Posted in Notes TO Women Who Think Too Much

Mad Men & Crazy Women

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My sisters and I, we like to love Mad Men. Seriously.
We are Crazy Women.
The Mad Men we love are always mad at the world and we spend way too much valuable time trying to make them calm and happy…
We are old-fashioned, cooking and cleaning while working full-time, loving our man all night, kinda women.
It doesn’t help very much.
Turns out Mad Men don’t want the all night loving after they get you. They are too busy being Mad at you.
But Mad Men don’t always tell you when they’re Mad…they just make you pay in a million little ways and then tell you it’s your fault.
Can you say Gaslight?
The Mad Men think everything revolves around them and I’m being brutally honest here, we agree.
Splitting up is as common as Full Moons in our homes.
We certainly know how to leave, we just don’t know how to stay gone, so reuniting is also on our agendas fairly often.
Fight. Cry. Talk. Don’t talk. Pack. Leave. Talk every night for hours. Agree on a fresh start. Pack up. Go home. Unpack. Pack. Leave.
We put up with a bunch of bullshit, but luckily the Mad Men are all different, so our phone calls and visits never get boring.
We got rid of the Mad Men who hit many years ago. I give us credit for that.
However, there are thousands of ways to hurt another human being without hitting them.
We watched our mom maneuver this same road with our dad, a truly certifiable Mad Man, and we vowed that we’d never marry a man like him.
But we did.
We are not weak women.
We are strong, intelligent, creative, loving, caring, beautiful women.
But once we fall in love, we give of ourselves until we break and we will not accept defeat easily.
My dad begged my mom to leave him before he killed her in a drunken stupor, which he was working on every night, the killing and the stupor.
He would try to wrap the phone cord around her neck and strangle her while my twelve-year-old sister sat on Mom’s lap and stopped him.
My mother’s most famous words were, “Go to bed. your father is not going to kill (or hurt) anyone tonight.”
Our strongest model of reality and she told us we were safe when we were not safe.
Dad even stood over our beds with his hunting rifle now and then. Pondering killing us.
Reality has been confusing for us, at best.
As young girls, we all had a turn sleeping in front of Mom’s bedroom door trying to listen under the crack to see if she was still breathing.
If dad got quiet, she would say, “Go to bed, Ray.”
You would have thought she stuck a hot poker in his side because those words would spur the Mad Man on for another hour.
When I write it down and then read it back, it sounds insane and it was, but that was how we lived.
My dad would rant and rave until the sun came up and then we would all try to go to school and my mom would go to work…
It wasn’t hard to find a better man than my father, but I know for myself it took me a long time to realize that on a core level, I was recreating the dynamics of my childhood home and trying to make it come out right.
Four divorces between us, one of us married the same Mad Man twice, not naming any names, baby sister. I would have married mine twice too, but I never got brave enough to divorce him.
I did leave my Mad Man five times, six if you count spending a few nights (alone) crying in a motel. I think that counts.
Serious enough about not going back to buy my own place to live, twice.
I’m in the second place I bought right now, packing to go back home, again.
My sisters and I, we like to love Mad Men. Seriously.
We are Crazy Women.

Posted in Notes TO Women Who Think Too Much

Fuhgedia

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I have the beginning stages of Fuhgedia or as its also called on the street, Fuhgeddaboudit.
It’s a very peculiar illness and quite common in codependent women.
We go through life blocking out our daily experiences and feelings so well that we start to fuhged who we are and what we are doing, who you are and if you are related to us.
We don’t remember who we were before someone told us who we needed to be, what the desires of our heart really are and how we would like to wear our hair.
So you might have to tell me things more than once…things like the day my newest great-grand baby is due, your birthday, my birthday, what day of the week it is…stuff like that.
Otherwise, I’ll just fuhged about it.

Jeanne Marie, 2016

Posted in Notes TO Women Who Think Too Much

No Longer The Girl…

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I am no longer the girl you first touched, held, caressed and loved.
I am much older now. I know too much to play Cinderella to your Prince Charming, although I still love you.
I am no longer a girl at all.
The girl grew weary of childish games and a woman stands in her place.
I can’t play Tinkerbell to your Peter Pan, not anymore.
I am woman who knows what she wants most of the time and I definitely know what I don’t want, all of the time.
I have grown-up. Changed.
In some ways for the better and I’ll admit this, in some ways maybe not so better.
As I fight to make my own choices and live my life inside the confines of this codependent relationship, I am often frustrated and angry.
Sometimes, I feel as if I’m walking on floors of Jello surrounded by walls of melting wax.
The rules change as soon as I learn them.
Your truths are flexible and my reality rebels.
I don’t want to be you. I want to be me.
I want to relax and I want to enjoy my life.
I want you to love me, not direct me.
I want my flowers, my gardens, my children, my grandchildren, my great-grandchildren, my sisters, my pink friend, the Sun, the Stars, the Moon, the Sky, the Rain, the Snow, the Ocean, the cool breeze that gently blows as I sit on my porch and write…and you…
I simply want to get lost in my blessings.
I am no longer the girl you first touched, held, caressed and loved.
Posted in Notes TO Women Who Think Too Much

Taylor Swift Blank Spaces

Ten Questions About Blank Spaces
1. Love it?
2. Hate it?
3.A  Totally been there?
3.B  If so, hope to fill another Blank Space soon?
4. Done some of that?
5. Woke up in restraints with no memory of the night before?
6. Not admitting anything because you’re still on probation?
7. Married him?
8. Had his children?
9. OMG! None of the above?
10. OMG! All of the above?

Posted in Notes TO Women Who Think Too Much

Verbal Abuse I Say

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I cant be anyone but me.
I cant see anything
That I cant see
Until my eyes are opened
Then I can’t look away
When you call me a bitch
I want to move so far away
When you loudly call me
F—— pathetic in Denny’s
I eat my stack of pancakes
Covered in syrup and butter
Even though I want to run home
But home is where we live
So honestly, home is no better.
As I yearn to be alone
Syrup and tears
Taste familiar together.
Where is the woman
I thought I’d be?
Where is the man
I thought you were?
The perfect couple
They always said
But if this is love
I’d rather be dead.
You say it’s my fault
When you yell
Swear and scream.
I make you so mad
That’s why you’re
Being so mean.
Verbal abuse I tell you
No, it’s not you say
With a confident smirk
Your concious is clean.
So, when I’m gone
Will you look in the mirror
With only yourself
To be called a f——jerk?
The worst of it all
Since you ask, is
Becoming just like you
As I call you a f—— ass.
by Jeanne Marie

Posted in Notes TO Women Who Think Too Much

August Is Gone

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September 2012
August Is Gone
I thought about it. Maybe I’ll take the month of August off and go to a place where I can be alone and I can think for myself. Make my own decisions. My birthday was last week and I turned fifty-nine. How did I get from twenty-seven to fifty-nine so quickly?
Why did I not realize that not making a decision and sleeping my time away so that I wouldn’t think, was a decision in itself?
The days blur together and the months sneak past, quick as the black racer snake that lives in my garden, slithering by my feet as fast as a bubble can burst.
My bubble has burst many times, but I just waited among the shadows for another bubble to shelter me. There is always another bubble I think and there will always be another August, even though I know that all I have this is very minute. No, I let another August pass me by and I sit here wondering, how, why? What if this was my last and final August?
It seems like yesterday that I was diapering my babies and now, they are grown. My arms and my hands are empty and just as surely as my babies grew too large to hold in my arms, August is gone.