Jezabelle

Blogging Friends.... This post has been being written in my crazy never-shuts-down head for quite some time. I am really proud of it. Proud of myself. Love you later.

"I like Pinto Horses," I declared one afternoon while walking through a local county fair alongside my family of six, "Because they're pretty!!" I had taken a moment to observe some Pinto Horse's muscular white body with brown splotches. It looked as though the Ultimate Artist Himself, God, had personally painted them!! Using His own Fingers!! As the years passed by, I actually rode a horse--named Callie--who belonged to my cousin, Desiree. Callie was mostly all white with some brown splotches. Like a Pinto Horse!! I do not recall how old I was. Young enough to make myself terrified of falling off of Callie due to how Hollywood actor Christopher Reeve became paralyzed. Was he still alive? Or had Christopher Reeve passed on? I haven't a clue. All I know is that I am a fanatic of Christopher Reeve as Superman. I remember praying for him after his horseback riding accident, and I strongly believed that he would walk again. I went from a little kid who watched him play Clark Kent--my first Superhero love--to twenty years old when he died, and I was completely heartbroken. Completely heartbroken. Either I was insane or stupid or both, but when I mounted Callie's back, I did not wear a helmet. I refused one. For twain reasons. One, having been born with craniosynostosis, I possess an oddly shaped skull. If tomboyish baseball caps and chic top hats will not fit my head, then no helmet will. Two, having been born with craniosynostosis, I possess a freakishly hard skull. Besides. I had already survived falling backwards out of our yellow/white Chevrolet Suburban while wearing roller skates. Tons of blood and zero stitches later, I only became crazier. Well. I immediately regretted this insane no-helmet decision both mentally and emotionally. Me--who is afraid of falling--was so very high from the ground!! And I did not have a helmet on?! Stupid, stupid, stupid. They say that horses can smell fear, to which I agree. As I rode Callie, Desiree walking alongside me, Callie was--if I remember correctly!!--quite nervous!! I anxiously kept saying "whoa", which to Callie meant "hoe", or stop. {If I spelled that right!!} So Callie kept abruptly stopping!! Desiree, who could also read my fear, asked if I wanted Callie to trot. I said "yes". I lied. Now. Before I sat on Callie's saddle, my Uncle Tom distinctively told me not to scream. And what did I do when Callie trotted? That's right. I screamed. But thankfully, Callie never bucked me off, and I did not fall on my oddly-shaped rock-hard head, so everything went smoothly!! Callie, I must add, was recently euthanized. Metaphorically speaking, my negative feelings/emotions/thoughts--which are the sole cause of minor mood swing-infused pity parties--feel like some powerful wild and unruly muscular mare. I decided to name her. Well, at first, he was this handsome stallion, but I eventually gave him a "sex change". I altered his name, as well. Then, as I meditated on my negative feelings/emotions/thoughts, I decided that she is a beautiful Pinto Horse. Her name's Jezabelle. What? I love that Bible name, but could never give it to a canine. Or daughter. Or character. Oh wait. I just gave the name Jezabelle to a character, didn't I? Anyhoo. Whether I want to or not, even sans knowing it, I am continuously mounted on Jezabelle's back. Sometimes she calmly walks along, as I feel her stomach against my legs. But sometimes? Jezabelle, being the wild and untamed mare that she is, attempts her very best efforts in bucking me off. With every negative feeling? Jezabelle bucks. With every negative emotion? Jezabelle bucks. With every negative thought? Jezabelle bucks. With every hot tear that trickles down my cheek? I hold on tight {As though my life depends on it!!} to Jezabelle's leather reins. With every minor mood swing-infused pity party, whether long or short? Jezabelle throws me. There are, of course, some physical and emotional repercussions afterward--I call them "mood swing hangovers"--such as a spitting headache. But I survive every time. And I only manage to walk away stronger, as my perspective on Life becomes even better. Somehow. Jezabelle can break me mentally and emotionally. However. Jezabelle cannot kill me. Because I'm "hard to kill", as that phrase goes. Lately? I have found myself in the oddly wonderful place of gripping Jezabelle's reins so tight that my knuckles turn white. For example. I randomly visited somebody's Blog yesterday--she published her memoir--and was celebrating in a bookstore. In a bookstore. You know what? Jealousy didn't strike me that this Blogger is published and I am not. No. I still find myself at peace--for the most part--with God's answer to me that I shouldn't be a published author. Not can't. I shouldn't be a published author because my prolific Writing Projects keep me emotionally and mentally sane. Yes. My Writing Projects keep minor mood swing-infused pity parties at bay!! And I so desperately need that. Sanity. Because. With sanity, to me, also comes happiness!! No. It was the very sight of a bookstore {With its wall-to-wall published literature} and my "books" are not being sold there that suddenly hit hard. But then. Before I could throw myself yet another pity party, I wrote this down in protest against any negative emotions. I don't want to be a published author. Not right now at least. Published authors aren't allowed the time to write as prolifically as I do. I need that. The time. Which I have been so blessed with. I need the time to write monthly "books". It maintains my emotional/mental sanity. I'm. Livin'. The. Dream!!

Ride like the wind, Jezabelle. I know, sans a doubt, that you will throw me off again. And again. And again. And again. Although it has not occurred in quite some time!! But meanwhile? I am holding on tight to your leather reins. I will tame you in good time.