#selflove #freedom #personalpride #divorce #power #selfacceptance #faith #trust #god #destiny

Some people have kids.
I have a Calling.

My life is not my own.

I have come to accept the singularity of my very existence.

My walk is lonely.

I don’t begrudge it.

I have learned to sit with and be with the ache in my body:
In my heart…
In my stomach…
Between my thighs…

My Lord, please, be with me.

I am surrendering to the totality of the Call.

You are my love, my life.

You, Lord, have my undivided attention.
No distractions. No competition.
Just you.

My life is set up to do Your Will.

I am no saint.

There is more sin in me than salvation.

But that doesn’t mean I can’t love you with everything that I am.

People never tell you this: but there is a cost to the Calling.

The cost is total: live a life that is reactionary or commit completely to the Call.

One is not better than the other.

I often think of Anne Frank.
Victor Frankel.
Gandhi.

I think of Malcolm, King, Ali.

I think of Oprah, Jobs, Tesla.

I think of Jesus, Mohamad, Buddha.

I wonder… did they know?
Did they feel the cost of the Call?
If they had known the cost,
would they have stilled answered?

I don’t know.

I do know this…

“When destiny and victory finally collide, there’s no sound more sweeter than when God says it’s time.” Kirk Franklin

It has taken my entire life to get to this season where I can answer the Call.

I sit alone with God. Well not quite alone. Happy is nearby curled up into a little ball of love that I can touch with my fingertips…

But I sit with God.
I write. More often than not, just listen.

I listen for the whispers.
The nudges.
The hunches to know what next right step to take.

I continually let go of my timeline and surrender to divine time.
I do ALL the actions I am guided to do. I talk with my therapist and my Circle of Trust to stay clear and focused.

I see my doctors and I exercise.

I am an excellent steward over my resources and I tithe.

I have assembled an extraordinary team that empowers my leadership and has grace with my humanity.

My stamina is growing.

I focus on the positive and tell the truth when I feel negative.

I have become comfortable with sleeping alone.

I sit with myself.
I sit with God.

And I let go of my timelines and the picture inside my head about how things should or will look.

I don’t know how the future will look.
I don’t know if all I have given my life to will turn out.
I don’t know if all of my marketing efforts will fall flat or soar.

I. Don’t. Know.

What I do know is this: I will do my absolute best and give my Calling, my dream, my destiny the very best shot at winning I am capable of in this lifetime.

I do not feel afraid. Life has burned all the fear out of me.

I feel alive.

Like I am standing on the precipice of something so beyond my imaginings, I can’t even get excited about it. But I know it’s happening.

It will not be perfect.
I can’t even promise it will be polished or pretty.
I don’t know if people will come or if they will shun.

I may fail dismally.

But what if…

… What if I stepped off the cliff of my Calling and tumbled through space and time landing in the hearts of shattered souls that feel like pillows soaked with tears.

… What if my people, the ones for whom I am an answered prayer, what if they caught me?

… And what if the Calling wasn’t my calling but the thunderous brazen clanging of cymbals calling souls home themselves; home to their truth?

… What if the singularity of my very existence is actually what makes me universal?

… And what if God stripped me of every distraction–from my womb to my marriage to the death of Defy Impossible, Inc.–to turn me into a sufficient condition to manifest SOMETHING my mind can’t even see from where I am right now, that will transform the world?

Yes, the Calling, costs.

I don’t begrudge it.

I embrace it.
I give thanks for it.

I don’t know if it will be big or small.
I don’t know if anyone but me and God will know my work is done.
But that’s ok now.

I have been to the mountain top.
And I have been to the depths of hell on earth.
I know how cruel people can be.
And I also know how kind.

But no matter the reception, I answer the Call Lord.

With my life, I answer the Call.

vor

TRIGGER ALERT: THIS POST CONTAINS EXPLICIT LANGUAGE AND VIOLENCE: READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This past weekend I invested in myself by doing a personal growth program. My divorce finalized a little over a month ago, and I had a reaction that scared me. I started to binge eat carbs. For a dry alcoholic, eating carbs is the equivalent of having a Long Island Iced Tea to relax. 

I am in the final stages of publishing my next best-seller and launching my 20/20 tour, which includes my one-woman show. 

I didn’t want to relapse and trash all I have given my life to. 

So, I started attending AA meets, which I haven’t had to do since 2011. And I did a personal development program.

The course is about the very nature of what it means to be a human being. It’s a profound inquiry about how there hasn’t been a significant shift in what it means to be a human being since Descarte’s, “I think therefore I am.” During the program, we deep-dived into various concepts: how language creates reality, to relating to our feelings, and our thoughts as “true” to various tests for what is real.

One of the past incidents I hold/held as “real” was when momma said I lied.

When I was 10, Momma was working two, sometimes three jobs to feed us four kids. One night, while she was working, one of her friends came by. He was drunk. Hennesy and coke. I know the smell. Remember the texture. The taste. 

I grew up unprotected. We all did. So when Mr. H&C passed out, I carefully unfolded me from his heavy limbs and crept upstairs so as not to wake him and locked my three siblings in the bathroom, out of harm’s way. 

Then I made the quiet panic jail-break down the creeky stairs, past his snoring drunken body, out the door, and ran across the street to Mr. H’s house to tell him what had happened and that Mr. H&C was still inside our house on Montford Street. My siblings were still locked in the bathroom.

Mr. H was a kind older man who looked out for all the neighborhood kids while their momma’s worked. And he packed a 45. He grabbed his gun, called Momma and went with me back to my house.

Mr. H&C was in a dead drunk sleep. He didn’t wake up when we came in. Mr. H started yelling, then the neighbors heard and came. First outside the window, then in the living room. Mr. H told them what I had told him. Outraged, our neighbors began yelling to wake Mr. H&C up to leave. 

Aunt Barbara showed up. I think Momma must have called her from work to come to check on us. By now the living room is crowded with screaming people, my siblings are still locked in the bathroom upstairs banging on the door to be let out, screaming, and crying because they are scared, and hear all the screaming downstairs.

Finally, Momma rushes in with a bunch of her coworkers. She is scared and worried about her kids. Mr. H didn’t tell her what I said, he just told her she needed to leave her job and come home immediately.

She enters into mayhem. People screaming, Mr.H&C is waking up and dazed. Momma sees him and looks at me. Mr. H tells me to speak up and tell her what happened. The room goes quiet, and I tell. Silence. Momma’s face transforms from fear to rage. She says something to the effect of this:

“You lying little b%tch. Mr. H&C did no such thing! You are just trying to get attention! Look at all the trouble you have caused! Take your sorry ass upstairs and take off your clothes. Run a tub of hot water. Then wait for me to beat your a$$ for lying and causing all this trouble just to get attention.”

I lost language that moment. 

My voice died at the hand of her accusatory gaze and diminishing tone. It was here, at this moment in time, I stopped standing for myself.

Other women and even Mr. H asked Momma to wait a minute. Momma said, 

“I know my child. She’s lying. She is jealous of her oldest sister. One of my other friends had said some sh*t to her, and I pulled a knife on his ass for trying to f@ck with my child. But Venus? This ugly, good for nothing, manipulative kid? No. Nothing happened. She’s lying. Mr. H&C would never do anything like that. He is MY friend. She’s lying and I will beat her a$$ for lying. Everybody go home. Venus, get your a$$ upstairs. Now.”

So, I did. 

I went upstairs, unlocked the bathroom door, my siblings ran out. I ran the tub of hot water, took off my clothes and went into the bedroom next to the bathroom. I sat on the side of the bed and waited for Momma.

Aunt Barabara came up first. 

She sat beside me on the bed and hugged me. I remember saying, 

“I can’t ever do anything right.”

She held me as I cried.

Then Momma came upstairs…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

From 10 until now, I have fought for, protected, and stood for those I call my own fiercely–but never myself. I see myself as damaged with no credibility, no right to be heard, valued, or believed. Maybe that’s why I have four degrees. My word isn’t good enough. I have lived my life doubting myself, second-guessing myself, and wondering if I am being “too” much. I have only let myself become successful–but not TOO successful–least I be attacked, humiliated, called a lier, and discredited. 

I have lived a small life.

A life where I am safe. I think the reason I marketed to Black Women was that I felt safe. I felt credible. Believed. And Sisters didn’t mind my bigness, my passion, and self-expression. They embraced me. Just as I am. But beyond my tribe, I hid in plain sight. I don’t do JV partnerships because I don’t feel safe to be myself. 

But this weekend all of that changed.

This weekend I let go of being damaged. I surrendered, “Be on my side! Believe me! Don’t hurt me!”

I am no longer living a life where I silence myself. My truth. My shine. My voice.

I declare, decree and proclaim, that from this moment, I am creating the possibility of being spectacular. 

Spectacular

(spektækjʊləʳ)

adjective 

Something spectacular is very impressive or dramatic;

unusual to a striking degree; characterized by a great display, as of daring…

I choose to create and live a life being spectacular and creating the space for everyone who comes in contact with me the opportunity and permission to do the same. 

It was a good weekend. 🙂

Not only did I create a new future to live into, but I also made friends! Here are some photos. 

I love you. Today I am working with my publicist on our national press release. We begin in earnest 12/2/2019. 

2020 is going to be SPECTACULAR!

I Love you.

Thanks for witnessing.

Dr. VenusOpal

WARNING: Sexually explicit. Subversive Christianity. Reader discretion is advised. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear God,

I miss being touched.

Breath on the back of my neck.

Fingertips on my thighs, in my mouth…

But I don’t have the shoulders to bear the dead weight

of emotional responsibility.

Is it too soon, Lord?

You said to ask, and I would receive.

Knock, and the door would be opened.

I have wants, desires, Lord…

My flesh is screaming.

My heart is hiding behind you,

like a child clinging to the back of her mother’s leg

as she peeps from behind momma’s knee.

Can I handle intimacy?

Not sex. But really soul sharing?

I want to know what it feels like to be wanted—not needed.

I want to know what it feels like to brim with a passion so all-consuming 

it slurs my thoughts into one titanic ache in between my hot wet hungry lips, quivering, shimmering, reducing me to guttural utterances, sighs, wails, and moans.

I want to know what it feels like to be so connected with another

our souls kiss, intertwine and become one with you God.

Do I want too much, Lord?

Am I worthy of such a love?

I wonder…

Would someone ever truly care enough to learn me?

To understand my hurts and comprehend my cries?

To give me space but catch me, should I fall?

The loneliest place in the world is to love someone, who won’t let you in.

I want in.

I want to know all your secrets.

The things you are ashamed of and the places you hide.

I want to see every scar, jagged and raw and pour love on 

them until they are as smooth as a pearl.

I want to be the breath that gives you life in the morning 

and the tender, precious embrace you need 

at the end of the day when life has been just too much.

I want to make love with the lights on.

And for you to look me in my eyes, see God, 

as we cum… at the same time.

I want passion Lord.

And protection.

Nurturance.

I want to kiss you hard and long in Paris and make you forget your name in Rome.

I want to surprise you with heels, red lipstick, garters, and a belted trench coat, catch you 

on your lunch break and fuck you in a corner of your parking garage.

I want to be so safe with you, your hand around my throat is a blessing. 

You make sex, sacred. 

Holy.

God—do I want too much?

Is a want a need?

You said you would supply my every need…

What do I do with this, Lord?

Let me hear from you.

In Jesus name, I pray,

Amen.

vor 11/11/19

Title: Wants

#erotica #loneliness #faith #sensual #desire 

I am in the thick of publishing my new book, launching my podcast, building my entertainment industry team, crafting my solo performance, AND staying sober. It’s a juggling act, to say the least. I get proud, sometimes. I don’t want to ask for support when I have not given it. And the truth is I have been treading water since my surgery and divorce.

I simply haven’t had the energy or clarity of mind to be useful to you.

I am well. I have a great therapist and I’m attending AA meetings. I have too much riding on me, to leave remaining well to chance, risking it by “being strong.” I have slowed down to not overwhelm me. And I am bringing on amazing experts to take things away from me, so I only do my genius. God is faithful.

So, I didn’t reach out to you. I apologize. I should have communicated and let you choose instead of silencing you by not letting you in. So today, I am swallowing my pride and asking for help.

I am reaching out for feedback, specifically concerning my book description. I don’t know if I should include gender in the description. Does the description communicate?

The title of the book, tour and performance piece is The Raw Truth: A Pimp Daughter’s Diary. 

The tour has a different subtitle: “How to (or The Alchemy/The Art of…) Pimp Pain into Peace, Purpose, Passion, and Profits.” The solo performance has the same name as the book but with an image of me (see attached graphic) while the book has a beautiful cover design.

The book description is below:

From the mean streets of Baltimore to Stanford Ph.D., to a multiple seven-figure earner, this is a relentlessly honest and emotionally intimate account of spiritual healing, salvation, and reclamation of personal power. Ruthlessly authentic, sensually erotic, and viscerally explicit, this story is a road map to guide anyone (brave enough to tell their “real and raw truth”) from socially acceptable acts of self-hate to self-making, self-love but most importantly… self-respect.

SHOULD I ADD “…THIS IS ONE WOMAN’S RELENTLESSLY HONEST ACCOUNT…” OR LEAVE IT AS IS?

IS THE DESCRIPTION CLEAR AND COMPELLING? IS IT TOO THICK? OR IS IT JUST RIGHT?

Thanks in advance for your feedback. I know I don’t deserve it, but I thank you for taking the time out of your life to read my words.

Sincerely,

Dr. Venus Opal Reese​

Ps: This graphic is a work in progress. It will NOT be the cover for the book. It may be the cover for the solo performance. To grab a seat, go here: https://www.eventbrite.com/e/the-raw-truthtm-a-pimp-daughters-diary-tickets-73737343379

 

I have been f*cking with my body again.

I can tell I am relapsing into old behaviors to punish myself for divorcing my wife. Sex clubs. Swing clubs. Strip clubs. I traffic in queer spaces because believe it or not; they are safer than straight ones.

I can tell I am relapsing into old behaviors to punish myself for divorcing my wife. Sex clubs. Swing clubs. Strip clubs. I traffic in queer spaces because believe it or not; they are safer than straight ones.

“Clubs” have rules.

Rules. Codes of conduct. If someone breaks the code, the entire establishment rains fire on that ass. Queer spaces feel safer to me than churches. Straight spaces assume authority and power; queer spaces question both, with the very act of transgression via the actual unapologetic body in public spaces.

F*cking in public is an act of defiance.

In straight spaces, including public domain, sex outside is positioned as lewd; in queer spaces, it’s regarded as personal power. Specifically, if the act is a not reactionary or drug-induced, but is a choice, a conscious act.

Ironically, since my final divorce decree, I find myself drifting into nonconsciousness. That’s dangerous. It’s when I stop being vigilant, the demons slither in and take up residence in my mind…

“I got you on my mind baby…” is a song from NF. His album, Therapy Session, is the truth about depression and rage. I don’t feel rage. I don’t feel.

I can feel me numbing out.
I can’t cry. There’s nothing to cry about.
I can feel the empty get bigger on the inside, crowding out any feelings, thoughts, or memories that resemble love.

No regret.

Just lonely.

“I’m a man of my word; girl believe that…
I know I should relax. Hate the way I react.
“Thinking that I’m good, but you know I’m about to relapse.”

I am no longer responsible for my former spouse. I feel like I don’t have a reason anymore. My marriage was a structure, an organizing principle that helped me stay focus, clean, and driven.
Now I feel like I have TOO much room.
No anchor.
No reason.

It’s amazing what we will do for others that we/I won’t do for myself.

I stare in the mirror, naked and slowly pick me apart. Shredding anything good that stares back at me through hollow and haunted eyes.

I drift above me, looking down at my grey hairs, my cellulite, my wrinkles, my love handles, thighs like jelly, and think who would want me? I can’t cook, can’t have babies. I gave my best. I loved the best I could–but my best didn’t reach.

So, I sit on my hands to not reach for the bottle.

I play with my puppy, so I don’t pop pills.

I let every aspect of me ache, so I don’t dive into the alcohol.

I know me. And I know if I don’t do something to calm the craving, I will hurt me in ways that are unrecoverable. I am an addict. Addictive behavior doesn’t go away when one stops using/drinking/eating/f*cking/spending/serving/sacrificing, etc.

That’s how addiction works. There are amends, atonement, punishment required to sooth the empty.

To feel better.
To feel power.
To feel in control over SOMETHING.

I know I am relapsing, but I am doing so in the least long-term damaging ways.

I have to slow down again. Nothing bad. Just have to get back to balance. Too many surprises this week.

I just need to self-soothe… in a way that doesn’t scar.

vor

Bishop says: https://youtu.be/XvLJfmvw91g
Brandy says: https://youtu.be/3qwARoDzAI8
Beyoncé says: https://youtu.be/XOfXlCDpabA

Gave my first blow job at 6.
Molested by a woman at 9.
Pimped by 10.
Put out at 12.
Crawled back.
Thief by 12.
Scrubbed floors for money at 14.
Put out.
Begged to come home again.
Gun to my head.
Whipped with extensions cords, broomsticks, and water hoses in front of friends—who never let me forget it.
Made to laugh while hands hit over and over again with a wire hanger until they bled.
Pushed down a flight of stairs.
Head crushed through a sheetrock wall for protecting my oldest sister’s possible pregnancy.
Lied about my age to sell shoes at 15.
Gave the money to my family to help with bills.
Put out.
Scared I would fight her back.
Stayed out.
On the streets by 16
Worked the strip clubs by 16.
Became cruel.
My cruelty caused a man who loved me to slit his wrists.
Took care of him out of guilt.
Refused to be cruel to another living soul as long as I lived.
Vowed to take the hit for those I loved.
Stopped going to school to work.
Mastered street life. Especially the money part.
Got good at figuring out what people needed.
That knowledge kept me alive.
Got took.
Got better at reading people.
Got turned out.
Got masterful at hearing what people don’t say.
Built a system of safe houses and people who had my back… for a price.
Life became transactional.
Mastered it.
Got tired.

Prayed.
Nanna.
Everything changed.
_______________________________________________________
My divorce was finalized on Friday.

When I say this is the end of an era, the actual dissolution of the marriage is not what I’m addressing.

Yes, my marriage is over, and I saw to it that my former spouse is taken care of. From health insurance to stock to retirement to beautiful furniture. And cash. We lived an AMAZING lush life when we were together. And I am grateful. It was a successful marriage by any standard and I honor the ten years of love we shared.

But here’s the truth: I married for kindness, not character.

Said another way, I picked someone that was a match for my survival strategies: my people pleaser, my make you love me, my take-care-of-you-in-exchange-of-you-taking-care-of-me wounds.

My marriage was a trade.

Transaction under the auspices of love.

I thought if I took care of you, you would be loyal to me and have my back.

That’s not love.

Love, real love, is Nanna.
Real love is Ivy.
Real love is Seraphina.
Real love is John, who’s in prison.
Real love is Happy.

Real love is unconditional. No ask. No payback. No obligation. No judgment. No condemnation.

Real love is acceptance. Actual acceptance of everything I am and everything I am not or ever will be or can be.

I wish my former spouse love and success. My prayer is she finds someone who can love her the way she wants to be loved. I am grateful for our season and I am extremely grateful this season is over.

I am grateful for the divorce. I thank God that my former spouse couldn’t honor my boundaries.

Because she couldn’t respect my wounds and needs, it forced me to confront the lies I had been living under since I was a child.

I started telling the truth and learning how to say no, to stand for myself in the face of disapproval, judgment, condemnation, surprise attacks, and emotional manipulation.

Just like Momma.

It’s amazing how much my birth mom and my former spouse are alike. (It’s true: we DO marry our parents. LOL.) Both of them lived in a world of love = entitlement & obligation.

And just like I had to buy my mother’s love I had to do the same with my spouse.

No regret, just wisdom. But I realize now if someone loves you, you don’t have to buy it.

So, when I say this is the end of an era, I truly mean an era of my entire existence where I buy love, people please, self-sacrifice, acquiesce, earn it, prove it, make it work, quietly beg for inclusion, over-give, keep the peace or being driven by people’s approval.

I emancipate myself from the survival strategies of the past that were born in pain.
I keep the wisdom as I surrender the behavior.
I put myself first, and I love myself so completely, I am no longer swayed by kindness or compliments or accusations.

I am a free woman who lives her truth out loud.

I used to think freedom was the ability to walk away or speaking my mind.

But there is a deeper freedom. Freedom now means to stand in my truth, unafraid of the fallout.

I truly am unafraid. My sense of self is no longer defined by people, things, or accolades.
I am no longer addicted to approval or acceptance, or even love.

I love me.
God loves me.
My family loves me.

Moses is dead.
Beauty for ashes.
It is finished.

Tomorrow is the dawn of a new era in my life where I live as a free woman, unencumbered by the past.

Freedom costs. I happily paid the price. And would pay it again, and again and again to love me, trust me, and design my life through destiny-driven actions, instead of reactionary ones.

I truly am my own best thing.

So, let it be written, I, Dr. Venus Opal Reese, declare, decree and proclaim, my independence from every stronghold, yoke, belief, fear, thought and wound that no longer serves me.

I walk into my destiny, free and unafraid.

And if someone decides they need to come for me.

Let. Them. Come.

I am my father’s daughter. (The pimp/hustler/gangsta that sired me and the heavenly one who is the very air I breathe.) I’m “Street Certified” and proud of who I am. #thestreetsneverleftme

Jesus fulfilled the law; I embody it.

I bask in deliverance; I relish the anointing on my life.

I am God’s favorite. And there is NOTHING this world can do to ever change that.
No beating.
No betrayal.
No emotional or mental bondage.

Pain is not personal.

I refuse to let the past/pain win. F*ck that. I am free from it all.

I let my freedom ring and swing from the rafters.
My freedom rings. Today. Tomorrow. Forever.

Yeah… I let my freedom ring… and reverberated around the world with souls who have eyes to see and ears to hear my truth.