II – Deon’s Demons

II – Deon’s Demons

From morning to afternoon, I’ve known them, circling,
I taste them only when coughing, exhaling,
Doctors can only see random allergens,
Giving snake oil addictions to treat my symptoms.

Medicines, cruel demons, here to stay

Choke, cough, expectorate, medicate, rinse, repeat
Nausea ad nauseum, I don’t want to eat,
Those are the infestations below my brains…
Through my eyes, I’ve welcomed more, sweet, permanent stains

You can’t bleach them or wash them away.

Generation to generation, they ride down,
Hitting tree branches, growing concentration,
So I give them the best evils I’ve gotten,
Though compared, “the good old days” were just as rotten.

Genetics find unfair ways to play.

I can’t concentrate quite enough to finish well,
Retreating from judgement, escaping for a spell.
My wife, from my dad, inherits my mother’s hell.
Failures, words, like anvils on a sparrow’s egg shell.

Disappointing her gives me dismay.

Seasons of sadness enshroud my brain like a pall.
They should be warm and soft, shouldn’t they all?
Instead they scrape, tear and grind, while making me fall…
How many times can I escape, try to stand tall?

Some days I’m OK, then, demon days.

Dragged down by people as much as by demons,
They blame me for myself, as if I had chosen
My feelings, frustrations, of my own free will,
As if my cage could be opened by all these pills.

Past and new bullies are hell to pay.

My brain is on fire, everyone should just run!
This can be transmitted, hell’s special contagion!
Leave me here to fight memory, sadness, time lost,
Come around to be nice to me, warm my black frost.

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I – I Am The Voices In My Head

I Am The Voices In My Head, 10/23/2018, Deon Mumple

I am the voices in my head,
Very much still that little kid,
The old man wishing he was dead,
Who did, but wished he never did,
I’m every book I’ve ever read.
Inside, the voices stay well-hid,
So no one hears a word they’ve said.

I am the voices in my ears:
Guilt, pain, grief, bitterness, and  tears,
The difference between dreams and years,
The sum of past, and present fears.
Burning, critical spirits sear,
Stupidity, accomplishment smears.
In my head, all I hear are jeers.

I am the voice, encouraging
When others try, and want to sing,
And when they feel life’s crushing sting.
— We’re broken, downward-facing things–
I am the voices I’m hearing
Say, “try harder, be more trusting.”
Failed, or betrayed, I’m despairing.

I am deep love that’s not returned-
Given away, heart torn and burned.
I am, in faith, heartsick, disturbed.
I’m told I “shouldn’t be concerned,
Just wait some more, …lessons not learned,
Patience and trust, [and being curbed,]
Wait for wisdom, you’re God’s proverb.”

I am success no one can see,
(Depreciated history,)
Asking, waiting, “God, set me free!”
Enslaved to time and misery.
I am myself, but is it me?
Or am I lost, dead already,
A soul, spilled, accidentally?

 

Expecting “Strange Changes,” Still the Same

I  apologize to every one of my reader… that I haven’t written in a while.  It could explain why follower numbers and reader number are not the same.  Faithfulness builds loyalty, so if I were able to write every day, I might have a few more readers, despite the writing quality.  I mean, despite the lack thereof.  I’m living proof that shit falls apart, and I’m waiting to be flushed, or scooped into a plastic bag, tied at the top, and dropped in a trash can, if my Handler is tidy.  And I’m living proof that as is said, “the more things change, the more things stay the same.”

My dear wife, Mrs. M., still has me at arms length, or perhaps I’ve resigned myself to the distance.  But she was quite resolute when I was to attend my last doctor’s appointment, basically a “hi, how is everything?” “I’m fine but still depressed.” “OK, we’ll keep you on your medication” meeting.  She was insistent that I address the depression.  So insistent, in fact, that after I was sitting in the waiting area, after an ill-timed attempt to get medication for the dog, after they finally called me in to the little room with the stupid artwork on the walls, she had gotten the medication and blood tests run on the dog and then managed to show up at my doctor’s appointment.  You know the artwork.  It’s the same in every little room.  I think the pediatrician and the pediatric dentist have the same damn print in their offices too.

She showed up about the same time as I was discussing with the doctor, how the extended amphetamine was somewhat effective for my A.D.D., but I was still feeling depressed, this time for a longer season than the normal few months before breaking out into extremely mild mania for a few months.  This tells me I waited too damned long in both the waiting area AND in the little exam room, before the doctor bothered to show up.  She showed up because she wanted to be sure I addressed how the extended amphetamine was somewhat effective for my A.D.D., but I was still feeling depressed.

My depression is very situational.  I’ve been depressed for a while, seeing how I can’t get out from under things despite my strong attempts to relieve myself of them, I can’t afford to fix things when they break, and when I think for a minute that I can fix it, it gets worse, or Mrs. M. tells me she’s called a guy.  I can’t fix work- that’s a whole set of issues way beyond my influence.  I can’t fix the rotten door frame because she’s called a guy.  I was literally at the hardware store staring at the cheap wood, already cut except at corners, wondering about taking that one on myself, and she said no, she’s already called a guy.  In his defense, he’s a family friend, he’s competent, and he has the specific tools for the job, but like any other contractor he hasn’t shown up yet to do what would take me a few hours, and take him like 5 minutes to do.  I bothered to call her instead of just buying that along with the air filter we needed for the furnace, and she said not to buy the wood and nails.  I can’t fix my teeth because it costs so much, and when we were trying to save the money to get the crowns, the teeth cracked and now would need to be replaced by even less-affordable dental implants.  To correct the current situation I need two implants and a crown.  I can actually imagine myself with a crown and implants:  even sexier than I am already, and powerful too.  I mean, if Mrs. M. can barely restrain herself to keeping me at arms length already, just imagine!

I took a week off because the kids are on fall break.  It’s Thursday, so my reader knows I’ve vacuumed on Tuesday and that needs to be done again already.  I’ve swept on Wednesday and that needed to be done again by Wednesday night.  I’ve washed dishes , so there’s a strainer and dishwasher of clean ones that still need to be put away, and a sink full of dirty dishes that need to be washed already and it’s not even 10 AM.  And the kids are upstairs enjoying their vacation days.  Mrs. M. asked and then told one to mop the floors so that’s still waiting to be done as well.  It was trash day yesterday, so Tuesday I took all the trash and recycling to the curb, and those bins are still sitting at the street instead of being put away by the kids on their return trips to go to the store or food pickup.

I was craving Chinese takeout and I was starving on Tuesday night, so my daughter decided we needed to go to Taco Bell.  It was OK, just not what I wanted.  First world problems.  Yesterday I set up dinner- lasagna-style “pasta rolls” swimming in a lovely Italian tomato sauce with garlic.  Mrs. M. breezed through the doors, commented on what I hadn’t done, oblivious to what I had done, and then criticized the fact that dinner wasn’t quite done.  In my defense, the lasagna rolls were delicious when they WERE done, along with the home-made bread I had broiled with some garlic butter.  But they were frozen, which meant they weren’t done in the 30 minutes advertised on the package.

She urged the doctor, despite my fears, to prescribe an antidepressant, and he did.  But after the last pharmaceutical phuck-up, I asked the doctor AND the pharmacist and another doctor I know as a friend, about potential side-effects and co-mingling of medications, and the mild tides I have ridden with some measure of personal awareness for lo these 40 of 53 years, approximately.  The mild tide isn’t high and low enough for a bipolar diagnosis, and isn’t fast enough for a cyclothymia diagnosis.  Bless my heart, I can’t even do THAT right.  Yeah, last time I asked for a refill of the slow-release amphetamine they gave Mrs. M. straight up amphetamine and said that’s what the doctor called in.  So, I don’t know if that was the doctor calling it in wrong, or the pharmacy philling it phunky.  Oh.  Word play.  Phine.  So maybe I am slowly coming out of my phunk.  Someone tell my checking account and the housework to do the same.  The doctors and the pharmacist all assured me that there was no statistical information they were aware of that taking the new medication would throw my brain in a skull-shaped blender and turn this already screwed up brain into an even more worthless, rapid-cycling puddle of not-quite bipolar, not quite cyclothymic, pudding.

I quoted “the more things change, the more things stay the same,” and I’m sticking to it.

Side effects that may include everything from mild nausea to permanent sexual dysfunction and suicidal tendencies, so far have only included moderate nausea, some “light” insomnia, just about once or twice a day randomly and suddenly feeling hot(ter than I’m normally aware of), with accompanying sweating more than I normally noticed, and an externally-induced near abstinence that’s about the same as it was before the new medication.  Bleah.

I’m still depressed, I’m still frustrated and sometimes outright angry, I still have no energy beyond what I can scrape together to do light chores not quite fast enough to keep up with the shit, my lovely wife is still controlling, and where she can’t micromanage,  critical, and my kids can’t be arsed to do anything to help, but they’re on their own antidepressants and A.D.D. medications. I’m worried about how they’ll fare in the real world.  It’s going to be a kick in their asses.  I recall trying in their younger years to be what I wanted to be as a father, until Mrs. M. informed me that that was stupid, so I let some of it go.  Now she wants me to pick it up again, and it’s 15 years too late.  I love them all dearly, but despite the medication, the shit pile of shit that needs putting away, cleaning, repair, replacement, etc., doesn’t look like it’s improving at all.

I’m going to make another gesture against futility today, and see how far the energy I can muster for the day carries me.  My reader is well-acquainted with the specific gesture.  Wish me luck, or pray for me, or both.  The lotteries are all high, maybe I’ll buy an entry for one of each.  I’d be able to fix most of my situational depression if I won just ONE of the jackpots, but it’d be absolutely hilarious if I won both.  It’d take a while to adjust to the change, and I’m sure I’d struggle to manage to eke out some kind of meager existence, but that’s a chance I’m willing to take, and just the sort of challenge I think I might be able to face.

I hope you can find enough energy to invest somewhere.  Even gestures against futility mean something positive, even if they only last long enough for you to look at any tiny accomplishment and smile, at least it was a smile and you’ve done something good.  I hope you can do something good for yourself today.

Isolated

There are times when I want to be alone.  There are other times when I feel like real life is like having been shipped off to 75-year-long summer camp with a bunch of idiots I don’t like, and I’d kill for an encouraging note or telephone call from one of my friends, or someone in my family.

Life sucks.  And I DO isolate myself, I confess.  I swear, nobody knows the real Deon, not even Deon.  And I get depressed because of that, and then spiral out to hyperbolic reasoning, that because nobody is talking to me, nobody gives a shit.  I start with home, where if I do it it’s taken for granted as expected, and if I don’t do it, it’s because I don’t manage my time well enough, not because I’m fucking depressed and don’t want to fucking move, and then I get tired and fall asleep sometimes between the hours of 3:30am and 5 or 6:00am, on a fairly routine basis.  Sometimes I’ll sleep longer, but the medication causes insomnia.

I move on to thinking about family, where no one comes over because our dog is a wild beast who hates everyone because of some past trauma, so he wants to eat you if you show any fear, but loves you forever if you give him chicken or pepperoni or whatever the flavor of the day is.  The spoiled little shit.  And no one comes over because it’s too far, although we moved here to be closer to family so we could see them more often than when the drive was about 10 hours.  We still see them once in a while.  It’s a little more frequent, but we drive over to them, 30 minutes for one side of the family, 3 or 4 hours for the other side of the family.  We sometimes send each other greeting cards.  I have a birthday card I need a stamp for, for one of my family.  And no one comes over because they have a life and they’re busy living their life.

My immediate family is too busy in their own depressed shit, they don’t want to hear my suggestions for anything, and they treat me about like I get from work- they expect everything, and give nothing.  I did a service project Saturday, vacuumed carpets and mowed the grass on Sunday to spite my back from the service project, and today spent my breaks and lunch emptying the lint filter, the trash and recycling and putting away dishes from the dishwasher and drying rack, and washing all of the pans.  No fucking break.  And when I get home tonight after delivering my son to his social engagement, all the dishes will be dirty again so I get to do it all over again, if I have the motivation.  They love to correct me when my thinking doesn’t match theirs, or shut me up if I have a suggestion, or just flat out tell me “no.”

I move on to work, where co-workers on the same level as me commiserate, but management couldn’t give a half a fuck about me as long as I do my job, but bitch up a storm when I don’t.  Ass holes.  No encouragement, no concern, no cost of living raises, no bonuses, nothing.  And they make it hard to take time off, so why should I even try to schedule it when it’s probably going to be denied, but the whole time they act like it’s my fault and why haven’t I taken it?

So yeah.  When my dear daughter, who sometimes is depressed, cries about her loneliness, I suggested that she contact one of her old friends from High School that she maybe hasn’t heard from in a while.  She cried and said she thinks they’re all too busy living their college lives.  But maybe, I thought out loud, one of her friends is as scared and isolated and lonely as she is, and would just about kill for an encouraging, or funny, or supportive, or bitch-about-life, note, or a call, from a friend or a family member.

Isolation sucks.

So today, I got an email from one of my blogger friends, and she told me about something happy and positive, and I got a good smile and even a little laugh from a picture she sent.  She didn’t have to do that.  But I LOVE her for doing it.

Mrs M., although not offering a resounding response to my last bitch-fest, did, in her own quiet way, affirm that she loves me, and assured me that the rumor I hyperbolized was most emphatically NOT TRUE, despite the wisdom of the Latin saying, in vino veritas.  I’ll have to take her word for it, because I wasn’t there except in my sickened, jealous, possibly overactive, but still uncertain, imagination.

My blogger friends:  IF you can muster the energy to be someone’s encouragement, IF you can get past your own feelings, be that.  The person you show up for may, like me, be in a depressed state because life sucks and isolation sucks and all their friends are busy living life and don’t have time to contact them, and the job sucks, and everything would fall to shit around them if they didn’t do something, but they don’t have any energy to do shit so they just watch the avalanche of shit falling all around them, and on top of them.

On today, when I was seriously surrounded and covered by the avalanche of shit, and would have just about fucking killed for a nice note from a friend because of the above, (she’s going to love/hate me for this) thank GOD, that unvoiced request was granted, and she was the instrument of His peace (see also the prayer, attributed to St. Francis of Assisi).

>>>>>>>>

Dear God, It’s me, Deon.  About the other requests… if you can send a few other instruments of Your peace, and soon, I’ll write even more affirming things about answers to prayers in my blog.  Which I really want to do.  Even if the orchestra members show up one at a time, please send them soon.  If you could help Mrs. M. create that resounding reply, and give her the courage to play that, THAT would be completely amazing.

<<<<<<<<<

Anyway, readers, if you can, play your love song for someone, or if it isn’t love, then your like-song.  You may think it’s stupid and not worth playing, but please, play it.  Someone needs to hear it.  It may be off key, but it may be the best song they’ve heard in a while.  If you’ve been isolated and feel lonely, I want you to know that although I’m trapped in a head-high mud (please don’t tell me, I know what it really is made of but I want to be in denial) funk, I’m out here, and I care about you in spite of how trapped I feel.  If I can only make a difference by writing, then so be it- that’s my song, and I’m playing it the best I can, for you.  Forgive a few shitty notes.  I don’t really feel that I play all that well.

DM

“Fuck You” Songs

Today I found a jackpot.  No, not the lottery, not yet at least.  I know many of you know these songs are out there.  So why didn’t you tell ME?  I had to find them on my own!!

As if this list wasn’t enough, it wasn’t complete or exhaustive, and I have to say that because several of the songs weren’t a match to my specific angers tonight.  Call it a mood swing, call it temporary, call it whatever you want, I don’t give a shit.  But wait, there’s more:

Well, to be completely honest, I knew SOME of them were out there, I just didn’t know they were all so neatly cataloged in play lists so I could listen back to back and vent the frustration and rage and everything petty about myself over an extended period of time.  And I didn’t know there were this many awesome “fuck you” songs.

When I got done “crying like a bitch,” over “One of My Turns,” I reached the point of “fuck you.”  I confess, it wasn’t when my wife ignored my polite and pleasant request to please read the email I sent (with the link to the prior blog entry).  That just made me mad.  What tipped the scale to real angry was when my 18 year old “adult” daughter was upset about something she wanted to buy but didn’t know what she really NEEDED, I made a suggestion of someone she should ask for help, and in her stress, she yelled at me. “SHUT UP, DAD!!”  So I shut up.  Didn’t talk before they went to bed,  because it’s better to shut the hell up and not say something I’d regret later.  The Bible says it’s a bad idea to let the sun set while one is raging.

Instead I poured a triple-shot and drank it a little faster than I think I should have, over a piece of leftover cold chicken.  And listened to great music.  I did hear an apology for the fucking “shut up” comment, but it still  kind of pisses me off.  And I was still mad about Mrs. M. not reading my fucking blog that explained my feelings and why I’ve been acting all stand-off-ish for a while, not to mention the event that precipitated me having those feelings, not to mention the events that happened before Mrs. M. was Mrs. M., when she proved she loved some other guy in ways she doesn’t want to prove herself to me.

I have a problem with trust.  I trust people too easily.  I take people’s word for their bond, which proves to be my insanity, because I expect, when I’m promised raises, and a career path, and help finding a well-fitting job in my field of training, and the bullshit that has gone on and on in my life, until with this last job, the last one to be infested with liars and cheaters, I realized it, and now want everything in writing so no one will fucking hire me, so I can’t quit the shitty one to even try to find a better one.  Well, to go back to the present rage and my stupid habit of trusting, she said she loved me, so I believed her.  Well, shit happens, I shouldn’t have expected anything else.  She hasn’t read the email I sent to explain it, but I shouldn’t have expected that either, from my wife who doesn’t read.  How the fuck does a writer hook up with a woman who doesn’t fucking READ?

But wait, there’s more, just not on a playlist yet:
Through with You, Maroon 5
Misery, Maroon 5
Wake Up Call, Maroon 5
Maps, Maroon 5
This Love, Maroon 5
Makes Me Wonder, Maroon 5
Payphone, Maroon 5

I think there are several more creepy sounding songs by the group.  There’s one in particular I can’t remember right now.  I wish I could, it was brilliant and very dark.

I think Adam Levine’s voice is great, and his music is soothing, and his lyrics are creepy as fuck.  If I were writing a collection of “Fuck You” songs I would want someone like him to sing them.  He sings stuff about how much he hates the person he’s singing about and wants to do them bodily harm, or murder them, and it sounds loving and sweet.  He’s one of few singers who could sing them like “I’m singing a love song to you, baby,” set to a light, fun-sounding tune, and the lyrics would be …

I— just want to say— I love you today–
But I— know that it’s true— you’ve got work to do–
To earn my trust, to win my love, to hold my heart, baby.
I want to say that I love you, but I doubt the reverse is true

You— inspire me— Your beauty’s all I can see
But you— always act dissatisfied—I know that you’ve lied
And all that I want is to be loved like I loved you, see?
I found out you’ve loved me less than you used to love somebody else.

I—always wanted you to be—the happiest that you could be
But I— can’t compete with the past—If you love me prove it fast
I’m done with working my ass off trying, just to end up crying
You don’t give a shit what I do, it’s never quite enough for you.

You–you think I’m being a bitch—and how come we aren’t very rich?
You–act like you don’t have a clue–pretend you don’t know what to do
I’m sick just thinking of how long I’ve been wasting my time, baby
Doing anything you wanted, insane, when you won’t do the same.

We—can’t dream we will be— forever after happy
We—don’t talk much any more— not to mention you snore
And pushed me away so often, I wonder if you ever loved me.

I– I don’t even want to know why.   Sometimes I wish one of us would die.
Who—who even cares any more? I’m hurt so much more than sore.
30 years wouldn’t even the score, fix my heart, if you could be bothered to start.
I need someone who loves me a whole lot more than you do.

Fuck!!!!!!!!!

DM (Dead Man) 8/9/18

That Moment When I Learned More Than I Wanted to Know

It was several weeks ago at one of those family things I loathe.  I don’t even want to write it but I have to get this shit out of my system.  It’s been festering a while. We’ll discuss it, I’ll tell her how much she hurt my feelings, how much it hurts every time she pushes me away, how much learning this information hurt me, how it hurts every time she tells me how inadequate I am, and she’ll put it back on me by reminding me how fucking inadequate I am and how I need to get another job and work two jobs, the one I have and a part time one, while I’m finding the third, thus far invisible, elusive job that will miraculously triple my income.  We have two teenage kids, and one is starting college this fall.  She’s on a scholarship, and I pray her grades, and her investments, get her more, because I’ve got both jack-shit AND fuck-all to show for my faithful service to the present job.  For my son, in a few short years from now, I pray the same.

Mrs. M has a way of skating into opportunities and making more money than me at every turn, which is great for her and for us, but the way she holds that over my head calling me a failure kills any shred of extra self-esteem that might come up in my spirit.  Don’t get me wrong.  She works hard, the stress is obvious.  She’s assertive.  She gets what she wants, or believe me, I hear about it.

I used to get by, and get what I needed when I needed it.  I work hard too, but I hate change.  Having a routine is the only thing that keeps me from daily vomit, stress asthma, ulcers, high blood pressure, and whatever other (potentially literal) shit the stress of never knowing what the fuck I was doing would offer.  I used to trust people when they told me about how my career would be going places at [fill in the company name here].  I’d settle in to the comfort of a routine, and then I’d find out later they were using me, taking me for granted, and returning boatloads less than they promised.  The jobs that promised career advancement potential, but the potential was bullshit, the advancement was to more responsibility for the same money.  The people who all said they want to help me, but all they wanted was what they could get from me, and then when they’re done, so am I, and there was never any helping Mr. M.  This even happened when I worked for a few churches., and thus far has always happened when I work as a volunteer.

I hate people who bluff, assert pretend dominance, and then bluff some more, skating their way though life.  They lie and cheat and steal and get more than they deserve, and then they retire early, with benefits, while I stare at them in indignant, and I’m sorry to admit, jealous, amazement.  How the fuck do people get away with that shit?  I also hate people who are selfish, which is just about everyone in the known universe.  Don’t believe me?  Go driving, attentive to being safe and driving purposefully, intent to keep your fellow-drivers safe.  They’ll cut you off in traffic and then hit their brakes, yakking on their cell phones, completely oblivious to why you’re pissed off at them and honking your horn.  Try getting that parking space at the grocery store.  That skinny bitch soccer mom trophy wife with the faded plastic surgery markings will drive her brand new SUV into the spot you’ve been waiting patiently for in your old car, laying on her horn, and acting upset because you were in her way.  I hate people who act like other people only exist to serve them, and who only exist to take that service for granted.  And I hate people who fuck with other people and either pretend they care, or worse, don’t bother to pretend, or worst, pretend they’re not doing anything wrong and it’s somehow the fault of the person getting fucked.  With.

I don’t want to complain about Mrs. M.  She’s a beautiful, amazing woman.  She does everything right.  She wants the best from everybody, and she wants her family to succeed.  She truly cares about people, and helps other people when they need help.  Years ago, a lady she knew was going through a rough time and she stayed attentive, looking for ways to intervene in the circumstances, and her friend landed on her feet and is still doing fine.  That’s just one example; I’ve seen it several times, to varying degrees of help, with lots of people – sometimes she drags me along to help helping out. And she loves me.  I love her too.  And you’re all saying, “awww, how sweet.”  And it is.  It’s mostly worked, for more than 20 years.

And then there was a family dinner party.  It was a fancy thing and her sister and her sister’s husband hosted.  Oh, there was fancy food.  Amazing lobster and fresh raw oysters, and Italian beef, and sausages and lots of other amazing, delicious things.  I’m afraid to eat lobster or oysters, because I think I’m allergic to shellfish.  But there were also drinks, desserts, cookies, coffee, alcohol…  The whole thing was amazing and must have cost a mad fortune.  They do this a couple of times every damn year, not that I’d be jealous or bitter.  Yeah, I’m jealous, but only because of the money, not because they have dinner parties.  I hate dinner parties.

I was talking with someone Mrs M had known basically her whole life, they attended the same schools, that kind of thing, and they’re still pretty close.  And we talked about dinner conversation-type things, the family, friendship, the food, new events, blah blah, blah.  I loathe dinner parties.  Another opportunity for Mrs. M. and me to serve.  We helped with setup, cooking, hospitality (translation, serving in ways I can, just to be nice), and cleanup, because we’re under obligation as part of the family.  Methinks the lady had perhaps a little too much to drink, and out slipped an unmistakable sort-of-half-subtle disclosure about Mrs. M’s past, before she was Mrs. M.

Bless her late mother’s heart.  Her mother was a prude who thought that conservative Mr. M. was enjoying his marriage relationship to her daughter a little too much, so she did whatever she did to put a damper on it.  At least, she heartily discouraged any public display or discussion.  Her mom was Catholic, and behaved as though if such a thing were possible, all of her kids, including Mrs. M., were immaculate conceptions.  Thus, I had always blamed her mom, but nope.  It’s not mom.  It’s Mrs. M.

It seems that in Mrs. M’s past, there was another relationship, which I knew about and had dismissed as irrelevant.  But finding out the little detail is what hurt.  Suffice it to say that Mrs. M. has reinvented herself in our marriage, into someone much more prim and proper, perhaps even prudish like her mom.  But in the former relationship, not so much.  The habit of pushing me away, rejecting my advances, of being socially uncomfortable with public displays, of denying my requests to be treated like I’ve always treated her, all started in her mind sometime before our relationship, but certain things went on in this prior relationship, and I found it out from the little drunken conversation.  Which makes her ongoing and regular rejections, since we’re fucking MARRIED, hurt a lot.  She doesn’t always reject me, but makes it clear she’ll do what she’ll do, and nothing she decides not to do.  At the same time, she expects me to do whatever she wants me to do, and unless I do whatever she wants me to do, she doesn’t do much of anything.  We have discussed this a few times before, and she’s aware of how she’s hurt my feelings through the rejections, long before I found out what I learned at the dinner.  Damned family social gatherings.

So, you’re probably insightful and know without me blurting it all out.  If I were hardhearted, and if I didn’t have so damned much time invested in this relationship, and if there weren’t kids, and if I didn’t have this stubborn desire to keep MY promise that I made when we got married, and if she weren’t so damned amazing and beautiful, and if I didn’t fucking LOVE her, I might just say “fuck this, I’m out.”  Instead, I’m going to express it.

I’m very glad I did not win the lottery right after learning about this, because in the shock of the moment, I might have done the rash and drastic thing, and abandoned ship, finally financially free to do what I want, and to have whatever I want.  Instead, I didn’t win, I know what I really want, and what I really want, is reciprocation from Mrs. M., same as what I have always really wanted.

I don’t want to complain about Mrs. M.  I decided before we were married that I didn’t want to hold any of her old relationship bullshit over her head.  And I really didn’t, except this inadvertent knowledge tells me that in my marriage relationship, I am being treated as though she loves me less than she loved some other guy.  If I didn’t think the lack of reciprocation was fair before, how much more unfair do I think this bullshit is now?

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

So, dear Mrs. M., if you love me less than you loved him, why the fuck did you marry me?  Just say “no, ‘we are never, ever, ever, [going to get] together,’ fuck off and die, you’re a pathetic loser, stop persisting you dumb ass, go fuck yourself, and leave me alone.”  Give a guy a clue before you lead him on and say “I do.”  Or whatever the hell we said at the wedding.  I do vividly recall you declined the “old-fashioned” vow “to love, honor and obey.”  I think you said “cherish,” or whatever, “as long as we both shall live.”  Too late now.  More than 20 years too late, and I’m not leaving.  One of us has to die first, and I have no plans of committing suicide.  Nor murder.  I’d prefer the same from you, so just keep on living and don’t kill me, if you please.  So we have to sort this shit out.

Do you really love me, Mrs. M.?  Do you love me more than the other guy, the guy you didn’t marry?  What I want in the marriage is to feel free, unlike I feel in any other arena of life.  Instead, I’m trapped by pain and frustration and rejection, from the unfair way you’ve treated me.  Our wedding preacher and everyone else we talked to about getting married said it has to be more than 50-50.  It has to be 100-100.  And it’s not.  I’m not putting what you want into the relationship.  Why?

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

My feelings are hurt.  I’m deeply hurt, and it’s because of something I found out about quite innocently, quite accidentally, probably unintentionally.  The woman probably thought I thought she was talking about Mrs. M. and I, in our marriage, but I fucking know better.  I have about 18 years or so of hurt to process.  I say 18 because it wasn’t until we had been married a while I started to decide what I wanted.  And the cuts from her habit of rejection that were small and repetitive, since the meal, have been re-sliced open all over again, only much deeper and all at once.  If my heart, and by heart I mean emotions, had any blood left in it, and by blood I mean whatever metaphorical liquid pumps through ones emotions, what’s left is leaking out.  If I thought I was dying inside before, I’m dying faster now.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Um…   Mrs M.?  We need to talk.  Again.  Same discussion as before.  Remember?  It was years ago.  When I said, in one of those rare moments when I wasn’t as resolute in my decision, that if the trend continued we might as well get divorced?  What we have is not good.  Your habit of rejection has me already resorting to the couch more than the bed.  Like the song goes, “I want you to want me.”  But here’s what I found out:  you apparently don’t.  So…what the fuck, Mrs. M.?  Seriously!  What the fuck!?  Everywhere else in my life, I’m supposed to just work my ass off and continually give, and then accept what other people offer me without bitching about how it’s inadequate and not what I really want or need, because other people are selfish and I’m supposed to be the nice guy who politely acts as a doormat for other people to wipe their shitty feet on, accepts whatever they want to offer and act like it’s o.k., and then just wash the shit off to be ready for the next person to take advantage of and use some more.  Please don’t tell me our relationship is the same one-sided bullshit as the rest of my life.  I don’t want to be overly demanding, but I don’t think I’d be out of line to say I think you should start making up for 30 years of lost time, and then some, to apologize for the habitual rejection.

What does it mean (Almost amusing poetry (free verse though, sorry!)!)?

Random thought of the day:

What does it mean when I’m

almost

the exact opposite of suicidal?

It’s not mania.

It’s not optimism.  Not really cynicism either.

It’s not happiness.  Not tearful sadness either.

It’s not exactly “motivated.”  I still don’t want to do anything.

Oh.  I’ve got it.

It’s almost  the opposite of suicidal:

It’s when I actually want to live, but

I want almost everyone, at least all of the annoying ones

To kill themselves and leave me the fuck alone.

8/1/18 (hey look, is that a palindrome?) Deon Mumple