Queen Juicy J

That was dark. That last post was dark. Is my life always darkness? No. There’s light and a lot of it. And more importantly there’s space for light. There are places that were once dark and damaged that are cleared up, cleaned out. Maybe they need a little paint and a little TLC, but there’s space for the right people. It’s those horrific moments that allow me to find complete joy in silly little things. In the way grass tickles my feet, or that I’m allowed to have the chance to be me. If I find something amusing, I don’t hide it. I can’t. I’m alive and I’ve moved beyond those dark places. I’ve rebuilt myself. And there’s space for light and laughter and love. So after such a heavy and dark post, I thought I’d revisit a lighter gift. It’s Saturday and we’re on the couch. He’s been playing video games and I’m reading one of my favorite books, the kids are doing what they please. I can hear them and even though he’s trying to keep them quiet, I don’t mind. It’s the sound of life. It’...

(This entry contains content that may be difficult to read about trauma. Please use discretion and only continue past the warning below if you choose, as it can be very upsetting.) In my head are pictures. Vague dreams I’ve had for years. Dreams and visions of children that I always thought I’d have. When I began wanting children, I wanted seven. Over the years I began to call it a Weasley Brood. I pictured us pouring out of a car at a rest stop on the way to the cabin. I pictured them on the beach, playing the way I did. I pictured ugly Christmas sweater photos posed around the tree. I pictured family candids at Thanksgiving of which my own mum has albums full, us caught in the 80s while family is in various state of talking and eating. I saw family reunions. I saw moments that I hoped I’d get to live. I saw dreams and wishes in pictures and imagined my life would be so full. But then time marched on. Trying yielded nothing. Instead of seven, I tailored to five. Then to thre...

It’s 1986ish. I’m a child and my older siblings have been picking on me. I have a point to make a point to prove, one that would validate me. I want to say it, but my mother is asking me “Is it better to be right or to be kind?” The fight goes out of me. Everything in my little life has ingrained in me that kindness matters above all. I never say my point. This guides me for the first 25 years of my life, a lesson in biting it all down. It’s 1999. I graduate high school in a month or less. I’m sitting in the guidance counselor’s room and she’s looking at me while I sob uncontrollably and explain the the boy I was supposed to marry has broken up with me. The house, the cars, the kids, our idyllic life gone into the arms of another girl. She calls Rob to the office. Conflict resolution, my first real taste of it as a grown up. I knock the sobbing down to sniffs when he sits next to me feeling foreign. I don’t know him now. He says he never cared about me, I was just a game to win. I wa...

I’ve made a terrible mistake. In my enjoyment of this new writing, I’ve gone back in search of the old. I’ve opened old wounds in old words. I’ve relived some of the most traumatic moments of my life in an hour. I feel unbalanced, as though I have undone all the years of hard work to reframe, to patch holes, to sturdy my foundation. In an instant I am back where I was, and only in closing the screen can I banish that back. They swirl around my head. Moments locked in posts, moments I can remember too clearly again. “I shouldn’t have done this, not today. I’m not well enough to hunt demons. I have invited them to rise.” I’m struggling with my pulse in my neck, my mind beginning with whirl dangerously. It’s panic and it’s pain, and I’ve done it to myself. The doorbell rings, and I can see the delivery truck. I can’t answer the door this way, he’ll think I’m crazy. I wait until he pulls away, and I take deep breathes. I’m safe, I’m home. It’s 2018 and I’m solidly here. The cats stare ...

The concert is fresh in my head, and I feel like I slept with a smile plastered on my face. It’s morning, the same feeling I get before camping with my sister races through me. I’m sitting on the cool tiles of his shower with his head in my lap. He has a headache and my heart goes out to him for it, so I try to help. It is perhaps less than practical, but I find it enjoyable. While he rests I run fingers through his damp hair and admire his body and the way the water splashes down his skin. I’m doing the thing I love and hate to do, memorizing a moment because I’m never sure if I’ll get another. Even here, a thousand miles away and in a completely different world from my last relationships I still hear that whisper. “What if, hear me out Jules, what if he just stops caring?” I won’t even give voice to the idea that the heart I can feel beating in his neck might stop. That’s kind of always been my struggle and why I feel like Persephone. A mash up of life and death, of half living in ...

The sun has started to set, and he’s looking at me across the table. Around us people are talking, and I glance down to check the time. Almost six. Almost time. His cousin is saying something about work and I’m trying to pay attention. I’m trying to give him eye contact and encourage him to talk around this group of predominantly strong women who have clearly taken the lead on conversing. For a month now, he’s been talking about me being in Charleston by six this evening. I took the day off work as soon as he asked, but he wouldn’t give me so much as a hint. He only asks me what I think it could be. Well how do you answer that? I have no idea. I spend hours in my head all day, amused by myself for my own entertainment. What do I think it could be? Anything. I imagine a picnic by the sea, but we had eaten dinner already. I imagine a museum, but why the time? Everything would be closed by then. I think maybe a carriage ride, but the timing again was critical. Why six? Why so important ...

”You can’t possibly be enjoying this.” He’s driving my truck, his three children in the backseat, and it’s raining. We’ve been driving around the mall and R is demanding a cookie. I smile at him in response. How can I say what I feel? *** The day started in my country home. Just the husband and I, and our three cats. It’s a good life, a relaxing life. I can walk from my bedroom to my bathroom on the other end of the house completely naked. I can turn the tv on or leave it off as I choose. I can play music with swear words in it at full volume. It is a life I’ve earned. It is a home I have made. It is a love I’ve built over decades. I am the Phoenix: reborn, redefined time and again, but I have found a nest that suits me. I got dressed for work, grabbed my coffee and headed out the door. It’s during these very early hours that I admire my home. There are pretty views of the pre-dawn out my front door. Big Red sits where I back her into her spot. There are frogs chirping and the ...