Emotional hangover is real. I never expected recovery to take so damn long — or that it was even a thing.
For 27 years, I held my darkest stories like a losing hand — afraid to lay them down, even in writing.
Then I remembered something poker taught me:
Being ashamed of bad plays guarantees more losses. If you fail to find lessons in the loss, well, you'll likely fu*k up more often.
It turns out that the same rule applies to life outside the poker table.
Shame keeps you stuck — learning starts the recovery
All we have control over is how we play the cards we're dealt.
After sharing my deep secrets last month on my Substack podcast, which has been downloaded more than 1,700 times, I realized something: We all have stories we think are too raw to tell.
Maybe it's time to lay your cards on the table, too.
Do you want a laugh?
Of course, you do. I feel like a dumbass asking.
Here's another metaphor that became a startling reality during the night and the morning just after I clicked that blue button on my phone screen and posted about poker saving my life and pleading to a felony.
Keeping this to myself feels like I’ve been constipated for decades; then, when I posted it, I had such a strong body response!
Emotional detox hits hard and fast
My stomach started rumbling so loud the dogs noticed.
Then, I made it to the toilet and had the biggest dump I've ever had. Used the plunger to unclog the toilet, and another wave of shit came.
Who knew telling the truth could trigger a full-body purge?
When I told a dear friend, she texted back:
“This is wonderful!! I have had that VERY experience... and I love that you are keen to align your body signals with your emotional, social, spiritual, and psychic experiences!!”
Have you ever heard “your body knows”?
I have, but I didn't quite get it until…
I unwittingly created an emotional laxative
So, my first dose was published on January 26, 2025.
Then, I went back further to my foundation, and the second dose was published on February 2, 2025.
From a rigid Southern Baptist upbringing in the coal mining camps of Virginia, I simultaneously lost my faith and my virginity to date rape at the age of 19. And then married the date-rape bastard.
Argh.
Until I went deeper into my most shameful times and published my third dose of emotional laxative.
Who knew unpacking decades-old memories would trigger primal instincts — and make me wonder, “Where are the batteries?”
Truth hits hard, and so does unexpected pleasure
I closed the tablet, reached for a toy, and found a portable massage gun instead.
Did I win? Damn straight!
Or maybe I should say I was dealt a Royal Flush 😂
Look, I thought my libido was in a crypt in the morgue, waiting for my body to join.
But it was resurrected by re-experiencing some extreme pleasures that I was given by the man who shamed me into becoming a prostitute.
I never expected that to happen last week! Never. Ever!
Hubs #2 cared for me, clothed me, nurtured me, and pleasured me more than most men ever could — or even knew how.
Sharing those experiences with you ignited my desire even though I went on to explain the uglies.
I admit I was feeling guilty and judging myself as I sighed in pleasure.
He believed I deserved care because he expected my model body would generate income and sustain us as a model.
But when one modeling agency after another rejected me, saying, “You're too tall at 6’5”, too fat at 150, and too old at 25,” Hubs #2 changed his mind.
Then, his words punched me in the gut: “You're too expensive to be useless.”
BTW, I like the term hooker better. Or, high-class call girl.
I don't know why I'm inclined to share that with you, but I still feel obliged to let you into my head — to let you feel what I do and what I went through.
Maybe, just maybe, it'll give you the courage to stand up for yourself.
Look, I'm 75, and I'm sick and tired of being afraid I'll be judged for speaking my truth.
At this age, staying quiet feels like folding a winning hand. I'm done with that.
Enough. Silence is stupid.
Let me share a Substack note I posted last Saturday.
Here it is. Let me read it to you:
I'm sick and tired of staying quiet.
I'm in my 8th decade, and I'm sick and tired of staying quiet.
I'm sick and tired of empowering the negative by shouting at it.
I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired.
I ripped off my mouth muffler and chose to speak my mind.
When I feel visceral hate and disgust and shame directed at a living entity, I'm doing all in my power to transform that energy to love.
We are energetic beings.
If hate thoughts can change frozen water at the core level, can we choose to change our thoughts?
Whatever Divine being you connect with, call love to you and through you and broadcast it.
We are holding crappy cards.
I pray we play them with detached observation rather than giving energy to the ugly.
I am Donna Blevins, the Unmuffled MindShift Mechanic.
My quest is to fine-tune self-talk on the global scale.
I love you just the way you are, even when we disagree.
Click here to restack this note and spread the love.
It breaks my heart when I see others strip confidence away.
That happened at the poker table when a cocky, egotistical asshole lost his cool and lashed out. He began berating another woman for how she'd played.
Folding her cards, they had accidentally flipped up. He saw that she had bluffed him out of the hand with nothing.
Please understand. I relish that kind of reaction when it's directed at me. At 6'5", I'm a big girl, and I can take care of myself at the poker table.
Besides, emotions meant that the jerk was off his game. He was on tilt.
That’s bad for his game. Good for the other players. Except for the other woman, who I could see was afraid.
Her body language. The look on her face. The way she looked down.
That reminded me of how women look when they've been abused and are afraid to speak up.
That's what I'm sick and tired of. Being afraid to speak up.
She was across the table from him, and he was on his feet, “How could you play those cards?”
My maternal, protective instincts came into play, and I called out, “Hey, dude!’
He looked over at me for a moment, and I said, “You wanna stand up and say that?”
Laughter rolled around the table, shutting him up as he sat down.
Allow me to share celebrations with you.
My ugly truth post from three weeks ago hit 1,765 podcast downloads — and keeps climbing. I’ve added seventeen free subscribers from that newsletter and one loyal annual paid subscriber. Yay! Thank you so much.
During last week's post, where I unpacked my darkest memories from fifty years ago, I never expected I would re-experience emotions on a deep inner level, which it did and which manifested and triggered sexual delight.
Believe me, sister and brother — tell your truth.
I was on three other podcasts the last month. One garnered eighteen sign-ups for my upcoming masterclass, Speed-Shift Your Self-Talk Workshop, but there’s still room for you.
This other podcast was recorded last week and hasn't been released yet, but the host created a kickass reel and posted that on Substack and on Instagram. It is Unfucking Midlife.
Phew! I am thrilled and exhausted at the same time.
It turns out that truth-telling burns more energy than bluffing ever did.
Emotional hangover recovery? Still in progress. But worth every damn minute, every tear I’ve shed, every word I’ve written, and every climax I’ve reached.
Be sure to sign up for the workshop. If it’s closed, you can get on the waitlist for the next LIVE.
Consider yourself hugged
Donna
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