If Only…

October 18, 2025

If only I weren’t sick with COVID right now, maybe I would feel more inspired or have the energy to put my thoughts on paper. But as fate would have it, I have little thoughts other than those directed towards health and healing.

I was reminded yesterday about a saying I heard or read. It said, “The problem with pain is that it demands to be felt.” The same goes for us. Pain, whether emotional or physical, has an insistent need to be felt.

Am I currently in pain? No, but something definitely feels “off” in my body, and thankfully, I know why. But what about the times when we don’t know why? When I’ve gone to the doctor and they’ve run test after test, only to come up with the same answer: nothing.

What about that feeling that still asks to be felt? I don’t know if I would call it a feeling exactly, but our body is definitely trying to get our attention. It says, Hey, look at me. Something is wrong. Keep looking. Keep searching. So we do, hoping to find a solution.

Often, the pain or problem felt within the body can be linked to something emotional. Something we haven’t fully processed. I know that’s the case with me. I have things, and traumas, and past experiences that I haven’t completely processed, and my body has demanded that I slow down and do that.

If only I listened to it more often. If only I listened to my body, would I then be more in tune with it? In tune with why it’s feeling the things it is feeling?

If only I could type without looking at the keyboard and stop overthinking it. Just as my body asks me to listen, maybe my creativity does too. If only I could just let the fingers move as the spirit led me to type the letters and form the phrases of the story I am writing. What would happen if I let the spirit move my fingers?

I think it’s called muscle memory when your brain remembers specific paths to take or keys to touch. After you’ve done something enough times, your brain knows how to do it. That’s why they say it’s like riding a bike. Apparently, we never forget. It may feel like a rut, but maybe it’s actually the rhythm of remembering, our brain and its muscle memory keeping us on track.

If only I could let go and listen long enough to hear the answers my life has been trying to tell me.

My First Memory Is…

My first memory is of corn.
Chunks, golden and whole, floating in a sour puddle.
My first memory is three concrete steps and a landing, slick with dew.
A door that opened. A mother’s voice, sharp.
Not my mother—someone else’s.
Disappointment.
I wanted to play. I wanted to laugh.
Instead:
A swing, alone.
Then my mother’s face, storming through the park.
Hands pulling.
The walk home.
Do I remember the spanking?
No.
Do I remember the corn?
Always.

One Secret I Still Keep Is…

What You’d Never Guess Just by Looking

Does it have to be just one? There are a few secrets I keep.

The first thing that comes to mind is that I gave birth to 11 children. One at a time. However, that’s no longer really a secret. It is information I usually do not tell people. Not because it is such a big secret, but because their brains cannot seem to comprehend how one woman gave birth to that many children. Or why. Now that is the true secret.

Why? Why did I have that many kids?

Well, first and foremost, because we were in a religious mindset that allowed God to choose how many children we have. But I will tell you that when I was 40 and pregnant, I chose for myself to get that fertile tube tied up, or cut off, or whatever they do, so I cannot get pregnant again. (I only had one tube and ovary by the time 11 came around.) Another reason I had 11 children was that, with the birth of each new baby, came another person/soul who would love me unconditionally and make my fractured life feel whole, even if only temporarily. I desperately longed for someone to love me. And when a baby looks up at you and smiles because you are their entire world, you get the feeling.

Love. The missing piece of me.

Maybe it sounds selfish, but I wanted someone to need me the way I had needed others who didn’t show up.

Another secret I keep is about my oldest son being in prison. He was a highly respected individual. Everyone loved him. So, for the longest time, whenever anyone asked me where he was or how he was doing, I would answer, “I don’t want to talk about it.” But the bigger secret in that is why he is in prison.

Why?

Because he was so traumatized as a child that he sexually traumatized a child, that’s why. It’s not an excuse, just a truth I’ve had to live with. Pain that isn’t healed will try to find something — or someone — to break.

A third secret I don’t tell anyone: I was a pastor’s wife for 20 years. I never really asked myself why I was, so the “why” in this situation is: why do I keep it a secret? Good question, good soul search here.

Why?

Because I do not want anyone to ask me what I believe now, I am still trying to figure all that out. Like, do I still want to use the term “God,” or is it the Universe, or is it just Spirit? None of those feels right. The closest to feeling like my truth is Universal God or Universal Spirit. But like I said, I am still working that out. I keep it a secret because I do not want people trying to persuade me back into church, back into conformity. I do not want to go to church every Sunday and Wednesday. I don’t want to go door-knocking, soul-witnessing, or whatever they call it. I cannot sit in a service without being overcome with anxiety. My nervous system shuts down, and I usually fall asleep. But I sit there and feel like a ghost of myself, singing words that no longer have a place to land inside me. I know this because I have tried. I tried to find a church so my youngest son could get a taste of religion and decide for himself whether it is something he wants. It’s a secret because I probably disagree with 90% of what they might be talking about if you tried to strike a spiritual conversation. I have read the Bible cover to cover multiple times. There is nothing they can say that will get me to see things differently. It’s a secret because I have not yet dared to share my beliefs with the world.

But here’s a start.

I believe God was female in nature. I believe the Bible is a history book. I think every religion has its great “man of the hour.” The Christians had Jesus. The Muslims have Mohammad. The Jews have the Messiah, and so on. I believe it’s the same thing, just described in a different style. Reaping what you sow is the same thing as karma. The Ten Commandments do not differ much from the Delphic maxims. Maybe the real secret isn’t what I’ve kept — it’s how long I’ve waited to say it out loud.

And the last secret I keep is my age.

They say you’re only as old as you feel. Some days I think I’m 37. Other days I feel 57. It changes with the weather, the weight of the day, or the way my knees sound when I stand up too fast. People often tell me I look so young — thankfully. And I want to keep it that way. Because age isn’t just a number, it’s a perception. It’s the difference between someone listening to your story and brushing it off. So I let them guess. And I let myself believe it too, some days.

What I Remember About My Father

What I remember first — the very first image that comes to mind — is my father brushing my hair every morning, getting me ready for day care. His hands were always careful, his attention focused. In those early mornings, he wasn’t just my dad — he was my caregiver, my protector, my world.

Then came the time he left for officers’ training. OTC. Boot camp. I didn’t understand what that meant, only that he was gone, and I was devastated. It felt like forever. When we visited, it wasn’t the same. He wasn’t the same. The warmth had changed — not gone, but buried under something sterner, more rigid. He had shifted, and even though I couldn’t name it at the time, I felt the weight of that difference. The fun, the gentleness — they weren’t as easy to reach in him anymore.

I don’t know when it happened, but there was a time I hated my dad. I don’t remember the reasons. I just remember the feeling — sharp, fiery. I wrote about it in my diary, used words like “asshole” or maybe even “son of a bitch.” I think my mom read that entry once. She tried to talk to me about it. I just told her I hated him. I don’t think I explained why. I don’t think I could.

I remember Sundays. My dad used to drive the church bus, getting up early to head to the church and prepare for it. He left without me, even though I desperately wanted to ride with the other church kids. I didn’t understand why I wasn’t allowed. Mom and I always ended up there eventually, but still — that moment of being left behind stuck with me.

As a teenager, I saw a different side of my father: the provider. He worked long hours, especially during tax season. He’d skip church, come home late. My mom was often irritated by him pouring so much of himself into work. But he always made sure we had what we needed. No matter how tired, no matter how stretched thin, he provided.

I remember the day he was paying property taxes. He told me he had to pay for me to go to two schools — the Christian school and the public one. I didn’t understand at first, but I could hear the strain in his voice. The frustration. So I made a choice. I started going to public school. Not because I wanted to, but because I didn’t want him to have to carry that burden. I don’t know if I ever told him that’s why.

And still — for all of it — I always told my friends that my dad might come across like a bear, big and growling and stern. But really? He was a big ol’ teddy bear. Underneath the rugged exterior was still the man who used to brush my hair every morning, who got me ready for day care, who — whether he knew how to show it or not — loved me deeply.

It’s Time To Start Therapy

TRIGGER WARNING: SA

Forgive the rawness of the following:

What I can’t write about is the duality that comes with being the mom of a child molester and the mom of the molested. It hurts my heart space. Makes my chest tight. Sitting here trying to type about not being able to write about it isn’t easy. It’s met with resistance. I want to spill it all out here on these pages, but an unseen force hinders me. Whether that force is from within or from outside remains to be acknowledged. I know it’s not an outside source. It is from within. It is me. My inner mom, my parts, that is the mom—the mom of both. I don’t want to write about how horrible it felt hearing my daughter talk about what happened to her. I don’t want to write about how it felt to listen to my son admit to doing those things and then witness the

sentencing. But here we are. I’ve been told twice that he is up for parole. It has only been a few years, it feels. But it’s been 10. He was sentenced to 50. I guess I just assumed I would never see him again. I thought my parents would pass away before he was released. I had a lot of assumptions. And now. I feel as helpless today as I did back in 2015. I have to tell my daughter; she has a right to know. But I do not want it to derail her. But she has the right to take action. Action no one has told her about. Then I had a brief moment of wondering whether she knew. Suppose she were hiding the truth from me, so I am the one who wouldn’t be derailed. But no, I don’t think so. I have absolutely no idea how to bring this up to her. I think the first sentence will be, “It’s time for you to start therapy.”

I Remember

I remember when all my writing revolved around the trauma I was going through. I also remember when I used to write about my morning devotions and a word from the lord. Today, I jokingly call ChatGPT the lord because we seem to put so much stock into what it says when we ask it questions. I remember writing a poem to release all the pent-up emotions I had. Writing was a way for me to heal. Now that I am on the healing side, I would like to say I am completely healed, but I often find more wounds that have gone unnoticed or unchecked, so it’s still a journey of healing, but at this point, now that I am on this side, the good side of the journey, it seems as if writing is harder. Like, I don’t have as much to say. I feel like I have lost my voice. I stopped singing, I stopped writing. Not because I was silenced, but because I did not feel like I had anything to say. In the past, everything I said was a complaint or problem, and I was trying to find answers and solutions. Is this why the body —my body —has decided to give me something else to seek answers for? My gut, and it’s weird ass histamine intolerance? I think so. I also believe that I would much rather write instead of searching low-histamine meals and try to figure out if it is SIBO, MCAS, or low estrogen, which, by the way, is a thing. Like, can’t I go back to writing about problems and finding solutions? Uh, just as I typed that out, I realized I do not, under any circumstances, want to experience all the crap I have been through, and I definitely do not wish it on anyone else.

I remember when I would sing songs, like “Thank You for the Valley,” because a valley was a hard time you go through that supposedly brings you closer to God. God. That’s a whole nuther subject. Like, who is he really?

So, maybe I have not lost my voice; perhaps it is just learning to speak in a new way.

Home is…

Home is where you poop. I mean seriously, how many times have you been in public and you just needed to let go of your meal from the previous night, you know, the one that had been building in your gut that caused you to toss and turn, that same one that you had to hold your farts in, so your significant other wouldn’t hear or worse yet, smell. Oh, who am I kidding? We ladies know that men don’t try to hold it in unless you have a sweet guy like mine, but that is a story for another day.

Home is where the bathroom is the most comfortable place in the house. The spot where you go to get away from the kids for a moment to catch your breath before diving into another fight or cleaning up another mess. Where you go to wash your hands, pretending that you’re using the bathroom, because you are trying to avoid that conversation you don’t want to have with your partner.

“Home is where you hang your hat,” at least that is what the sign said. Isn’t that cheesy, because I don’t wear a hat.

“Home is where you hang your heart” is another phrase I have heard. I used to like that phrase until I gave it some thought. It isn’t as great now as when I first heard it because to hang your heart, you have to take it out. And if you take it out, then you are dead. For me, 24 years, home was where I hung my heart -because I was definitely dead inside from hiding abuse from the preacher I was married to. Now, home is where I am with my current husband. No, that’s cheesy too. Being with him isn’t home; it is utter relaxation, calmness. Usually, it is a feeling of security, a sense of being loved and cherished, knowing he cares.

Home is where I put my leisure clothes on, where I take my panties off, and put the pjs on. Where I sometimes strut around nude. Home is where, as soon as I walk in the door, I want to remove the restrictive clothing I make myself wear so I feel pretty. So I feel like I look like someone with confidence or someone who knows where they are going in life.

Home is where I can be me. That is what I have with my husband. I can be me. So, he is home.

A home is a house, a structure with walls, and mine has a basement. Mine used to be a basement of lies, but now there are no lies except the ones we tell ourselves or our parents. The ones where we tell them how much we miss them and how much we love spending time with them.

Home is where everyone comes to see me when they are feeling nostalgic or need to appease their conscience to see their mom, as I have done for many years, when I go to visit mine.

Home is where I cook a variety of meals, from hot to cold. Including Indian, Mexican, Asian, and American dishes, on occasion.

Home is where I store my stuff. My good stuff and bad stuff, memories are stored here too.

Home is where I sleep the best. There is no bed like the comfort of my own, even when I complain that it is not comfortable. Uncomfortable things and situations are often our comfort because they are what we are used to—nothing like trying something different to make us want to return to the familiar. Unless, on a rare occasion, you actually do find and feel something better than what you currently have,

Home is where I am allowed to be dirty. Where I am allowed to be ugly physically and emotionally. I am allowed to let my hair down and be human, but I am pretty sure I have already touched on that.

Home is where home is.

Home is where I find solace from a busy, hectic day, where I find quiet. Thankfully, my newish home is peaceful; it hasn’t always been that way. It used to be loud. I have a home, and I love it.

My home is a place of refuge for the weary, a place where the masks come off—not the literal kind, though those too, sometimes—but the emotional ones, the “I’m fine” and “I’ve got this” kind. It’s the place where the world doesn’t expect me to smile if I don’t feel like it, where tears can fall without needing an explanation, where laughter echoes off the walls without needing a punchline.

My home is where silence speaks louder than noise, where the hum of the refrigerator at 2 a.m. is the only soundtrack I need while wandering the kitchen in search of clarity. It’s where I stare at the same spot on the ceiling while processing the day’s chaos, and somehow, that patch of paint understands me better than most people do.

It’s where my husband kisses my forehead in passing, and I feel more loved than if he shouted it from a rooftop. It’s where arguments are allowed, although we rarely have them, and forgiveness lives in the walls. It’s where the shadows don’t scare me because I’ve made peace with them, learned to live with them, maybe even learned to love them a little.

Home is where the stories are told—not always out loud, but in the way the couch cushions sag where we always sit, in the coffee ring on the side.

This home—our home—isn’t just a sanctuary. It’s a scrapbook, a history book, a safe house, and a confessional. It’s the only place I can fall apart completely and know I won’t be judged for not having it all together.

So yeah, home is where you poop. But it’s also where you laugh until you cry, cry until you sleep, sleep until you’re whole again, and then get up and do it all over. It’s where life is lived unfiltered, unposed, and unapologetically real.

And honestly? I wouldn’t trade that for anything.

Unwanted Guest

Sitting up, I squinted toward the clock, trying to see if it was late enough to get up. Late enough — the quiet internal permission slip. If it’s before 3 a.m., it’s too early. 3 a.m. itself is borderline — only viable if I’d gone to bed early. But anything after 3… preferably closer to 4… means I’ve officially crossed into the “acceptable to rise” zone.

4:12 a.m. Glowing digits. That was late enough—time to begin.

I moved like a ghost, easing myself upright and reaching for my phone with slow, steady fingers. The strap hooks — those cursed, tiny clinks of metal — threatened to tap the glass nightstand. But I was careful. Every sound at this hour stretches out, echoing as if it’s trying to wake the house. Success. No clink.

Phone in hand, I padded the three steps to the bathroom door. The first hurdle: Don’t let the acrylic nails tap the resin door. Second: Turn the knob just right. Not too fast, not too slow. Just enough so the door didn’t yawn open with a creak that would snap the peace in half.

Inside, I turned to the next challenge — closing the door silently behind me. I rotated the knob while pulling it shut, inch by inch, not daring to breathe. Almost… there— Pop!

Damn. Not quite silent. But done.

I didn’t turn on the light. I never do. My husband’s eyelids are basically tissue paper, and any sudden brightness sends his entire body lurching awake like he’s been shot. So instead, I thumbed the flashlight on my phone and crept to the toilet. The usual. Routine. Human.

After finishing, I reached into the closet and grabbed a pair of yoga pants and a sweatshirt — easy, uncommitted choices. Something I learned in therapy: not every decision has to be made immediately. And choosing an outfit for the day was certainly not a decision I needed to make under the glare of a cell phone light at 4 a.m.

Now… slippers. Where did I leave them?

I only wear slippers with rubber soles. Just in case I have to go outside. I let myself go barefoot exactly once a week — right after the house cleaner comes. I love that soft slide across freshly mopped tile. But the rest of the time? Barriers. Always barriers.

Ah — there they were. Tucked by the sink. I must’ve slipped out of them last night with future-me in mind.

Left foot in. Then right. Bent the left knee, latched the ankle strap. Bent the right knee, latched—

And then I felt it.

Soft. Furry. A brush of cool movement, right across the top of my foot.

At first, I thought maybe it was just a bit of tissue or something loose, stuck between slipper and skin. I wiggled my foot.

It moved. It moved more than I did.

That wasn’t fuzz.

That wasn’t normal.

That wasn’t right.

A chill clawed its way up my spine as I shook my foot again — faster this time, harder — trying to convince myself it was just lint, just a trick of sensation. But no. No, it moved with intent. With awareness. And it was cool to the touch. Fuzz isn’t cool. Fuzz isn’t… alive.

I froze for a breath that was entirely too long. Then panic took over.

I jerked my leg. The strap held tight.

I stomped — once, twice — thinking maybe I could crush whatever was inside without having to see it.

It didn’t fall off. It clung.

I reached down, yanked the strap off, and kicked the slipper across the bathroom. It landed with a loud slap. I flicked the flashlight beam toward it, the light shaking in my hand—

And there it was.

Sprawled halfway out of the slipper. Brown. Furry. Legs twitching. About the size of a 50-cent piece, maybe more if you count the horribly mobile legs.

A spider.

I stood, breathing like I’d just run a mile uphill, heartbeat jackhammering. I didn’t care about waking anyone anymore. I flipped on the light.

I needed confirmation.

With trembling fingers, I took a photo. My only defense in the moment was identification — like naming a demon before it devours you.

AI said it was a wolf spider. A hunter. Not venomous to humans, but aggressive and fast. Curious. The kind that moves toward you, not away.

I stared at the picture while my body still buzzed with the memory of its legs across my skin.

Then I grabbed the slipper — the safe one — and with a single, hard thump, I ended it.

Afterward, I just stood there, breathing in the silence, surrounded by a sleeping house and shadows that felt just a little too aware. The flashlight still on. The image still open on my phone.

I thanked whatever silent force spared me a bite.

Because that spider had been on my foot. For too long.
Moving.
Thinking.

Waiting.

July 17, 2015

What I want

I always said I was an independent woman. That I could take care of myself, etc. although this may be somewhat true it is also somewhat untrue. Everyone has an independent side to them, not everyone is capable of taking care of themselves. Oh yes I am capable. But what is hidden beneath the layer of my untruth is that I’m not as independent as I claim to be and I do not enjoy taking care of myself. I want to be cared for. Taken care of. (I’ll explain shortly what I mean.)

I said those things as self-preservation statements. They were to protect myself in attempt to not get hurt. They are cover statements to make myself look good, not needy and dependent. Yet lately, while I practice independence and taking care of all household responsibilities, I am realizing those statements to be untrue.

Less than a year ago I joined a dating site. In my bio it talked about how independent I was and how I wasn’t looking for a marriage or father etc…because I did not want to attract another asshole who preys on weak needy women. I wanted to find a nice guy, and indeed I did, but now I feel like I’ve led that nice guy along. Led him to view me as someone I’m not. He was seeking an independent woman. He thought I was that.

This past year has brought many struggles and tragedies to my family, but one thing it’s also brought is my need to find out who I am, and what I want.

1. I want to be provided for. Call me old-fashioned. I don’t care. But for 24yrs I lived in poverty because I chose to stay with a man who refused to be a financial provider for his family.

2. I do not want to be the one who is responsible for paying the bills. I have always been responsible for paying all the bills. I’ve always been the one who had to stress out when money was short.

3. I want an “allowance”. I do not want to be responsible for the management of the finances. Oh my god this is way to stressful. I want to be given a said amount of money (budget) to do grocery shopping etc.

4. I want a loving man who will love my children. I didn’t say I want a father, but a guy who cares about them as much as he cares about me because they are mine, and an extension of me.

Do I want to get married again? I don’t know yet, but to the right man I think I would. To the man who makes me feel safe, loved, beautiful and cherished.

The Conjuring

This is what it feels like or looks like living with an abuser

The conjuring

All around you they fly
The Demons of your head
To Torment and divide you
Telling you what to think
If you listen you will sink
Turn them down
They’re screaming your name
On your fear they feast
The Demons of your head

I can call them by name
Counting them one at a time
They came to greet me
The demons of your head

They’re flying at me
To torment and divide me
Telling me what to think
If I listen I will sink
Trying to turn them down
As they scream my name
Feasting on my fear
The demons of your head

Your demons are in my head
Flying all around
Tormenting and telling me
What to think
They’re screaming my name
I think I might sink
Your demons are screaming my name

Yoli's Write To Sanity

Just Breathe And Write

Tag: thoughts