Déjà Vu

I’ve learned so much over the past month—a lot about myself. I turned 54 this month, and all year I thought I was 52 turning 53. A few weeks before my birthday, I plugged my date of birth into an app, and the age popped up. I was like, what? Pulled out the calculator real quick and thought, holy fuck! I straight-up lost a whole year of my life—two years went by, and it felt like one.

I know for some, 54 sounds old, but consider me 33—’cause 54 ain’t old, baby. We call that vintage, and vintage will always be in—always.

Sometimes I feel my body in certain places—like my diaphragm area, my tailbone, or my shoulder bone—and they’re not where they used to be. My body has been altered from the inside out, and some days those changes make me feel sad. Other days, I see those changes and I don’t think about them—or feel that way at all.

I focus on the other changes in me. The ones that happened deep down—patience, shifts in my demeanor, my knowledge, my wisdom. The growth that has happened within me over the last couple of years has been incredible.

I see how one day can be so difficult, so tough, so hard. There are days when I just wanna give up, toss in the towel. But then I wake up the next day—and it’s completely different. Everything goes right from the second I wake up until I lay down. The day isn’t just a good day—it’s a wonderful, beautiful day. I’m so full of hope and ambition, and it’s the complete opposite of the day before.

I know that in the span of 24 hours, everything can change—in just one day. And the more those occasions happen—those discouraging, depressive thoughts followed by the immediate turnaround—the less frequent those dark days become.

I was gifted a trip to Cuba for my birthday on the 20th. I was scared as hell to go this time, but just as excited. I packed my lorazepam and gabapentin and kept them close—just in case I had a spaz attack or started trippin’ with anxiety.

I got to the airport super early—both on the way there and on the way back—so I’d have extra time to get my head right, settle in, and keep my anxiety in check. Everything ran smoothly.

The few days I was there were very relaxing. If I wasn’t at the beach, I was in bed. I went to the buffet only a couple of times—not like there was anything choice there anyway. I had packed food for my stay—applesauce, oatmeal, dried fruit—and that’s what I ate. Small portions, slowly, to make sure my stomach wouldn’t act up—and it didn’t.

When I got home, Trent ordered pizza. It was late and that’s the ritual after Cuba: grab food, usually pizza or McDonald’s, on the way home. I hadn’t had pizza in six weeks, maybe two months. And if you know me, you know it’s my absolute favourite food in the world. Just your basic extra cheese, pepperoni, easy on the sauce, thin crust—that’s my go-to.

I had one slice that night and took my time, chewing each bite thoroughly. It took me thirty minutes to finish. Even though it was just one slice, it was more than I’ve eaten in one sitting in months. Normally, I eat half a sandwich spread over three portions. A stacked sandwich, mind you, but eaten very slowly. Moderation isn’t even the word—it’s extreme moderation. Not something I’m used to, but it is what it is.

This way of eating is extremely fucking difficult—especially when you’re used to scarfing your food down.

So I ate a pizza slice—it wasn’t even big—and I felt OK. I went to bed. I woke up the next day in pain. My stomach was protruding. It hurt like hell—that awful, familiar pain—and I felt nauseous. Those symptoms were right fucking back.

I’m the smallest I think I’ve ever been in my adult life.

Ya, I was grateful it didn’t happen while I was away, but I can’t tell you how sad and disturbing it was for me to acknowledge that that’s what pizza did to me. My favourite food. I laid in bed massaging my stomach with the Bio-Oil, almost in tears.

I massage my tummy often—daily—with Bio-Oil, and it helps. The massaging is for movement, and the oil has helped significantly with the texture of my skin, repairing it from the damage done by the tape.

So, so much for, you know, going outside the line—swerving lanes. I’m back on the applesauce, yogurt, cottage cheese, avocado kick. And I thought to myself today, as I tried to accept once again that this is my life now—I can’t quite yet. It’s challenging as fuck because there’s a part of me that thinks, well, it hasn’t even been six months yet.

I’ve got time. Maybe it’ll take eight months, maybe it’ll take a year. Maybe it’ll take 18 months. I still have hope that my stomach won’t be like this forever—that it’s just been through a lot, and it’s taking a lot longer than the average person with stomach issues to resolve. I’m not ready to accept having to eat this way for the rest of my life.

What I’m doing now—well, what I hope I’m doing—is nursing it back to health.

While in Cuba, I saw these two dudes on the beach—we were on the same flight. The one guy and I started talking about how the beach looked so empty all the way down to the end, and I said, “It’s desolate.” He was like, “Oh, that’s a perfect word for it.”

We talked about the dark blue patches in the ocean—this resort had a lot of them—and I said, “Those are seagrass beds—full of fish and whatever else—anemones.”

He chuckled and said, “Anemones—you got words, eh!” Haha!

I blurted out, “I write.” I wasn’t bragging or trying to impress him—it just came out. He said, “Yeah? What do you write about?” And out of my mouth flowed, “I write about the shit nobody wants to talk about—the shit people like to keep buried.”

It came out so effortlessly, and in that moment, I realized that’s what I do. I write about real shit—truth—and I love it. Fumbling around in my mind about how I would answer that question was no more. Knowing something is one thing—saying it out loud and hearing it out loud aren’t the same.

I also took notice on this getaway—a lot of couples. Visibly in love. Couples that have been together for years. And I couldn’t help but think about how I’ve wasted my teens, my 20s, and my 30s. I wasted my time on men who treated me poorly—to say the least—and in the end, I am alone. I wasn’t just alone while in Cuba—I felt lonely. I don’t wanna feel that way. I don’t wanna be alone anymore.

I spent my mental health, my psychological well-being, my emotions, my heart on what I thought was love—but it wasn’t love. It was like I always wanted what I couldn’t have… pieces of shit—and I made damn sure I got them, whoever they were. And oh, I got it, alright! It felt like a conquest.

I was determined to make them want me. I would be whatever they wanted me to be and show up whenever they wanted—until they were all the way in—and by then, after years of abuse, I was finally fucking sick of them.

Done. Disgusted. With each and every one.

Something was fucked up in my head from time, and that made me that way. Was it the absence of the father I always wanted—his rejection? I don’t know. But something fucked me up.

I’ve never been in love.

I’ve been in lust. I’ve been captivated. I’ve been seduced. I’ve been obsessed. But I don’t think I’ve ever been in love. That probably had a lot to do with how I felt about myself from an early age—it shaped how I behaved with men. Men who never really wanted me. Not at first, anyway. All three of them—womanizers.

Can’t say that about the end, though—’cause them tables fucking turned every time. I made damn sure they did. I wasn’t leaving without making my mark. They’d still be on my phone to this day—if they weren’t on block!

That’s not love—that’s fucked up!

When I drank, I used to cry almost every single night. Sometimes the crying couldn’t even wait until I was alone in my room—it would hit me before I even got home. And I didn’t really know why I was crying, except that I wasn’t happy with myself or my life. Happy is an understatement.

That went on for 10–12 years before surgery—when I partied late into the night with people I thought I could trust, stuff would come up. Bits of my past. Not like anyone was really listening. But I never saw it as PTSD—never knew it to be that.

Then all this heart business happened. After waking up from a year of numbness—I walked through the fire. And that’s not just some saying people throw around—that shit is real.

I don’t know how other people find this fire I speak of—I was divinely thrown into it.

I walked through it slowly, for well over a year. Acknowledging the stuff I buried, burning down the layers one by one, working through each and every single one. I saw everything that hurt me, everything that fractured my soul, and I had the chance to face it all and work through it.

As hard, heart-wrenching, and painful as it all was—it was a gift. It was entirely worth it. Under the ash, a clean, untroubled soul emerged.

I wasn’t in any condition to be in a relationship with a man—and I knew that. Being with those pieces of shit had fucked me up, and I needed to heal. I just didn’t know what healing looked like—or how the fuck to do it.

Crying every night wasn’t healing—though I thought maybe I’d eventually cry it all out. But until I worked through my shit—walked through that fire—that pain, that darkness, wasn’t going anywhere.

Now when I cry, I know exactly why. The tears that fall from my eyes these days have meaning. They’re powerful. They come from acknowledging the transformation that took place in me. These tears are the healing kind.

I want love. I want a companion. I may be a little rough around the edges, but not like before. The rough I carry now is different—it’s the trauma I’ve survived, my vulnerability. That’s all new for me. It’s a lot—all of it.

Jaye wants love—that’s big news.

I’ve been single for over a decade. After the last piece of shit, I was done with men. I always chose wrong, so I decided to stop choosing—period. I built a small business and chose myself—for a change.

But it’s time. I’ve got a lot of love inside me that wants—and deserves—to be shared.

So yea, I learned a lot about myself on this trip. And it keeps going—old soul, old body, old mind—but in the same breath, it’s all new.

It’s like a song that’s been in my head for as long as I can remember, and this is the first time I’ve thought about it in over two years—“I’m young and I’m old—I’m rich and I’m poor—I feel like I’ve been on this earth many times before…”

It’s so fucking appropriate. I used to come home drunk, lie in bed, cry, and play this song over and over—for years. This song’s always had me—but it hits differently now. Deeper. Like I never really knew its true meaning until now—like it was written for me.

Déjà Vu — Teena Marie

RIP, Lady T.