Author: women who think too much

Spirit Whispers 6

Dear Jesus,
I lift this ball of pain up to you. Please hold it for me. I am weary and you are strong. I know it is mine and I must deal with it, but please just hold it for a little while and let my soul rest.
I was praying this prayer last night because the pain all seemed more than I could bear, and I know I can’t bury it anymore.
I envisioned my hands lifting the orange, fiery ball of my pain up to him and him taking it from my hands.
Felt the rage and the pain in the ball like it was just happening, huge amounts at first, tried to squeeze it back down, but couldn’t.
Chest pounding. adrenaline racing, anger sizzling.
Shocked at the depth of the feelings.
They were as strong as the night I tried to kill myself, thirty years ago, and then as he reached down to take the ball of pain, I felt what I can only describe as a wash of relief and happiness over my entire body. The kind of joy you only feel a few times in your life, like when your first baby is placed in your arms, but it was even stronger.
And I knew it was the Holy Spirit and I started to giggle out loud and smile.
He is holding my pain for me for right now, and I feel that he will give it back to me in pieces that I can handle.
I know I will heal now, and it is the first glimmer I have had of healing.

So, it has been a couple weeks since I prayed that prayer and lifted my pain up to Jesus. Last night, I realized that I was holding on to the ball of pain again, so I envisioned lifting the ball up to him, but this time I let it go much easier and instantly, my entire body relaxed and I felt relief and peace.
I have decided to let him keep it because I can’t let go if I’m still holding on.

Memorial To A Worm

What kind of a person
paints over a helpless worm?
How long could it have taken
to throw it back into the yard?
Painted to the wall with
no way to pull its tiny, body free
smothered in the paint.
What kind of person gets upset
over the murder of a worm?
Me.
Me and this grasshopper.
He came to the memorial
But he couldn’t stay long.

My Son

JMG, 2009

(# 1 SHE Saga) She Wants What She Wants

She won’t leave me alone.
We talk and we talk for hours, going in circles. I explain to her why she can’t have what she wants. I think she understands, and I tell her that I am done, that we are done talking about it.
She sniffles and she walks away.
Not five minutes later, she’s back and she wants to talk about it again. She makes me want to bang my head into a wall until I can’t hear her anymore.
I don’t know what to do with her, how to silence her.
Sometimes, she won’t listen at all. She cries, she screams, she yells, and she demands her own way.
She wants what she wants and nothing I say will make her give up on it.
It’s not possible, I explain. We have tried your way. Over and over with the same pain filled results.
When she doesn’t convince me with her words, she sits there silently, tears pouring down her face.
I hate it when she cries, it breaks my heart.
But if I give her what she wants, it will kill me, I swear.
I don’t want to hurt her, I want to protect her, keep her safe, but she is so immature. Sometimes she acts like she’s two.
When she cries herself to sleep, I feel guilty, but I am also so relieved.
If she sleeps too long though, I get nervous. I make her a peanut butter and marshmallow sandwich and I wake her up. Big mistake, but I’m a slow learner.
We start all over again, going through the thousands of reasons why she can’t have what she wants.
I sit down and take a deep breath and try to understand her point of view.
I know she has valid reasons to not trust me. I have let her down so many times, times when I told her everything would be okay if we stuck to my plan.
All the times when I promised that I would take care of her and then I then I threw the plan away and ran back home, all the months when she suffered for nothing.
How can I convince her that this time is different when I’m following so many familiar patterns?
I feel the weariness in my soul. I’m so tired of fighting. Being strong isn’t easy.
She is a little girl in a woman’s body, and although I know her so well, I don’t know how to make her feel loved and safe.
Our boundaries overlap and I struggle to resist soothing her by giving in to her demands. I hurt when she hurts and it’s tough.
I’m always fighting her pain and her fears, while I’m struggling to be the grown-up.
I give her facts. She wants to live blindly. Screw the consequences. I give her reality. She wants the elusive happy ending. No matter the cost.
Yes. She’s spoiled and bratty. So very insecure. I haven’t done much to change that situation.
No matter how hard I try to resist, I always give in to her. Her anxiety is overwhelming, and it breaks through my barriers.
I can’t give in to her this time. I can’t do that roller coaster again. My feet are on the ground now and you couldn’t pay me to get back on that ride.
I’ve even tried locking her away so that I can think without hearing her voice, but my locks do not hold her for long.
I turn around from locking the door and there she stands.
I don’t know when she became so strong. Maybe, she was always stronger than me.
I don’t know how to make her understand that only one of us can make important decisions and that I’m the grown-up.
What’s sad is that she often makes a good point and I become confused.
“I love him, and he loves me! He takes care of me! He loves you too, but you keep pushing him away. You’re ruining everything!”
How much do I need to spend on therapy before she learns?
I end up screaming at her. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.
I want to slap her right across the face. She frustrates the h*** out of me. I should have left her behind a long time ago, but how do you let your little girl go? Especially when she is so helpless and needy. She won’t survive out there.
Some days, like today, she totally runs me ragged, and I sit, and I cry. Just like she does.
I lay on my bed, wanting more than anything to shut down and go to sleep.
No. I can’t do this.
As I get up, my arms are clenched around my body like a straight jacket, trying to hold the pain inside.
I go outside without my phone because I’m afraid I’ll call him and tell him how she feels.
The angels in the wind whisper to me, “You’re going to be okay, just let go, raise your hands to the Father. He will hold your hurt if you let him.”
Slowly, I release the grip I have on my ribs, and I lift my arms to Jesus. I give it all to him.
He is my only hope; I would be lost without him. He reaches down and he takes the little girl from my hands. I hope he sits her on my mother’s lap.
Thank you, angels, for reminding me, he can, and he will, but only if I let go.

(#2 SHE Saga) She’s Back

(#3 SHE Saga) What are we gonna do?

(#4 SHE Saga) Thirty Days

(#5 SHE Saga) She Forced Me Out Of Bed

(#6 SHE Saga) Dad Is Dead

(# 7 SHE Saga) Let Freedom Ring

(#8 SHE Saga) That Was In The Past

(#9 SHE Saga) Big Girls

( #10 SHE Saga) Let It Go, Let It Go

I Cannot Sleep. The Cats Are Crying.

women who think too much's avatarWomen Who Think Too Much by Jeanne Marie


On my garage stoop the cats are gathered
crying into the damp, dark mist that rises before dawn.
Sitting in a circle, they howl and whine and mew
like old women with a dilemma to ponder anew.
Another stray arrives but softly cries outside the circle
whimpering as he pleads for admission to the klatch.
The cats howl and whine and mew among themselves
and one fat grey cat snarls his veto. He is out-voted.
The sitting cats become silent and look into each
other’s glowing eyes, then, as one, they turn
their sullen eyes to gaze upon the stranger.
Their silence is inviting so the tenderfoot softly
pads into the circle and sits submissive.
The conversation resumes.
Cold air turning warm breath into smoke and eerie whispers
forming smoky words which crawl into my veins, raising hairs,
fears that have no name, foundation for terror that blooms.
There are…

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Broken Shoulder, Crippled Girl…No More

women who think too much's avatarWomen Who Think Too Much by Jeanne Marie

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Broken shoulder, crippled girl. Always in pain, always aware of every muscle and every bone, every bump in the road, every slight movement which jars her shoulder.
I know her. She is safe, familiar and predictable. She is not who I was, but she is who I have become over the past ten years. It started so innocently, shoulder pain I couldn’t manage. Then, two botched shoulder surgeries, rotator cuff torn twice, arthritis, the shoulder of an old woman. A fall off a porch which completely tears the rotator cuff off the bone. The doctor’s assistant says, “Your arm is f—–and she does nothing. Orders no tests, has no solution. She says, “Why bother, we know it’s destroyed.”
Broken shoulder, crippled girl spends thousands as she visits three more doctors in three different states and they politely tell her that they can’t help her. Two more doctors in Florida. (Four states total.)

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Birds On A Wire

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“What do you think she is doing up so early?”
“I don’t know, but I heard her say that it’s Cole’s first day of school.”
“Who is Cole?”
“Her grandson, you dimwit. You hear her talk about him all the time.”
“You don’t gotta be rude! I forgot. It’s not like she has one grandkid. She has thirteen of them!”
“Why did she get up early for this day? Cole lives is in Oklahoma, right? It’s not like she can drive over to his house and take him to school.”
“Well, people are strange. I think she is going to travel to Oklahoma in spirit.”
“What is spirit travel?”
“From what I’ve heard her say, I think it’s when her body is in one place, but her heart and mind are in another place.”
“Wow! Is it like flying?”
“Sort of, but only her spirit of love flies, the body…

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Happy Father’s Day Dad, Where Ever You Are

women who think too much's avatarWomen Who Think Too Much by Jeanne Marie

my dad 2

FATHERS AND DAUGHTERS
PIECES OF THE PUZZLE

What type of man was your father when you were growing up? According to therapeutic folklore, every choice we make as women, every man we choose to love, stems from our relationship with our father. Whoa boy, if that’s true, then I’m in trouble! How about you? To all the daughters who had caring, nurturing and supportive fathers—congratulations!
To the other 95.9 % of my readers, keep reading.
Don’t get me wrong–I love my dad. I’m not quite sure why, but I think it’s probably quite simple–he’s my dad and I have been able to wring some sweetness from the most bitter of childhood memories even though Dad was a self-centered, angry, paranoid, schizophrenic, insane alcoholic.
He began going to A.A. when I was eleven but he continued to drink.
I was twenty-six and had been recovering from my own alcoholism for about…

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Spirit Whispers 5


Dear Jesus,
I’m like a dandelion in the wind. I’m blowing every which way.
I don’t know what I want or where I’m going or where I belong.
Whew.
That’s where you come in, Lord.
Please direct me, show me, give me a sign.
Do I hold still, do I move on,
do I keep floating like a wish in the wind?
Do I continue to let the gusts propel me?
Do I let serendipity decide what to do with me,
do I let luck choose where I will land?
I don’t want that anymore.
Lord, I want you to guide me. Guide me, direct me, show me.
Please, give me a sign I can’t ignore.
You may have noticed sweet Jesus, I don’t have a plan.
What is your plan for me, Lord?

Poetry from Grace, my mother.

Mom’s notes are like hugs she left behind…gracewrites003 (2)

The Hand That Rocks The Cradle…My college essay on motherhood, 1994

women who think too much's avatarWomen Who Think Too Much by Jeanne Marie

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Are you crazy? Not yet? Well, you can always try motherhood! It worked for me. Okay, so most women love babies. Women are attracted to babies due to a very basic, maternal instinct. Reason and logic are only slightly involved in this picture. The longing to have a baby is so strong in most women that those who can’t conceive are devastated. Babies are so precious, all soft and cuddly, and they’re even more adorable when they start to smile and coo.

Additionally, there’s no sweeter fragrance than the aroma a baby sends forth, fresh from his bath, swaddled in a Downy soft blanket. Combine that with the essence of Johnson’s baby powder and rare would be the woman whose hormones could resist the “maternal urge.” You visit your friend and her new baby one afternoon. When your husband comes through the door that evening you say, “Oh honey, I…

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Happy Mother’s Day!

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mothersday

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Happy Mother’s Day To My Mom, Grace Christine 1926-2009

women who think too much's avatarWomen Who Think Too Much by Jeanne Marie

I decided the best way for me to celebrate Mother’s Day is to share some of my mom’s writing. I used to write a newsletter and my mom contributed poems and articles on a regular basis. I love you, Mom, and I know that even though you are playing with the angels, you still watch over me. Love, Jeanne Marie

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A NOTE FROM GRACE
When my children were growing up and got into their “teenage problem” years, I’d become exasperated with them. I’d think, “They’re just like their father!” Then, one day the light dawned on me, (Marblehead) because after taking a hard, honest look at myself, I realized; they were just like me. The me I had suppressed and hidden deep inside, where no one else could see. I was as wild and rebellious as they, but I had put up a shield of adult perfection, striving to become…

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Trying to see the Pink…

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Trying to see the Pink…

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A Codependent Fairy Tale

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She changed after he died and God knows, she was strange enough before his death, but then he died and she melted into nothing, shuffling down the hallways clothed in someone else’s skin and we all realized that we were losing her and there was nothing to be done because we could see that her soul had fled with him into the death tunnel, even as her lungs continued to breathe and her blood continued to pump, even as she slept, as she walked, as she drew breath; yes, this woman in our mother’s body was now a stranger and even though we had all suspected that she still loved him as much as she hated him, we really didn’t know and we couldn’t have imagined the depth or the width of her self-imposed restraint and we never saw the chains that she had wrapped around her feelings, no, not…

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Notes from Mom

Notes from Mom, colors changed by time, but the love never fades. I love you Mom.

She used to…

jmg

She used to climb apple trees
with fearless abandon
never worried how she’d get down.
She used to run in fields of grass
without a care in the world.
She used to hide in the flowers
inhaling the nectar
never fearing a sting.
I’d like to invite that girl
to come out to play.
I’d like to reclaim her
travel the path back
to that courageous girl
she who once lived free.

I Must Go On

I must go on
Wake up
Drink coffee
Smoke a cigarette
Say words
Take a shower
Curl my hair
Do the dishes
Mop the floors
Fold the laundry
Weed the garden
Remember to breathe
Remember to eat
Fake a smile
Crush the memories
I must go on
Without you
Right?

2015

She Was

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She Was
The grief encompassed her soul until the elements of her former self were nothing.
Nothing.
Destiny squeezed her guts until she splattered all over the floor.
She was, she was, but now she isn’t, not anymore.
Wait.
Amidst the wreckage of her shattered, twisted dreams perchance a gem remains?
A shred of what was, a stair to climb on, a hand to reach beyond her agony,
clutching what still could be?
Carefully, small slivers extracted of what value they weren’t sure
held up to the light by white coats who thought they knew the cure,
the cure for secrets that had hammered her to her knees
events which paralyzed the frightened child she was before.
Men and women who only added their putrid slime to the illness
then when her hour was up they shoved her through the door.
That of course was just good business, nothing’s free,

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The Ants and The Housewife

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The ants were watching the housewife. Zoe, their Queen was dead. Boric acid and sugar. They had delivered it to their Queen in all innocence. Princess Zia was leading them, because without a leader they were helpless, but she was so young. She was trying to take her mother’s place but she hadn’t even begun training for her own nest when her mother died from the tainted sugar.

The ants waited, silent, deadly, hungry, watching the housewife, hoping she would release the grains of white sugar from the container that they couldn’t breach, the big white plastic gallon with the ant proof, tight blue cover. Then they could eat and regain their strength before the battle.

Oh yes, there would be a battle today.

They watched as she drank her coffee and started to pull down items from the food closet. They hated her. She had killed so many of…

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Dream Weaver 2

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adreamweaver

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Choices

women who think too much's avatarWomen Who Think Too Much by Jeanne Marie

She started to think about what she wanted to experience before she died and it went like this…she wanted to be made love to like he had never seen her before and she was the most precious thing in the world that he could ever touch or possess.
She wanted him to say her smile made his day and lit up his world.
She wanted him to hold her as he was sleeping, wrapped all around her and never letting go all night.
She wanted to dance around the bedroom with him at midnight. Dancing slow, to a country love song, held so tight she could barely breathe, dancing with the man she loved as he whispered, “I am so sorry, I didn’t know how much I loved you,” in her ear.
She wanted to be loved like that once more before she died.

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Why


Now that you’re 1200 miles away
everything I think about
when I picture you and me
none of it is real, it’s just a fading fantasy.
When I miss your arms around me
I’m not thinking about the fights
when I miss your kisses and I miss your smile
I’m not thinking about all the lonely nights.
I’m not thinking about when you laid beside me
in this very same bed, and I cried myself to sleep
and wished that I was dead.
I’m thinking about the good times
the times you held my hand,
the rare times when it all felt so right.
I’m dancing with you under the stars
a story living only inside my head.
Why does distance make the love
feel sweeter than it ever tasted?
Why does lonely recolor the pictures?
Why does absence rewrite the memories
hidden under this very same bed?

Let Me Go Easy

Please love, let me go easy
I’m already broken.
Already said all the mean words
A to Z, they’ve all been spoken.
No need to repeat
no need to fight.
I’m down for the count
I admit I’ve been beat.
Open your hands
with memories of love
and just let me go.
I’d stay if I could love you
or if you could love me
just as we are.
But, we can’t and we both know.
So, please open the door and
with gentleness, let me go.
I can’t do the anger and I can’t do the pain
I can’t stand still while we throw curses
slapping each other’s face with blame.
I can’t watch us die
as we stomp on each other’s heart.
Please love, let me go easy
I’m already broken.

 

Sometimes It’s Okay

women who think too much's avatarWomen Who Think Too Much by Jeanne Marie

She said, sometimes
it’s okay to just be okay.
She feels His strength
from her head to her toes.
He removes her shackles
and she drops her woes.
Minus the heavy chains
the wind kisses her hair.
Hope is unrestrained
deep breaths of cool air.
She said, sometimes
it’s okay to just be okay.

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