Tag: graditude

(#7 SHE Saga) Let Freedom Ring

She’s been quiet for a few days, so I was surprised when she whispered, “You know I still love him, right?”
“Yes, She. You remind me every day, several times per hour.”
“Well, what are you gonna do about it?”
“Nothing. I’m going to do nothing about it. I accept that you still love him. He’s been good to you and I understand why you trust him, and you don’t trust me. But that’s not my problem. It’s yours.”
“Wow. You have gotten hard and mean. You used to cry with me.”
“I’m not hard and mean, it just feels that way to you because I used to give in to you every day. I can’t do that anymore. I’m all cried out.”
“I can’t keep torturing myself with accepting unacceptable behavior. He knew what he was doing when he tore us apart this time, no doubt. Of course, I’m sure he didn’t know that it would be the last time. I don’t think that I even knew.”
“Why is it the last time?”
“She, do you remember last 4th of July? We had just moved in the new house. I dressed up in my red, white and blue to go to the block party. When it was time to go, I was already exhausted and couldn’t make myself walk out the door. He left with some neighbors and I could finally breathe again. We sat with the puppies and took pictures all afternoon, so happy to be free for a little bit.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Well, I’m sorry, She. I don’t want to feel trapped and exhausted all the time.”

(# 1 SHE Saga) SHE

(#6 SHE Saga) Dad Is Dead

She is acting up tonight. Granted we had a rough time last night, and an overly complicated day, but I really can’t handle her fears, on top of my own anxiety.
I whispered to her, “Behave, little one. Please.”
The day began with a phone call from my younger sister.
We have been looking for my dad, a mentally ill, homeless, alcoholic for over thirty years. Checking for at least a death certificate, looking for closure.
My sister has had contacts in the military looking for any information for over a year and today, on Dad’s birthday, she received the information.
Dad is dead. He died alone and homeless in 2000. Buried in a poverty grave by the military.
It hit me hard, even though I had felt that he was gone, I was never sure.
My sister has his Death Certificate and his military records, and we now know where he is buried. The military is even going to put a marker on his grave.
The inner child, She, is taking it much harder than me and while closure is a relief, it’s a rough time to throw more grief into our fragile infrastructure.
Right after I heard the news about my dad, I had an appointment with a local domestic violence shelter and showing up was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I can admit to my family and my friends, my readers and myself that I have suffered and accepted abuse but reaching out to total strangers for a support group has taken me almost a year.
I made the appointment the day before my house sold and I decided to go anyway, if only for an exercise in courage and to give them a copy of my book, Women Who Think Too Much. https://books2read.com/u/md0J5d
Well, they can’t give out their address, so they gave me a meet point and told me to call them when I arrived. I made it there ten minutes before my appointment and called them. No answer.
I started to panic, but I took a deep breath and I prayed. I managed to sit there for forty minutes, calling back every five minutes. Never got an answer.
I left there disappointed, but so proud that I had overcome the anxiety to show up. She even stayed calm, which was surprising. I think she was mourning Dad and wandering in her own little world.

(# 1 SHE Saga) SHE

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

She woke me up and forced me out of bed at 3:00 a.m. last night because she was screaming and yelling in her sleep, completely consumed by a full-blown panic attack.
I staggered out of bed, shaking from head to toe, trying to quiet her down at the same time, not an easy task. I unwisely added caffeine to the mix but for some reason, coffee makes me feel better. I paced the floor with my coffee cup for about an hour while I tried to figure out the fight or flight mode I was experiencing.
Yesterday I swapped cars with my daughter so that I could tow her smaller car when I bought an RV.
I know driving different cars triggers my anxiety, but I almost ran someone off the road the first day, because her car has blind spots.
Still, it was bigger than that and I realized I had gone against my best interest when I let myself be influenced by him toward buying an RV rather than a pull trailer and if I got rid of my car, I wouldn’t have a choice.
It’s always you need bigger, better until I am in over my head financially and I want to do it different this time.
All I want is a small pull trailer. Simple.
So, at 3:00 a.m. I wrote three or four texts to my daughter telling her that I was panicking, and I wanted to re-exchange cars. Thankfully she knows me, and she has a sense of humor. We swapped cars back the next day.

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.

Notes from Mom

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

Ice


by Grace Christine Doucette (My mom)

It’s cold in New England, ice is King
The flowers are sleeping, waiting for spring.
In my heart, memories are deep
Waiting for old promises to keep.
I planted seeds of love early in life
They’re not dead, buried by strife.
Just waiting for the big thaw when
I’ll see blossoms as never before.
The rose in a grandchild’s smile
The bloom in a hug that stretches a mile.
Yes, my seeds have sprung into life
And bloomed in my garden
Through all the icy strife.
Life goes on, it never will end
When you plant your seeds
In the heart’s of your children and friends.

Deadly Friend

A young girl picks up a drink
Her fear and pain melts away,
She found a magic cure
She found a best friend today.
She takes that friend with her
Where ever she has to be,
The friend gets her through,
But she’s no longer free.
Hiding her new friend from the rest
It’s true, somehow she always knows,
That this friend is dangerous
But caution, to the wind it goes.
Years slip by, and some begin to see
That she prefers this friend,
People criticize her drinking
And other friendships end.
The bottle becomes her center
It directs her every move,
But what once brought her relief
No longer seems to soothe.
The friend who helped her through
Now cripples, and blinds her sight,
Alone she drinks and she cries
Dreading tomorrow, hating tonight.
She gave up all her friends
To keep the brown liquid close,
Now she has lost them all
Betrayed by what she trusted most.
She reaches out to God
During a desperately lonely hour,
He sends her back His love
He fills her with His power.
She ends the deadly friendship
Stands strong and free again,
The black fog begins to lift, and
Sobriety is one fight, she does win.

Jeanne Marie, 1979

 

My Son

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A Good Wife

I am my own wife now and I’m finding out just how good I’m going to treat myself.
Am I going to be a good wife or a bad wife?
I didn’t start out very good. I almost starved to death.
I forgot to eat because there was no one to cook for and I didn’t have anybody asking me, what’s to eat, what’s for lunch, what’s for supper, do you want to go out to eat, do you want me to go get something?
I was in a food vacuum, food just didn’t exist.
What I noticed was my deodorant wasn’t working, so I changed brands several times and when that didn’t help, I started to do some research on Google to find out what strange illness I might have that was causing an odor deodorant couldn’t manage.
I found out that I wasn’t putting enough food into my body and that my body was burning muscle to survive. The odor was from being in a state of starvation. I was shocked. I knew I had to eat to live, but I didn’t know I could die from not eating enough.
I had been wasting away and I hadn’t even noticed.
I took off my clothes to take a look at my body and it wasn’t good. Skin and bones.
I couldn’t remember the last time I had been hungry. I had already lost too much weight before my husband and I separated and the scale reported that I’d dropped ten more pounds and I hadn’t even noticed.
I had been eating yogurt and an egg once or twice a week, a couple of spoonfuls of peanut butter every day, but my body was not happy and it wanted some real food.
I learned that once you are in the starvation mode, it gets dangerous. I had to start to eat slowly because starvation damages the heart and I could actually have a heart attack if I started to eat too quickly.
I went to the store and I bought more than just peanut butter, coffee, milk and dog food.
I searched for food that I used to like, so I could tempt myself to eat. I stood there crying because I could barely remember what I liked.
Just shopping for groceries was traumatic. I hadn’t shopped for groceries since my husband retired. We used to joke that he was the wife now and he said I could just write while he took care of cooking, shopping and helped with laundry.
It wasn’t really funny. I stopped shopping a few months after he retired because whatever I brought home wasn’t right, wrong brand, wrong price, wrong flavor. I stopped cooking because he would disagree with the what, the how, the why and the end result. I wasn’t even able to feed the dogs the way he wanted, and if I made my own coffee he would ask why I didn’t have him make it for me.
To some, it looked like I was a pampered princess, but I was actually removed from my kitchen. His at home-ness led to my retirement as a wife. He took over the bills, the kitchen, the shopping and the dogs and I allowed it. I gave up.
So I am my own wife now. It’s been five months, and I am treating myself much better, but it takes awareness and effort. I spoiled my husband and my kids forever, so I know how to do it, I just have to turn that love towards myself.
I started eating slowly. I started cooking for myself for the first time in years. Actual meals. My daughter and grandson come over for supper at least twice a week now and that motivates me to cook. I’ve only gained a pound, but I’m back to my favorite deodorant and it works.
The dogs are happy and well fed, so it turns out that I do know how to feed them. I haven’t cried at the grocery store lately, so I believe I am learning to be a good wife. To myself.

Till the Water Runs Cold

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Running naked in a field of tall grass
Lying alone on the beach with the sun aglow.
Watching my babies while they sleep
Searching for life’s meaning wherever I go.
In the bath, water like silk caresses my skin
A physical pleasure that’s unsurpassed.
Heaven on earth, you can touch your soul
Escaping the ordinary till the water runs cold.

The Most Beautiful Girl

I saved a Valentine’s Day rose from my son for twenty-odd years.
Then, when it fell apart, I still saved the petals with the card which read, “To the most beautiful girl I know, my mom.”
He was sixteen that day when he brought me a rose at work, handsome and a foot taller than me.
And very smart, because while my tears were still messing with my make-up, he hit me up for a loan to buy his girlfriend a dozen roses and I gave it to him with a smile and a hug…
I kinda knew I had been played, but his technique was awesome. He played it so smooth, almost a man.
He is forty now and I know I’m not the most beautiful girl in his world…two other awesome ladies were destined to share that spot and I love them.
Still, every time I come across the faded card, the sweet words and the dried-out petals…I smile.
I close my eyes and for just a moment, I soak in the memory of his surprise visit, back to the moment when to my son, I was the most beautiful girl he knew…

Thank You

Have I ever thanked you for all the nights
you sat on your cold bathroom floor
talking me into staying alive,
for praying me sober when I was lost in the swamp,
for holding me close when my heart was broken,
for standing by my side when everyone else
walked away because I was wrong?
Have I ever thanked you for never judging me,
for never giving up on me,
for seeing my beauty
when all I could see was my ugly,
for being my sister, my best friend,
my go-to person for every pain and every joy?
Have I ever thanked you for introducing me to Jesus,
for your powerful prayers
when my daughter was dead in the water,
for your face that she saw as she came up, alive?
God places angels in our lives, and you are mine.
I am me because you loved me through.
For embracing me, for accepting the mission
with all of your heart, my sister, I thank you.

Another Christmas for Grace

My dad was an alcoholic and Christmas was his favorite time of the year to tear up the house, a futile attempt to destroy my mother’s Christmas spirit.
He never succeeded with her, but he made me dread Christmas.
When I was a young mother, I didn’t really celebrate Christmas, not until the kids were toddlers and even then, I just went through the motions for them.
When I was twenty-seven, I got remarried to a man who made a big deal of Christmas.
Until our first Christmas together, I had never put up more than a 2′ ceramic tree, and only because my mom had special ordered it for me.
Our first year together, we put up a 6′ tree with all the trimmings and we surrounded it with presents.
The kids were so excited on Christmas morning and it was contagious.
From that point on, I grew to love Christmas and all that it meant to the kids.
My mom was so proud of me for overcoming my childhood Christmas phobias and soon, I had enough homemade decorations from my mother to cover an entire tree.
I used to love to send her pictures of the tree decorated with her ornaments.
I put up big trees until my youngest moved out, and then I still put up trees, just not as large.
As my kids had kids of their own, I split Mom’s decorations between them and I bought new decorations for me.
Every year, I would do a different theme, bouncing between girly and guy.
All miniature dolls and fairies one year and all Harley-Davidson decorations another year. Pink trees, white trees, purple trees, gold and green. Even a Palm tree one year.
Then, my mom, Grace, died in 2009.
I had a hard time again, but my sister, Cherie, talked me into putting up a tree just for my mom and she sent me butterflies and fairies to decorate it.
That was my first Christmas for Grace.
The next year, it. became a tradition, one tree for Mom, one for me.
Three years ago, my husband and I split up and although I put up a small tree for Mom, I didn’t really celebrate Christmas.
We got back together after seven months and we had two more nice Christmases together, but we separated again this fall, and now here I am, my second Christmas without him in thirty-eight years.
I really didn’t know how I was going to get through it.
I decided the first thing I needed to do was to buy a Christmas tree in a color I had never had before.
I resisted the urge to buy blue for a Blue Christmas, and before I could change my mind, I ordered a turquoise colored Christmas tree. That was in October.
It sat in the box for about a month, while I thought about it.
What would I put on it?
That’s when my sweet friend, Michelle Marie, came to the rescue. She called and offered me enough decorations to do my whole tree. When she brought them to me on Thanksgiving weekend, I was thrilled. They were so beautiful and unlike anything I had ever used before.
My kids came with their kids for Thanksgiving weekend and I asked the three youngest ones to decorate the tree.
Four-year old Mile Mae, got on her daddy’s shoulders to put the star on, and while the entire tree leans, including the star, it’s perfectly imperfect. It’s rather Grinch like, and that was my mom’s favorite movie.
After they were all gone, I brought out some of my little fairies, my mom’s butterflies and a few special ornaments. I added them to the tree. The tree lights are pink and at night, it changes the tree’s color and the walls around it glow.
So, although it is a sad Christmas for me in many ways, I have kept my Christmas spirit going, partly in honor of my mother who refused to let an insane alcoholic destroy her Christmas spirit and partly in honor of myself, because I deserve a happy and blessed Christmas, and yes, I am blessed.
I have fifteen grandkids and five great-grandchildren, a beautiful, warm home, food and everything I need.
I firmly believe Jesus is the reason for the season, but when your grandkids are small, it’s also about glitz and glitter and shiny presents and stockings filled to the brim, hugs and love, Oreo’s and milk, all waiting for them at Grammy’s house.
So this tree is for them, and for my mom, the woman who taught me that your Christmas will become whatever you choose to make it, and for my sister, who wouldn’t let me quit Christmas after my mom died.
Special thanks to Michelle Marie for the perfectly timed decorations and thank you Jesus, for another Christmas and another chance to make memories with my family and friends.

Christmas For Grace

 

 

Amen…

Amen…

Spirit Whispers 4

Hold still my child.
You’ve been running too much and you’ve been thinking too much.
Hold still. Just breathe.
What do you feel?
Do you feel me in the air you’re breathing?
Do you feel me in the soft breeze that’s kissing your face?
Do you hear me when the birds are singing to you?
Do you see me when the butterfly lands on your shoulder?
I’m all around you.
Hold still my child, feel my presence.

Jesus, all I know…

When the pain reaches a point
that I think I’ll explode if I let out one breath
what do I do?
Jesus, all I know is to give it to you.
When the pain builds up until
there is nothing else left
Jesus, all I know is to give it to you.

This moment…

This moment…

You are my sunshine…

You are my sunshine…

A Woman Who Thinks Too Much’s Family

My son and daughter-in-law received copies of my book, Women Who Think Too Much, yesterday and my grandson, Cole, called me last night.
He told me he was reading it and I asked him, “Are you old enough to read that?” and he said,  “Come on Grammy, do you know me? I’m very mature and I’ve been through a lot of stuff.”
I laughed. And cried.
He was so impressed with how professional the book looked and he loved the art. Thank you to my publisher, Michelle Marie, Creative Publishing for that accomplishment!
He went on and on about what an amazing, talented and creative writer I am.
Made me cry.
How incredible is that to hear that from your twelve-year-old grandson?
Then, he was reading me different parts of the book that he loved.
I am so blessed to have my family. Four kids, fifteen grand-kids and five great-grand-kids.

Women Who Think Too
A No Help At All Handbook
By Jeanne Marie

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Every Mile Mattered

I have decided to live every day like it is my first and my last and to not worry about all the years I spent spinning my wheels.
Because when you come down to it, it was all about life trying to teach me what really mattered, and every step I took mattered, right or wrong.
I just wish I wasn’t such a slow learner and that I had trusted myself more and feared less.

As I Go

I must leave pieces of myself behind
as I go and that used to frustrate me.
I wanted to gather up all the pieces
and take them with me
wherever I was going.
But I can’t gather up all the pieces
I already laid down…
I know because I have tried.
The flowers I planted
roses and lilacs and
daisies and sunflowers,
gathered with you by my side.
They must stay.
Even you cannot come with me this time.
I am giving you back your heart.
The raspberry bushes I have grown
the bed we sleep in…
I have to leave it all behind.
There is no other way.
As I prepare to leave the life
that I’ve poured my worth into
I realize I will be leaving
pieces of my spirit
as I move on to another place
another garden, another season.
I think I like the idea of leaving behind
pieces of my spirit because maybe, just maybe,
those little pieces of me were blessed
and they will comfort you.
Maybe one of my sunflowers will burst
from the earth I turned and help
your hurting heart smile again.
And maybe, just maybe, we’re supposed to
leave precious pieces of ourselves behind
to nurture others as we move on.
It is not easy but I must,
I must leave pieces of myself
behind as I go.
2018 Jeanne Marie

I Am Sixty-Five, Thank you Jesus

August 11, 2018
Thank you Jesus, for allowing me to live to the age of sixty-five, a blessing that many never receive and for helping me to learn to live with the wrinkles.
Thank you for forty-two years of sobriety with only one night of insane drinking.
Thank you for the man in my life who has loved me with his entire heart. He loves me on my best days and even harder on my worst days.
Thank you for my daughter’s life, her sobriety, her sweet, forgiving, beautiful heart and the love that she showers on me. Thank you for the beauty that she sees in me.
Thank you for my four children, fifteen grandchildren and five great-grandchildren, my sisters, my family and my few, true friends.
Thank you for one beautiful house after another all the way up to fifteen, for the many moves you’ve allowed us to make safely and for all the wonderful places we’ve been able to explore.
Thank you that I can still walk when all my x-rays declare that I shouldn’t be able to get out of bed.
Thank you for the awesome gifts you tucked into my heart when you formed me, the ability to play with words and the creative ideas that flow through me.
Thank you for all the pretty clothes in my closet and all the books on my shelves.
Thank you for the successful surgery that allows me wear normal shoes for the first time in almost twenty years, and for my pink boots that I picked out as a birthday present.
Thank you for the music that blesses my life.
Thank you for the church that you led my body to because as you know, it blesses my spirit, even though it was 1800 miles away from my house at the time.
Thank you for every breath that I take and for every day I wake to find another chance. Amen.

The Table & Chairs

 

My old table and chairs have been freshly painted and they’re adorable, but that’s not all there is to it.

They have traveled a long, rough road to land pretty on my front porch.

I’ll start with when I first remember seeing them in my mom’s living room. They were brand-new, white.

I was thirty-something with three young kids and my sister, seven years younger, had four young kids.

My mom had a small basement apartment underneath my aunt’s house, but she had one closet full of blankets and pillows that we would use when we slept over. We would just spread them all over the tiny living room and it would be wall-to-wall kids.

Mom never cared how small her place was, she always had room for all of us.

We would cook huge Sunday dinners in her little kitchen, and then we would all stand there together doing the dishes.

In the evening, after the kids would settle down, my sister would put a table-cloth on the little table and a candle. She would say we were in a French bistro.

Then she would ask me to read some of my poems, which I always just happened to have with me.

For an hour so, we would all be transported to a little café in France and I was the entertainer.

My mom was my first reader and fan, but they were all my very first audience and their love for my writing carried me on waves of encouragement.

I didn’t find out until many years later that my sister also wrote poetry, and I was stunned when I read it because it was so much better than mine. She always gave me the spotlight.

My mom passed away in 2009, and I don’t know when my older sister acquired the table, but she graciously gave it to me when I asked her for it last spring. She also gave me the round cushions.

The little set traveled eighteen hundred miles with me to my new home.

My husband spent days painting it and repairing the metal binding around the table. Butterflies surrounded him as he worked, even landing on his hands.

I scrubbed it down before it was painted and butterflies were landing all over it then too.

My mom is a butterfly, so I believe the restoration made her happy.

Now that it’s finished, just looking at it makes me smile, overcome by the flood of memories it invokes.

I had my coffee at it this morning and as butterflies flitted by, I could feel my family, young and unscathed by the heartaches yet to come, unburned by the tragedies and the pain we would all go on to experience.

Those were innocent days. I just didn’t know. I am thrilled to have the table to remind me.

 

Waves

 

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Enjoy the waves of peace and happiness while you are riding high.
Soak up the sun and the sweetness so you will be strong when the waves crash down, because they will crash down.
Always have faith and believe that although the waves cannot last, they will rise again…
Waves will lift you up above your brokenness over and over.
That is what waves do.