Exchanging the truth for the lies on your lips?
Your professions of love are now shredded and torn,
While once full of beauty, they’re rancid with scorn.
Your poison-tipped barbs seem designed to confuse,
Perplex and provoke, berate and elude
That true Connection I swore that we shared.
Your once warm affection now has been pared,
Into a meanness of scratch, spit and bite;
Wielded by knife-words you‘ve sharpened with spite.
You seem to take pleasure in tripping me up,
Watching me fall and then ripping me up.
And though I know it’s not good for my mind,
The past is a movie I’m condemned to rewind.
All the while searching for the bits and the pieces
The clues to portend of your whims and caprices,
Or any indication the man I once adored
One day would treat me like a Ten Dollar Whore.