She hates colors that aren’t colors
colors that are shades of something
that used to be brilliant.
She learned to hide her colors gradually
through the years and as she let him
water her down with his words,
she gently faded into a no color version
a salamander who changed her colors to hide. Sad watching her as she let herself shut down her colors that used to shine.
Richard William McClellan 12-29-78~04-18-23
My pictures are a memory I can hold in my hand. My kids always said, “No more pictures Mom,” but I snapped away. As they have grown older, they too snap up every moment with their cell phones. I like to think that I taught them to capture moments. Today is slipping by fast, the hour glass never rests. Yesterday is gone, tomorrow…just a hope, but my pictures are forever and they will exist long after I’m gone. Every picture in this collection has a story. Collecting them for this post has inspired me to make each of my kids a scrapbook instead of leaving behind hundreds of discs. I thought the only thing that I would leave them was my writing. These pictures reminded me that my life has been full of joy and laughter, tears and traumas, but most of all love. That is what I shall leave them. Love. The proof is in the pictures.
Here is an article my son Rick, wrote for me about pictures. I love this.
https://womenwhothinktoomuch.wordpress.com/2013/08/24/jeanne-marie-tagged-a-photo-of-you-today-600-am-by-last-ditch-effort/
Richard William McClellan 12-29-78~04-18-23
So yesterday, I put on a sun-dress and all I could see was my skinny, saggy arms and my skinny, stick legs and no boobs, so I changed. I put on stretch pants because they look good on skinny legs and a big t-shirt which hid the no boob situation.
But it was too late.
I had already seen myself in that sun-dress and as I removed it I thought; this may be the last time I put on a little sun-dress because I look like a crazy cat lady wearing little girl clothes.
Which is why I’m advising you to think carefully before you lose weight when you are over sixty…
I lost twenty-five pounds and the first thing to go was my boobs. It wasn’t long before my unlined face bloomed with wrinkles from hell. Then the neck caught up to the face. I’m not kidding. I think one of the worst days was when I looked down and saw that I had saggy legs with wrinkles at the knees. My skin was hanging like a loose pair of pantyhose…and oh ya, the last thing to go was my big tummy…
I actually looked better at a hundred and thirty-five pounds than I do now at a hundred and ten pounds. I have bounced between being skinny and overweight, mostly overweight, for the last thirty years but every time I lost or gained, my skin behaved…not this time.
When I was thirty, I found out I had rheumatoid arthritis and it seems like every decade since then, something in my body goes haywire.
When I turned forty, I got trifocals and in my fifties, I had five surgeries with only one of them successful and that was a hysterectomy.
Two years before sixty, I got a brand new shoulder…so I hoped that would satisfy Decade Fate. Obviously, it didn’t. I thought I had slipped untouched through the turning sixty, but nope it was just waiting to surprise me at sixty-three when I first lost weight.
Artificial joint fell out of my right big toe at sixty-four. Surgery.
I’m sixty-five now and on the plus side, I look cute with my clothes on. For now.
I always knew I that I didn’t want to get old.
I was sure that I wouldn’t like it, but I really couldn’t figure out how to not get there and now I’m here.
I was right, I don’t like it.
As I unpack the Christmas decorations, my memories flow.
I feel my mom all around me because Christmas was my mom’s favorite time of the year. She is the spirit of Christmas to me.
I still see her smiling as she sewed. Doll clothes for presents and our handmade Christmas stockings with our names embroidered at the top.
I’m not sure why it was her favorite because it was also her hardest time of year, with my dad drinking and crazy and hating Christmas.
But, it was and she always made sure…somehow, someway, that there were a few presents and a lot of love surrounding her kids.
I’m thankful that she taught us that it was Jesus’s birthday, not get presents day.
I remember rolling hundreds of Italian Cookies with her, every year.
She packed them in tin cans and gave them away.
Sometimes we had family over for the holiday dinner. I always considered their presence a Christmas miracle because Dad would stop his ranting and raving for just a few hours. He would smile and talk like a sane person and it always amazed me how he could turn it off and on like the kitchen faucet.
I guess he must have known the insane screaming was wrong.
Why else would he have stopped the moment people came in to our house?
Yes, Christmas is a time for remembering and as I move on from my childhood memories, sweet and bitter, I remember my own babies and how I was a child myself when they were young. We grew up together. I will not think of where I fell short. I will remember where I succeeded. I miss them. I miss those babies who grew up before I was ready to let them go.
Pampers and pacifiers, Cabbage Patch dolls and Lego’s. Hot Wheels and Strawberry Shortcake. Little hands rolling Italian Christmas cookies, toddlers growing into teenagers with big hair and big hands hanging KISS posters.
Far too soon, my children were in the driver’s seat, grand-babies and great-grandchildren were born. Years flew past me.
My best chance to be what they needed has been dissolved by time, time I thought was mine, but as I make memories with their children, I pray that they have sweet memories whisper to them on Christmas day.
If you have babies and children, remember that Christmas is a time for making memories and it’s not about presents, it’s about love.
Create the sweetest memories now, not next year.
Next year is not promised.
As the snow is falling outside your windows, and the Christmas lights are blinking on every porch, create the memories you’d like them to remember with a smile.
She was young, she was free and she was whole
slivers of brilliance shone from her unfettered soul.
He drank from her radiant spirit; yet, his thirst was never quenched.
She became bone-weary, drained, wings tangled in his barbed wire fence.
Held the wire cutters in his right hand; should have set the fallen angel free.
Alas, his left hand was wrapped around the memory of what she used to be.
“Dead or alive,” he shouted into the night, “you are mine, you belong to me.”
She was drained, she was drained. ‘Twas not a whisper of resistance to be heard,
unless you counted her quiet tears, her anguished moans of pain so absurd.
His darkness disfigured a creature of sunshine and light,
but her prison was formed by her need to be loved by him each night.
Her own imperfections allowed her to be nothing and
her soft brown eyes gave out no telltale reflections.
It was her scars that bound her, forgiving, the elusive key.
She was content to wander aimlessly about his house each night
dreaming of the day that she would find the courage to set an angel free.
God is in the wind
whispering to me,
“You’ll be coming home soon.
First, you must finish this life,
this journey which your choices
and my Grace have designed.
The twists and the turns
the heartaches and the tears
always have had a reason.
You’ll see it all so clear on
the day the angels come
to bring you home.
Home, where your mama
is waiting for you,
where the spring breezes
and the summer sun
are always in season.
You’ll run, sing, dance,
laugh, love and be loved.
I promise, your time
on earth will fly by.
The earth is not your home
you know that in your soul
and I’m sorry you must wait.
You have roads that call to you
miles your feet must yet walk.
Keep up the good fight child
you are making me so proud.
I’ll heal your brokenness
repair it with my love, and
mend your wounded soul.
Your battles will be won
your war will be over
when you come home,
when you lay your pain
down at my feet at last.
So, carry it just a little
further my gypsy child.
Don’t give up now
you have come so far.”
Love always, your Father.
My book, Women Who Think Too Much, is available at https://books2read.com/u/md0J5d
Book Overview: Women Who Think Too Much by Jeanne Marie is a satirical memoir exploring codependency, abuse, and recovery. It uses humor (e.g., “Twelve Slips and One Slap”), personal anecdotes, and poetry (e.g., The Cliff’s Edge, Angel Down) to expose the absurdity of dysfunctional relationships while subtly encouraging empowerment. The target audience is primarily women interested in self-help, memoirs, or personal growth, particularly those who relate to codependency or emotional struggles.
Women Who Think Too Much is a raw, satirical memoir that dissects codependency with biting humor and heartfelt vulnerability. Jeanne Marie’s personal stories—of abuse, addiction, and recovery—resonate deeply, while the “Twelve Slips and One Slap” framework cleverly exposes the absurdity of dysfunctional relationships. The included poetry adds emotional depth, though the dark humor may not suit all readers.
A compelling read for women seeking validation and a nudge toward empowerment.
Dedication (Page 3):
Jeanne Marie credits her mother for encouraging her to write poetry since 1986 when Jeanne Marie first showed her the poetry she had written over the years. Her mom also encouraged her when she started a newsletter, called Women Who Think Too Much, 1998~2002. Her mom was her first subscriber.
The author gives credit to her youngest child, her son Richard, for giving her the final push to publish her book. Over the years, he kept saying, “Mama, just publish the damn thing!”
One day, she decided to take his advice. After a year of editing, Woman Who Think Too Much was set free.
The newsletter gained a following in eleven states and Canada, featuring guest poets and writers, including her mother’s contributions. This book was inspired by that work, left in a box for years, until the E-book was published on smashwords.com, in 2014. Excerpts from the newsletters available free at womanwhothinktoomuch.com
I have howled mournfully at the Wolf’s moon
knee deep in the snow of a frozen winter’s night.
Grieving the loss of my lover, the fantasy
of he and I tangled in white, cotton sheets.
Touching for the last time his rough face
happy, content, in love, just an illusion.
It’s complicated, he growled
as he changed into the Wolf and fled.
I have howled, screamed and cried
wept tears that froze on my cold cheeks.
I have walked across a barely frozen lake
stood at the edge of a rocky cliff
searching for my Wolf in the darkness.
Offering up the bloody remains
of my heart to tease his hunger.
Surely, he didn’t forget the taste
of me.
Inspired by The Wolf Moon By Charles Robert Lindholm, The Reluctant Poet
The Wolf Moon
Picture Credit: Pics Art
Dream by Michelle Marie & Jeanne Marie, 2020
she rose above it
Have you ever noticed
when something triggers your sad
it seems to pull back the layers
of all the sads you buried
and a dozen old sads rise up in defiance
shouting out, What about me?
I’m still here. Look at me.
You buried me, you pushed me down,
but I’m still aching, what about me?
Shut up old sads.
You don’t belong here, not today.
I have enough to be sad about
in this present moment and
I don’t need a dozen selfish
old sads rising up in rebellion.
Go back to sleep old sads, hush.
You’ve already had your day.
I could give up cigarettes, coffee, sugar,
chocolate and probably even salt.
I could never let go of your memory
it’s locked securely in a hidden vault.
Yet, longings escape
like pink whispers
memories haunt me
old scars burn as
your caress lingers
lips tender on my skin
kissing the curve of my face
as you slow dance me
until you win my heart
just to walk away.
A fantasy fulfilled, too hot to hold
it dropped from my burnt fingers.
The way you made me feel, my kryptonite.
The dance ended, but the music lingers.
The Sun
dancing in the wind…
New Beginnings Michelle Marie/Jeanne Marie
She Just Kept Walking
Angels play here…
butterfly woman…for Jodie Lynne
Let’s not fight when the sun goes down and the shades are drawn.
Wouldn’t you rather call back the tender fury, the passion that we once wore?
Time was on our side and ever so trusting I gave me to you
only to be lost, a forlorn girl standing on the edge of nevermore.
Drew back the covers, flesh ablaze, unashamed, nothing to hide,
fell in love, lost my head, I was so sure.
Recreate the euphoria of that first night, devouring each other
between the worn cotton sheets on my antique bed.
Use your fingertips to chase away the years of struggling
the hurt and the anger that screams wild as savage beasts inside our heads.
Play make-believe, pretend that it’s yesterday
and the bitter deeds did not destroy the tenderness instead.
Pursue me like there’s no tomorrow because I can not see beyond today
then, when tomorrow comes…
I promise to set you free, stand on my own two feet, find my own way.
Hands could caress, bodies could recreate, satisfy this insane yearning
as you travel back with me, waltz me back through past’s gate.
Touch my soul once more with longing and desire, force the winds of change
to stand stationary while you re-ignite my skin’s desire.
What would I give to travel back and never have been betrayed?
I scarce remember when there were no walls
and I did not know how to be afraid.
Perhaps tonight you could help me to forget to remember if I promise that
I won’t run away when the dawn comes, I won’t run away. No…not yet.
We could try, one more time, again. What could we lose, what could we win?
Cradle me in your arms and recapture me with reckless hunger,
pretend thirty years have not transpired.
It would be so easy because fingertips have no memories and
they don’t know how to hate, they will pursue passion’s flagrant fire
unlike a broken heart which hesitates.
No movement forward from here so we could journey back to then
before the illusions were shattered and we could try, one more time, again.
One more time again, as if you read my mind.
Still, the heat that rises in my loins concedes to grief, collapses beneath regret
too wise to be enchanted, too stupid to forget.
Good-bye. No, wait…not yet. Maybe we could try…one more time, again.
Let Me Fly
I still want him.
I want the first night when we slept in each other’s arms,
legs wrapped around each other.
I want the first kiss, the slow dances, the first time.
I want it all.
I want the weeks before we made love, the anticipation.
I want his soft words and his rough hands.
I want to feel his wrists on mine, holding my arms down, as he makes love to me through my clothes.
I want his cocky smile that promises me that we will always feel this rawness, this intensity, even though it’s a lie.
I want to sit on his lap while he rocks us to sleep.
I want to see me through his eyes again, to feel young and sexy and wild.
I want his cutoff tee shirts thrown on my bed, his dirty work boots by my door.
I still want him.
I go through my days and nights, making mistake after mistake, wondering what am I doing wrong and how I can change it, how can I do it right?
I want to know, why I am here and what I am supposed to be learning?
What are these challenges I’m facing supposed to be teaching me?
I have an icky feeling that I’ve been here before.
I feel that I have done this before, and this is the last chance to get it right.
I don’t know if I believe in reincarnation, but obviously something in my subconscious does.
Why else would I feel that this is my last go-round?
I took a silly test that was supposed to tell me how old my soul is, and the answer said mine was 1,016 years old.
I believe it.
Because that’s how weary I am of my challenges and trying to figure out the right road, the correct path, whatever you want to call it.
The worst thing is that I can go from one extreme to another while making a choice or decision and then stay stuck smack in the middle of both choices. Seriously.
Often, I’m running around trying to undo damage from an earlier error. I also make no choice and that is of course, a choice. It can also require cleanup.
Anyway, today I was thinking about my challenges and the way I wrestle with them at times.
Mostly, I’ve avoided them or run away, but lately I have been trying to fight them and hit them head on.
Not always a good method with a large margin for error.
I think the Ghost of Error is what stops me in my tracks.
I want to make the right choice and my instincts tell me the right choice, but I don’t always trust myself; although, sometimes a glimmer of confidence dances through my head.
Getting back to the original thought. What am I here for and what did I not learn all the other times?
I need to know, what are the challenges I have not licked?
The words love and loyalty flash card me.
Two big ones, huh?
And I don’t want to come back to learn it again and again.
I’m soul tired…and the subconscious says not just from this life, but from many others before.
To love without conditions…to give loyalty under all pressures.
To the people who love me and to the causes my heart believes in, not to those who demand my love and loyalty, but to those whom it rightfully belongs.
To not fear errors, but to embrace and to learn from each disaster.
To be loyal to myself and to let the turds fall where they may.
To risk everything because of something I believe in whether I’m right or wrong, to be true to myself, to stand behind myself when I create a plan and to say, “Go for it!” instead of, “Oh my, I’m scared to make decisions.”
I want to throw away the opinions that trap me and cripple me. Throw them to the wind. I want to do what I believe is right even when I can’t be sure I’m right. I have been told that I am wrong for so many years that I have lost trust in myself.
Now, I need to overcome the years of doubt and to learn to trust me and to pay my own price if I am wrong.
To me…that is the loyalty that I am lacking. The ability to trust myself and my loyalty to me is missing.
I really don’t want to keep coming back just to repeat my mistakes.
Lessons to learn, miles to run.
1996
Women Who Think Too Much
Women Who Think Too Much by Jeanne Marie 
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