Too Light?

I cried and felt so terrible inside for so long.

One day, I finally stopped the [inner] crying. Now, I know what my brief bouts of tears are about.

My heaviness isn’t as heavy, but life seems to have turned into a giant Cosmic Joke that nobody else is in on. In fact, I’m starting to feel so light, I worry I could become untethered, like an accidentally-released helium balloon.

I’m not sure if this is a joy explosion or incipient madness.

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.

The Recipe for Disaster

You start with a perfectly decent heart and a perfectly decent mind and a perfectly decent body

And then…

your perfectly decent heart

and your perfectly decent mind

and your perfectly decent body

all

‼️BREAK‼️

Over…

And Over…

And Over…

Again.

And you wonder why I don’t take things seriously anymore?

Jennifer, The Multimedian

My Introductory Post on Instagram:

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

A Freak in the Sheets and a Lady in the Streets

Oh, I may look like a Republican senator’s wife. I’ll grant you that.

But appearances can be deceiving, can’t they?

Yes, it’s true: I’m a tall, skinny white chick.

But I’m a FREAK. In the absolute Best Way Possible.

Most men are intimidated and terrified by a Sexually Adventurous Woman. Well, I’m the version of that woman who will send you running for your life, in a raining puddle of little boy tears, frantically searching for your mama.

I can even BE your mama if you want or need me to.

I can be your teacher. I can be your student. I can be the blonde cheerleader you never got to sleep with but used to jerk off thinking about. I can be the fucking blue-haired organist at your Southern Baptist church.

I’ll call you Daddy and let you call me by the name of your teenaged daughter’s best friend.

(Tammy, am I right?)

And we haven’t even started on my bucket list of fantasies yet.

Eat Shit and Die, Motherfucker

Is that the trash from the bottom of my shoe talking again?

I’ve tried and tried to scrape your fifth off, but I guess I’ll finally have to burn these shoes.

Then I’ll order a brand new pair

at the absolute highest price possible, and

cover them in the ashes from the burned pair

until they’re completely ruined, and then

I’ll burn that pair, too.

Eat shit and die, Motherfucker.

I’d hate you if I cared.

“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.

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.

Tattoos and Proof of My Financial Responsibility (typos and all)

Example Number One:

Yes, I know I’m not supposed to use enumeration when there’s only one example, but why are you quibbling over something so silly?

Anyway, as I was saying,

Example Number One (which I feel is more than adequate, but whatever):

All these young kids spend a fortune these days in time, dollars, and pain to get tattoos which tell their stories on their bodies.

Well, I haven’t spent a dime on such frivolities (don’t you dare take away my magnetic eyelashes, though!)

Why? If you’d ever seen my body, you wouldn’t ask!

Wasn’t it that Vile John Mayer who ditched Poor Jennifer Anniston (anyone with that first name must be an angel!) that crooned “Your Body is a Wonderland?”

Well, my body looks like Hiroshima or Nagasaki circa early post-WW2. For starters, it starts (is that redundant?) with my boobs. Obviously! You can’t get a biopsy, lumpectomy, re-excision surgery, port placement surgery, port removal surgery, 12 infusions of the ball buster known as Taxol, 1 infusion of the other ball buster that goes by Adriamycin, aka “The Red Devil,” 33 radiation whatevers (which they didn’t tell me at the time totally shreds your skin), 3 reconstruction surgeries, a double mastectomy where they took out the old implants and put new ones under my pectoral muscles which later had to be “expanded” to stretch the skin on numerous unpleasant occasions because I was too skinny, and they also had to pull that muscle from back there by my shoulder blade around to the front so I’d have enough skin as well as put in “cadaver shelves” (honestly, I didn’t ask for the details), and then the final surgery 4 months later plus the nipple procedure that didn’t take and then the nipple tattoos…

I’ll be damned! I do so have tattoos!!

Anyway, I kind of forgot where I was going with this one. Write it off to the premature menopause I went through 14 years ago. That can really screw with your brain and bones, so no wonder my short-term memory is so bad, right?

Anyway, I was trying to say that my body is totally destroyed. I’m fully in agreement.

But it’s also totally badass! You could spend hours just counting my scars and hearing the stories behind them. They go all the way back to my age 3.

And I wouldn’t trade them for anything. They’re so fucking gorgeous I can hardly stand it❣️

Lucifer Rising

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?

I Don’t Have a Work Ethic

I don’t have a work ethic at all anymore. In fact, I often feel and behave like a 54-year-old adolescent.

But please remember this:

I came out of the womb responsible. I drove carpool 40 miles away as soon as I got my used car at 16, delivering two little girls to school safely and soundly every day.

I skipped 4th grade, graduated from college at 20 and graduate school at 24. I never missed a day of work unless I was violently ill.

After taking time off for frivolous things like trying to have a family and fighting cancer, nobody wanted to hire me anymore.

So remember this when you judge me (because you will):

I’m the big oak tree you had cut down 10 years ago because of a wicked case of oak blight.

Now you’re confounded by those strange green shoots growing out of the stump that’s me. The one with the roots that extend under your house?

Don’t write me off yet.

My Ideal Date: The Key to My Heart

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.

Let me introduce you to my ghost: her name is Desiree

Desiree was the most lovely soul you could ever meet! Her name was Desiree Dalton Cedillo, and she was from San Antonio, TX. She was incredibly beautiful on the outside, but she was beyond breathtaking on the inside. She radiated life and love and family (she was a much-beloved wife and wonderful mom to 3 young boys). She was a devoted Christian and she had an especially strong bond with her father. He absolutely adored her: you could tell from the Facebook photos he posted of the family in pink “Team Desiree” tee-shirts. His name is Brad Dalton.

I had the serendipitous cosmic luck to meet Desiree through my volunteering efforts with other breast cancer survivors. Of course, I was probably 15 years older than she was and was divorced with no kids, but her spirit was infectious. We were spreading awareness about early detection at a local community college in 2015 (I think). She was so genuine and authentic. We both told our stories that day, me after her. She came up to me and said, since I was a two-timer: “Wow, I thought I had been through a lot, but I had no idea.” Can you see why I loved her instantly? I was going through my second divorce at the time. I was about to become a Nobody to Nobody. She became my Facebook friend after photos of that day were posted and tagged. *File this detail away for now*

I kept up with her through some of these groups, but I was going through some challengers of a different kind for a period and lost touch with her.

The last time I checked on Desiree on Facebook, I found out she was dead. She was in her early 30s, how and when did this happen? How could this happen? How could GOD allow this to happen? I still don’t understand why Desiree and Sarah JP (a fellow 29-year-old volunteer, newly graduated nurse who I last knew had metastatic brain cancer) were now Dead? They are both in the photo from that day in 2015.

Every day, I look at my surroundings and I say to myself: would Desiree’s house look like this? No way! She was so organized!

Next I say: would Desiree be wallowing in pity like this? No way! She was a True Believer until the end.

Throughout the day, I say: would Desiree be lying in bed because she’s in pain? No way, she was much stronger than that! And she’d be running after her three little boys and preparing dinner for her husband and selling those vitamins she sold on Facebook. And doing things with her Dad and family who loved her so much.

If anyone knows Desiree’s dad, could you tell him I’m SO SORRY!! I wasn’t even trying to survive, I didn’t even care and I still don’t. I would trade my life for hers in an instant if it would bring her back to you. She was so wonderful❣️ Please, please, please forgive me for still being here when she’s not. It makes no sense to me, either.