Dr. Venus Opal Reese

The only constant in life is change.

As this year snuggles down into the warmth of rest, I look over my shoulder at the losses:
– [ ] life after the death of my brother.
– [ ] The dissolution of my internet business structures left over from “pre-COVID” days.
– [ ] Turning 50 with the aches & hormonal changes that come with aging.

Sis, the truth is, I’m tired.

After two years of COVID, quarantine, cancel culture, and the ugliness of humanity, I no longer am willing to fight.

I’m tired of life.

In honor of self-preservation, I’m downsizing.

Going forward, I will only post two maybe three times a week.
I’m not taking private clients. I need to focus on writing instead of pouring into others.
One email/blog a week that way I’m spending more time on creating content to sell to television or publishing more books than giving away free content.

I’m choosing to focus on my relationship with God, my dreams, and being loved by my Him.

My Him moved in for a week to take care of me over the holidays.

He wanted to help me cope with Tory’s transition. He cooked, cleaned, washed & folded clothes. He took Happy and I to Orange County to see pretty lights on people’s homes. He brought a x-mas tree for our first “Couple’s Non-Christmas” Christmas and taught me how to make smothered turkey wings in a crockpot!

If THAT’s not love, I don’t know what is!

He made me laugh and held me as I cried.

I’m realizing just how much energy I put out versus how little energy comes in to nurture me. It’s an old wound I have from the past. My Him is creating new traditions for the future that doesn’t require I do life alone. He’s teaching that it’s ok to let myself be supported, nurtured and loved.

This is a change for me. In order to accept his love I have to let go.

So I quit.
I let go.
I give up having to earn and pay for love in any way, shape, or form.

I’m giving up doing any and everything that doesn’t feed me or serve me.

I’m no longer filling in the gaps of others or tolerating ineffectiveness just to keep the peace.

I’m no longer over-giving or doing things that simply no longer work for me.

I’m tired of making shit work.

I’m done with it.

In this new year, I AM CHANGING.

I’m pouring all of my energy, genius, resources, and loving into myself and doing what fulfills me.

I am trusting God to provide for me as a creator of groundbreaking, revolutionary, and pioneering television shows.

I’m changing/shifting/evolving from Internet Marketing to Entertainment.

And I am making room to get married to an extraordinary Black Man of integrity, empathy, excellence and ingenuity. I feel like God is calling me to focus on healing Black love WHILE I live it.

This man treats me like a princess, worships me like a goddess, and respects me as his queen. I nurture his heart, give him safe space to be vulnerable, and empower his leadership as a father and in the world.

Truth be told, I’m standing for that Michelle and Barack kind of love.

Where we win together.
We empower each other.
We make the world a better place because of how we love one another.

So Instead of resisting change, I’m surrendering to it.

I’m changing because I’m growing. I’m able to grow because I am healed. I’m letting go of those things behind me. It’s time to move forward.

I’m falling back not falling off!😂

I’m redesigning my life as a Black Woman who is worthy of being loved, supported and celebrated.

A Black Woman who is healed, healthy and whole.

A Black Woman who’s time has come.

I invite you to grow with me as I evolve into this new year.
New life.
New love.

I can’t WAIT to see what God is about to do in my life!! I’m about to be WOWED by God!

I love you, sis.

Happy New Year!

My mouth tastes like salt.

No matter how much water I drink.
My tongue feels dry.
Sandpaper rough.

Swollen with the weight of unshedable tears.

If I open my mouth, put my hands on my knees, and cough, a year of unshed tears will pour out of my mouth into a heap on the floor.

As real as Lot’s wife for looking back.

Tory went home to be with the Lord one year ago this Christmas Eve due to Covid.

I grieve.

I look back over the year and realize I’ve been looking for Tory in Black Men friends like I have been looking for my father in love.

Not the role.
The accountability.

While a father is accountable for provision and protection of that which he calls his own, a brother looks out for and defends his sister.

Tory defended me.
He stood up for me.

I can see now, a year in retrospect, one of the drivers for healing with Black men is the loss of my brother.

He, like so many brothers, fought an invisible foe that corners Black boys into a life of poverty, crime, despair.

He fought the system with his brilliance, ingenuity, and humor.

Tory could flip money fifty ways all the while having you cry so hard your stomach ached.

He had the typical rite of passage for poor Black boys: jail time. Yes, typical considering how our boys are railroaded into the prison pipeline by third grade. While typical, Tory’s life wasn’t torpedoed by the system. He fell in love with technology and obtained his master’s degree. He also owned a hair salon as well as his own retail business.

Tory was a winner.

He beat the odds as a young Black Man with a record, but did not let his record block his success.

Tory became an entrepreneur.

He beat the system when the cops tried to frame him and then positioned him as a snitch when they couldn’t make the charges stick.

Tory showed his loyalty to his people.

He beat the violence of our mother by not hating Black Women. He loved his wife and daughter. Even after divorce, his first wife held him as her best friend. He married again the Thanksgiving before his transition.

Momma’s hate didn’t stop Tory from loving Black Women.

Since Tory’s passing, I have had magnificent Black men, brothers from other mothers, help me deal with the loss of Tory. I have been fed and nurtured by Black men like a thirsty woman in Hell.

These men, these brothers, have kept me alive.

The more I heal my father wound, the more love comes to me from Black Men in ALL forms, not just romantic.

Healing is holistic: it’s total.

So while I grieve Tory, I’m in high gratitude for the blessing of being loved by Black men in all the areas of my life. My sisters feed me, but it’s my brothers who carry me.

And I am grateful.

In some way, I have a little piece of Tory in all the brothers who look out for me–be it in business, friendship, or on social media.

They stand for me.
Watch out for me.
Open doors for me.
Defend me.
Teach me.
Help me.

They love me.

I love you, Tory.
I’m proud of you.
I wish you could be here now.
I know you are in spirit.

I know.

If I turn my head a little to the right and close my eyes, I can feel your full-belly laugh in my soul. So I’m taking on laugher, jokes, joy as my way of feeling you in my life.

Hell, I may even get the courage to do standup. It’s a lifelong dream I’ve been too afraid to truly go for it. If or when I do, I will tap into your laughter and complete joy for being alive as my way of honoring your life.

Perhaps your gift to me Tory is the ability to laugh at life. It’s crazy contradictions and it’s absurd perfections.

The gift, your gift to me from grieving this Christmas, may well be a sense of humor inside of the hurt.

Maybe your blessing to me is to focus on laughing at life more instead of taking it so seriously.

Perhaps your laughter is my lineage, my birthright from you as your sister.

I don’t know if this is grief talking or simply crazy talk, but it makes feel better.

Hum.
I don’t know.
But I’m willing.

Tory Devin Clark–

I DECLARE,
DECREE & PROCLAIM this following truth to be self-evident (at least to me) that FROM this day forward this truth:

– [ ] your laughter is the legacy you have bestowed on me.
– [ ] It now lives on in and through me.
– [ ] I will give it to the world.

I promise.
On my word.
In the mighty presence of God!

(Did I go too far with the “mighty?)

CORRECTION:

In the PRESENCE of God!
(Much better.)

Your older sister by 11 months (but who’s counting😂)

Venus.

Ps: I love you, bro.

I am not a virgin.

I have been sexually active.
Always, it seems like.
Since I was a child.

I gave my first blow job at six.
Molested by a female at eight.
Group sex young as well.

Had my father loved me
enough to stay…

…to try…

…to deal with the malicious.
The violence of Momma…

….my innocence would have been protected.

But he didn’t.
So, I wasn’t.

I have been taken without consent.
I have been held in place.
Forced to swallow.

All in the name of love.

My body has been tied up.
Pinned down and choked.
While hearing, “I love you.”

Sex.
Love.
Violence.

They’re all the same to me.

But not to my Him.

I see me as damaged.
He sees me as holy.

I see me as ugly.
He thinks I’m the face of God.

I feel stupid and afraid.
He holds me close, & names me brave.

I don’t understand him.
I don’t see how he can love someone so worthless.
Dirty.
Trash.

He sits with me when I can not speak.

He places his hand next to mine when I cannot stand to be touched.

He calls me on the phone when I can’t handle the physical presence of his male body.

“I’m right here babe.
You don’t have to talk.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you want me to come over?”
“It’s midnight.”
“Do you want me to come over?”

I can’t say yes.
I don’t know how.

“No thank you,” I whisper through trembling lips.

My Him goes quiet.
He thinks.
He speaks.

“I need you Venus. I depend on you so much. You give me safety in a world where I have more value dead or in prison than being my own man.”

“Not to me,” I say softly through the phone.
“Never to you.”

He struggles to find the right words.

“You see me. You trust me with your truths. With you. In your eyes, I become more than I could see.“

He pauses. Then he confesses to us both.

“In your love, I find myself. And I didn’t even know I was lost.”

His voice drops to an urgent, vulnerable whisper.

“You give me peace, babe. You help me remember who I am. You are the only person in the world who I can share my fears, dreams, victories and failures with.”

“Out there, I’m just another trifflin’ nigga with a target on his back. With you, inside of you, I’m safe. I’m not alone anymore.”

He takes a deep breath.

“You are my peace. My anchor. My light. You’re my love, babe. I thank God for you.”

I start to cry, silent tears.
He can’t hear them.
He feels them.

“Oh babe, let me come to you.”
“I can’t”
“Why not?”

I know he is NOT going to like or agree.
We tell the truth.
No matter what.

“Because I don’t want to depend on you. I don’t want to turn you into a need.”

I cover my eyes with my hand to hide from him even though I know he can’t see me.

“I don’t want to become codependent.
I need to be able to take care of myself.”

“But babe—“
“Please. Hear me.”
He relents.

I gather all my courage to tell him my truth.

“I just don’t want to be a burden to you. I don’t want you to drive out here simply because I’m triggered. It’s not fair to you.”

“But you feeling alone is?”

I knew he wouldn’t like it.

“Please don’t be angry.”

“I’m not angry with you,” he mutters through clenched teeth.

“I’m angry with all the stupid people who have hurt you.”

I’m stunned.

“I don’t understand—“
“I know. That’s my point.”

He pauses to gather himself.

I can tell by the way he is breathing he is going to share his truth.

I brace myself.

“When you love somebody, their JOB is to be there for you. Love is not a matter of convenience.”

Whew! That wasn’t so bad. Oh wait—he’s not finished.

“Love is not control. It’s not making someone depend on you to take advance of them.”

“I know this—“

“No you don’t.”

I can feel myself getting defensive.

“Don’t tell me what I know. I have TONS of experience—

“No! You’ve had tons of sex. But you have NOT had tons of love.”

Silence.

I know he’s right but my pride won’t let me confirm this cold truth.

“Well I guess you told me. I’m going to get off the phone now—“

“Babe. Please. Don’t. I apologize.”

Silence.

I’m trying to breathe.
He’s trying to get through to me.

“Babe, you’re still a virgin.”

I drop the phone.
I look around my bedroom.
Happy is sleeping soundly, his little puppy face on my knee.

I touch his fur to make sure I’m not crazy.

“Babe, you there? Did you hang up? Babe?”

I pick up the phone.

My voice is shaking. “Are you clowning me? Mocking my past?”

“No babe. Never.”

“Then WHY THE HELL ARE YOU CALLING ME A VIRGIN WHEN YOU AND I HAVE FUCKED FIFTY WAYS TO SUNDAY??????”

“Hear me out. Please. May I explain?”

“Have at it!”

He knows he is walking in an emotional landmine.

This landmine has invisible tripwires and mental snipers with hair-thin trigger fingers. One wrong step and he loses all he has worked for with me.

My Him treads soft.
He’s skilled.
Committed.

Willing to die to set me free.

“Babe, I love you. You’re right. You are not a virgin physically. You are one emotionally.”

“But I–”

“Please let me finish.”

I put myself on mute.

“The traumatic things that you survived as well as the words people used when they hurt you made you feel like there’s something wrong with you.”

I can feel my little girl self start to weep, on the inside.

“You are an emotional virgin because you have never been loved purely. The love–if we can call it that–had strings.”

My little girl self begins playing with puppets on strings.

The strings are her veins.

The puppets are different people from my past who have hurt us.

The Puppets are saying ugly things to my little girl self.
They make crude gestures.
They throw urine.
Feces.
They spit at her.

“You are the most emotionally innocent person I have ever met in my life.”

Both me and my little girl self stop.

We look at each other.

“You forgive with the innocence of a child.”

I smile at her.

“You believe in the goodness of people.”

She nods at me.

“You love each and every person you meet without them having to earn it or prove it or make it with you.”

With each statement, from my Him, my little girl self cuts a string from the puppets by simply kissing the vein.

“Your body was hurt. There’s no denying that fact. What makes you special is somehow, some miraculous way, your heart remains pure.”

With each kiss by my little girl self, the vein becomes white roses. The puppets disconnect, frozen like glass, and fall away.

She kisses me, unmutes my phone, and merges back within me.

I say to my Him with my whole heart, “I love you.”

He exhales.

I can hear the tenderness in his tone, “I love you too babe.”
He bravely and gently pushes me.
“May I come over?”

I sigh.

My Him is not a quitter.
Thank God.😂

I smile.

“I’m going to go to sleep now.”
I snuggle down in my blanket and cuddle Happy.

“Will you come tomorrow? Early?”

My Him chuckles under his breath.
He can hear my compromise.

“Yes, my love. I will. BUT if you change your mind between now and morning…”

His voice turns erotic.

Sensual.
Thick.
Softly commanding.

“…call me.”

I say nothing.
Pause.

“Ok baby girl?”
“Ok.”
“Ok?”
“I mean, Yes Daddy.”
“Right answer.”

I felt my body swelling.
My Him can get to me in an hour.
Or less.

He’s honoring my process.
But if I don’t hang up—

Let me get off this phone before I get fucked.

“Uh, love you. Bye.”

I scurry off to the sound of his knowing laughter.

I hang up the phone.
I smile in my heart and cuddle Happy.
I drift off and thank God for my Him.

The phone rings.

“Hi my love.”

“Open the door.”

I’m nervous.

Excited.
Terrified.
Elated.

Part of me feels special.
Chosen.
Wanted.

Another side of me is afraid.
Am I healed enough to say “yes?”

I’m getting head of myself.

He hasn’t asked. Yet.

But my mind is doing CRAZY things.

I’m seeing all-white wedding dresses.
Flowers.
Happy as the ring bearer wearing a customized bichon frise tux.

WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME???

IF he asked?
IF I said yes?
IF Happy blessed our union?

I feel crazy.

Dizzy with possibility.
Terror.
Overwhelm.
Delight!

My Him keeps BLOWING my mind!

A few weeks ago, my Him came over bearing gifts.

These were not gifts I would ever ask for, and yet they made me feel loved.

We met in the parking garage in front of my valet. He smiled at me with his heart in his eyes as he pulled up.

“Hey babe, I have some things for you and Happy. Will you please pop your trunk so I can load up your rolling cart?”

I didn’t think anything about it.

I was just happy to see him. I popped my trunk. He got got out of his car, grabbed the rolling cart from my car, went to his trunk–and my mouth fell open.

In his trunk was a kitchen!

I mean he had EVERYTHING but the stove!

He had spices.
He had cooking utensils.
He had pans.

HE EVEN HAD A LARGE CROCKPOT!

All items were new and never open.

I just stared.

When I finally could speak as he happily moved the kitchen from his truck to my rolling cart, I squeaked out, “Uh…. Honey… Umm… Are you moving in?”

He laughed, stopped unloading the kitchen, and came over to me.
There was pure joy in his eyes.

“No babe. I’m not moving in. I know that would overwhelm you. I’m cooking for you this weekend so you can focus on your work and writing.”

“But why do you have alllll,” I indicated the mountain of kitchen supplies that looked like the Grinch’s sleigh the night he stole Christmas, “of this???”

He threw a carefree glance over his shoulder to the kitchen mountain on wheels and said, “I take care of you. I didn’t know what you had so I bought what I needed to prepare for you what I wanted you to have.”

“But a crockpot? You bought a crockpot???”

My Him laughed again and said, “Yes a crockpot. You mentioned you like smoked turkey wings. So I am making you red beans and rice in the crockpot with the smoked turkey.”

He kisses my forehead.

“You mentioned you like Whitefish.
So I’m making seared cod in the pan.”

He kisses my cheeks.

“You mentioned you liked greens. So I am using that pot to make you collard greens as well as cornbread.”

He kisses my softly on my lips. My eyes stay open. I’m trying to process him.

He looks me in my eyes and softly said, “I love you Venus Opal Reese. You have a calling on your life. You help people heal. Of all the people in the world, I’m the one you have given your heart.”

He kisses my lips softly, cradling my face in his hands. He states his truth softly but hard as steel.

“It’s my job to take care of you.”

No words.

I just stand there in the parking garage, in front of the valet, completely speechless. My Him sees I’m stuck and throws me a line.

“I know it’s a lot for you. You’ve never been loved, really loved before. I’m a man. YOUR man. Here’s something that may help.”

He comes close again, kisses the corner of my lips and gently says, “Think of me as your Steadman.”

We both busted into laughter.

I could feel my anxiety and overwhelm melting in the warmth of joy.

It was at that moment, I realized something, sis.

Something I never realized in my entire life.

Of all the people I have been involved with sexually and romantically, I see so clearly now that I loved them but they didn’t love me.

Oh, they tolerated me so they could get what they wanted from the relationship, but they didn’t love ME.

They loved what I provided or who I was for them–at the cost of me.

I think the reason Black Women get so hurt in relationships is that we pour into people who don’t love us. They may say they do but their actions or non-actions NEVER lie.

When a Black Man loves you, you don’t have to beg for certainty.

He WANTS you to be secure in his love. He doesn’t want you second-guessing or feeling insecure.

That’s not love.

When a Black Man loves you…

…he creates amazing ways to please you instead of indirectly positioning you to nag or beg for attention and consistency.

I can’t tell you how many times I would bend over backward to show love to a person who said they loved me but NEVER have reciprocity.

When he loves you it’s his PLEASURE to put a smile on your face. He chose you. When he chooses you, there’s no need to twist his arm to treat you like he loves you. When you choose him, you have to browbeat him to do the bare minimum.

That’s not love. That’s trade.

When a Black Man loves you…

…he takes on the accountability of having the relationship soar. He adapts to you instead of insisting you adapt to him. This one took some doing for me to trust. I was so used to “making things work,” “doing my part,” or “going 50/50” I would compromise my needs.

I have given my love to damaged and broken people.

I thought it was my job to self-sacrifice and stay watering a dead relationship. I was wrong.
No.
I was wounded and couldn’t only handle damaged things.

I had to heal to stop accepting scraps of love, like garbage thrown in the alleys where I used to eat.

I’m discovering that being in a healthy relationship with an emotionally mature human being means we both give naturally what we give and it fulfills the other person.

I’ve discovered because he adapts to my needs, I NATURALLY tend to his.
It matters to me that he comprehends how thankful I am for the quality of his attentiveness.

His thoughtfulness.
His emotional, mental, spiritual, and substantive provision.

Quite frankly, my Him is ruining it for ANYBODY but him!😂

I love that he shares how much he loves his Men’s therapy group, which he found on his own when he asked for another chance to tend to his triggers.

I feel included when he shares his work with me.

He forgives me when I fire off one of my PTSD anxiety-ridden text messages when he doesn’t say he loves me before going to bed.

He simply reassures me.

And somehow he translates my crazy into acts of love towards him. He thinks my fussiness is cute.🤦🏽‍♀️

His actions tell me he loves me.
His words solidify his love.
Not the other way around.

Even his mountain of culinary tools is just another way he is waving his heart at me.

He’s healing feeling attacked when I talk to him directly.

I’m healing my fear he will change his mind.

I’m learning how to speak up without coming down on him like a ton of razor-sharp daggers.

He’s learning how to hear my heart instead of my head when I feel anxious and afraid.

He speaks to me in soft tones instead of accusations.

I speak to him in loving language instead of criticism.

I am heard.
He is respected.
We are healing history.

The broken trust born in chattel slavery.
The wounded side.
Traumatic side of Black Love.

We are healing together.
Witnessing each other’s growth.
Granting grace for our stumbles.

Celebrating each emotional and behavioral victory when we heal or take ground with a wound that would have taken either one of us out.

We are growing.
We are blooming in our love.
As we heal, we love.

Healing let’s us be tender to us.
Grace looks like mercy, unearned.
Wholeness comes from healing.

Tender mercies make us whole.

With all the healing, I get overwhelmed sometimes. I sometimes feel like I am on an emotional roller coaster. I’m afraid and exhilarated, simultaneously.

Weird, huh?

ALL of my feelings are extreme. I get SO hurt when I feel rejected. My heart breaks in my chest.

I feel better IMMEDIATELY when he clarifies what he meant versus what I heard.
My heart stops hurting.
I want to do cartwheels in the air when he looks at me like he needs me.

I’ve never had anyone care enough to learn to take care of and with me.

I sometimes think we don’t need to get married. This, what we have right now, is more than I have had in my life.

I don’t need the ring.
The dress.
The party.

He’s healing WITH me.

That’s more than enough.
I just hope he doesn’t expect me to learn how to cook.🙅🏽‍♀️🤷🏽‍♀️🤦🏽‍♀️

“I’m sorry I hurt you.”
Water wells up in my eyes.
I fall backwards through space and time.

I am on the Plantation.

Overseer ties me to the whipping post.
He rips my back red with lash.
I scream with each fire red lick.

My “He” is forced to watch.
And says nothing.

Mistress insists our daughter be sold to a sadistic Owner who is a known pedophile as punishment for Master’s “interest” in me.

Our baby girl is 5.

She cries for her daddy to save her,
arms outreached tears carving betrayal and sadness into her skin, her soul for seven generations.

You, my “He,” are made to watch.
And do nothing.

Master bends me over a stall,
hikes my dress up, exposing my backside to the cruel air and takes me.

You, my “He,” are instructed to watch.

And see everything.
Without protecting me.

I see you see me see you-
let Massa pollute my womb and soul.
Beat and mutilate me.
Sell our children away out of spite of our love.

My heart dies to you.

For over 400 years you, my “He,” have disappointed me, failed to protect me and been incapable of providing for me.

So I did it myself.

Like a lioness, I have provided for and protected that which I call my own–including you–with a ferocious love.

From then to now, I haven’t trusted you to put my needs above your own survival.
While I understand it, secretly I’ve resented you.

And you knew it.

My hurt mingled with your shame, embarrassment, and guilt that kept us oceans apart emotionally.

But then something happened.

You forgave yourself.

When you forgave you, the shame fell away like shackles. Your head rose and you no longer needed to run.
Defend.
Justify.

Just like a lion’s presence is his power, by forgiving you for not being there for me, your power from within was restored to its quiet, regal glory.

When you forgave yourself, you, my “He,” could see my anger was hurt
hiding the eternal love I have for you.

You were able to get in my world.
Feel my pain.
Without it equaling you were a failure.

It took over 400 years for you to say to me, “I’m sorry I hurt you.”

It took seven generations for me to hear it.

So when I cry in your arms as you rock me,
what we are doing is healing…

… We’re healing Black love.

Today is Tory’s funeral.
It will be done via zoom.

COVID doesn’t let family mourn in person.

Getting on a plane would have been useless. None of the rituals one depends on to survive the death of a loved one applies in quarantine.

No hugs.
No hand-holding.
No wiping away each other’s tears.

Not even the ritual of getting dressed in black to gather and bear witness to each other’s sorrow.

Nothing.

Well, nothing humane.
Just a computer screen.
Headphones.
Spotty connection.

Forgive me Lord for my ungratefulness.

Zoom is better than nothing.
Considering the astringency of this virus, it’s by the grace of God we’re able to gather at all.

Even if it is virtual.

A COVID-19 nurse sang “Amazing Grace” in honor of the 400,000 who have transitioned. Her words and song helped me feel less alone.

You can watch her sing here.

Beyond anything I can explain, I feel part of a national family of grievers.

Hearing her speak of how hard it is on her to be with COVID patients made me feel like Tory wasn’t alone in that hospital room.

If his nurse was anything like this nurse, then I can imagine he was handled with care and love.

I can make up that his nurse made sure his pillows were comfortable and the temperature in his room was just right.

That maybe she sang to him.
Softly.
Gently.
So he didn’t feel like he died alone.

Maybe she touched–no–held his hand as the life left his body.

Or maybe she just sat near him so he could hear the steady pace of her breathing and HE could imagine the breath he was hearing was his newly wedded wife, or his daughter, or Momma.

Perhaps his nurse wore perfume that smelled of peace and rose water. And he floated away warm and pain-free.

I don’t know.

But just hearing the humanity of this nurse, gave me the sense of just how amazing grace is.

Little mercies we don’t count…
…until they are not.