And Where The Hell Have You Been?

A much younger me watched and enjoyed television, particularly as much British humour (lol) as I could stay up late to watch.  I don’t recall how many shows featured the angry wife demanding of her guilty-looking, penitent-but-innocent husband, “and where the hell have you been?”  He stammers and explains and by the end of the episode, all is resolved as the truth is revealed as truth, supported by smirking witnesses.

Anyway, I haven’t been anywhere.  I wish I could tell you everything was explained and resolved.  I’m still in the same exact exactness, wrestling with everything, daydreaming of being set free just enough to help other people with their wrestling matches, just a little bit to encourage them to keep fighting.  Nope.

I suck as a father, revealed in my kids’ disrespect.  I suck as a husband, revealed in my wife’s ongoing wavering between passive-aggressiveness, controlling, disrespect, seething anger, and disappointment, and my continual trying to succeed, effort that ends up confirming I suck even when I manage to break even or one thing actually goes right.  And they all take such great delight in telling me that I’m wrong and they’re right, even when I accidentally somehow stumble into higher moral ground.

I suck as an employee, as the annual performance review was yesterday.  But not enough to fire me, just enough to keep me where they want me to do better, while the clients absolutely love the way I take care of them when I’m given enough time to do it, or when I steal time from breaks and lunches and after or before work to do it.  The review said I meet the company’s expectations, and one area they actually admitted I exceeded them, this year.  The management has obviously mistaken my complete brokenness for a gentler, meeker and cooperative spirit.

The truth is, I should be the happiest man who ever lived.  I actually want what I have.  The trouble is, I want what I have to treat me differently than it ever has, better than it ever has, and that is psychotic because I can’t change anything on my own.  I can only keep struggling and hope the struggle resolves in a good way.  Would a financial windfall help me, or would I end up more miserable?

A decent job with decent pay, might result in me being able to pay bills on time, fix the fucking car money-pits that keep breaking in various ways and degrees, all with the goal of draining any extra money we might have to fix my teeth and buy some new glasses.  It might get me farther away from minimum wage so that whenever the idiots raise it to what I currently earn, I’m not shoved back down to the lowest possible working poverty wage.  With my luck, the percentages would result, once everything in the economy adjusts to the new, higher lowest low, in me being at the same damned place I was before I got the new job.

A windfall, on the other hand, might result in me writing more, finishing my books not having to worry whether they’ll sell or not, helping out friends and family, and quitting my job and not bothering to tell them why I hate the cheap-ass, tightwad, corporate bullshit they spew and insist the lowly peons thank them because it’s champagne.

On the other hand, it might result in me losing friends who were in fact acquaintances, who think somehow I owe them something in exchange for the value of their friendship, but who never really gave a shit about me before the increased cash flow.  It might result in estrangement from my otherwise perfect and loving children, who naturally would only want affordable, rational, realistic and reasonable things, considering “our” newfound economic strata, when I tell them “no,” and the reasons why I won’t pay for whatever self-destructive shit they want to buy.  I swear, if I bought an auto shop and hired good mechanics who knew what the hell they were doing and did a fair and reasonable business, our cars alone would bankrupt the place, or turn it into a lovely tax dodge, if I made them fix them on our profits.

I think, given my current situation, I’d still prefer a windfall, just to see how it would go.

Where the hell have I been?  In the same boat, basically expectantly hoping that a certain Someone would wake up and realize I’m drowning here, in between the brief respites of merely treading water and waiting for the sharks to eat my lower extremities.  In other words, the same fun as always.  Sorry I’ve been away so long.  I can’t claim complete innocence and just complicated circumstances that made me look like I was in the wrong.  And I can’t fix anything yet, but I’m working on it.

The other part of my apology is this:  Words can sometimes be encouraging and I’m sorry I’ve been so very stingy, for a long time.   You’re all still very much appreciated, and I hope I can get to a place where I spread encouragement like my company’s corporate bulls spread what they spread.

Which reminds me of a really stupid joke:

Q.:  Why do cows walk on hooves?

A.: Because they lack toes (lactose, y’all.)

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III – Wisdom and Innocence

Wisdom and Innocence, 11/23/2018, Deon Mumple

I’m here living in a world where all the innocence is lost
We all said we didn’t want it, but we didn’t know the cost
I gave it up too cheap; I can’t afford to buy it back
Now the interest is so high no one bothers keeping track
But I wish I could have known it, without having ever known

Wisdom is for sale,  pray it doesn’t drive you insane
All that wisdom ever costs is higher premiums in pain
Mum tried to instill grace and faith, and some patience to wait
We gain wisdom looking backward, can’t go back ’cause it’s too late
But I wish I could have had it, before my bad habits had grown

I have no more time for patience.  Quick, my time is running out
The answers to life’s questions can’t all be brokenness and doubt
I want what every other broken person wants to find:
Some love, a little comfort, and a stack of peace of mind,
A few more answers to my prayers, some rest while I’m exhaust-
ed, while living in a world where all my innocence is lost.

Brain Blender

No poem today. Maybe later if I can escape long enough to actually write something I’m not embarrassed to publish.  I am struggling with a rhyme scheme and meter.  Not to mention, the topic is me, so, it’s not great to start with.  Whatever.  I’ve been taking my pills faithfully.  I went to the doctor today to report side effects- nausea and hot flashes, which, as I am a guy and not a woman of a certain age and I don’t take that particular number of vitamin B, was not expected.  He is, therefore, changing my brain blender to a new, improved one, with sharper, faster blades.  I can hardly wait to run out of the other med, so I can go back to more nausea and hot flashes and probably helplessly watching my brain turn into watery pudding.

Meanwhile, my family is still critical, lazy, not engaged in any agendas except their own, but they still like to criticize and express how their opinions and answers are better than mine, even when they’re wrong and I’ve shown them their error and tried to provide gentle correction.  I’m the Donald Trump of my family, I suppose.  Sorry, should have advised a trigger warning, as there are devout Trump-haters out there I may have upset.  I’m saying, I am aware that my kids don’t think I know anything; that’s completely normal.  They are both teens, one trying to go away and be independent while still being waited on hand and foot, and the other trying to decide what and who he wants to be, and how, and how badly, he wants to rebel.  I think it’s probably also normal for a woman to decide she’s right and a man is wrong, but it still hurts my feelings a little bit more than when the kids are sassy.  At least some of the time the kids are trying to be funny.

Mrs. M., bless you a million times, but you are the worst, harshest critic I have ever had.  It’s not about being constructive.  It’s about being critical, and after I get it and I know you’re right, you go for the extra, cutting, bitchy dig that demoralizes me and discourages me and makes me not want to do shit, when I almost had a shred of energy to invest in doing whatever it was.  Thanks, and fuck you very much, but I don’t really need most of that.  Don’t wonder why I shut down, don’t wonder why I push away.  You’ve been pushing away for years, maybe I’ve finally learned whatever lesson your push off was for.  So celebrate, Mrs. M, you win. I lose, but it doesn’t matter.  Even when I’m right, or at least trying to work on our relationship, I’m still wrong because of whatever shit I did moments ago while trying to either help us or help you or help me mentally, or whatever shit I did yesterday or a month ago or ten years ago, or whatever shit I didn’t do that you wanted me to do right now right now rightnow rightnowrightnowrightnow.

The problem is, despite the ADD medication you insisted I go on, that gives me insomnia until sometimes 3:30 or 5 AM, and the anti-depressants you insisted I go on, that make me sick to my stomach and have hot flashes, I still have an attention span of a gnat, I still want to do what I want to do, which is the same as what you want but in a different order of priority, I never get to do what I want and I don’t get what I want, I’m still poor and thus far unable to escape the poverty cycle, and I’m still fucking depressed because life is fucking depressing.  And if I don’t do whatever it is I’m focused on I’ll never get it done and I’ll never go back to doing what I wanted to accomplish because something else will distract me or be more important, or I’ll be too frustrated to think clearly, so I’ll never have a sense of personal accomplishment because I’m not doing what I wanted to do, and I am not doing what you wanted me to do to your level of satisfaction.  And on that battle front, you’ve informed me of your disappointment in everything to the point where you expect to be disappointed and I expect to be disappointing and we self-fulfill that prophecy.  I lose, and you get the smug self-satisfaction of winning but remaining harsh and critical instead of loving me the way I want to be loved.  There’s a wide, wider, next-to-impossible gap to bridge between you being harsh and critical and you loving me like I want to, or need to, be loved.

I’m afraid it will require your investment and realization of how cut, wounded, damaged, frustrated, depressed, and angry I am about life, and how you add salt to the rejection wounds and then hit the psychological bruises twice just so they stay fresh in my mind and I want to give up on everything because nothing is working.  And since I run away instead of hitting back verbally (or, God forbid, physically, which I’ve never been driven to so far), you use that as another way of hitting me verbally, adding to my demoralization.  Again, fuck you very much, that is not what those marriage vows you and I took were supposed to look like.

If I, in a fit of mania, do the dishes, walk the dog, take out the trash, sweep the kitchen, do two loads of laundry which means to me wash dry fold and put away (but to you means wash, dry and fold, or leave in the dryer, or leave in the washing machine), and vacuum the carpets downstairs, you want to know why I did the laundry and if I did it wrong, why, and why the bathrooms weren’t cleaned and the floors mopped and the ceiling fans dusted and the upstairs wasn’t vacuumed and why the vacuum cleaner wasn’t emptied and why dinner wasn’t cooked all while I was working for 8 hours during a weekday.  Because I’ve had bigger fits of mania while I was not depressed and accomplished more very occasionally, in the past 26 years.  And why don’t I have a better job that pays more money.  And why I sleep on the couch so often.  And why I don’t want to lock the dog in a cage overnight.  Blah, blah, blah.  It’s never stopped; it’s only gotten worse over the years.

I started reading self-help books: a book about dealing with anger, a book about dealing with clutter, and a book about marriage enrichment.  Because these are what I want help with.  I’m a chapter into each one, and I’ll wait and see, and decide what’s potentially realistically applicable, and what’s ridiculous and impossible, on all topics of study.  Mostly it’s you trying to gently communicate your hopes and dreams for our future and how you think we (meaning I) can work toward those goals, and then overstepping and crushing my spirit, and then telling me yet again how I’m inadequate and a disappointing dissatisfaction, and me trying to explicitly communicate what I want and you telling me to fuck off because you’re not going to do that and then again, wondering why I sleep on the couch so much.

I finished the dishes and swept the kitchen after I dropped a glass on the kitchen floor.  There was a kind of mercy in it:  I hadn’t washed the glass.

Someone asked me what I accomplished this year so far.  I thought about it, and came to realize  that I survived, and that’s about it.  Maybe the progress is that I’m medicating, or maybe the progress is that my soul is that much further crushed, which I suppose, makes it easier on everyone around me.  If they didn’t want me to clean house and if they didn’t need someone to bitch at and tell how they are intellectually superior, more right in their approach to life, and better at everything, and how worthless, stupid, wrong, and inferior I am, I’d probably just end it because I wouldn’t have any useful purpose in life.

 

Find your purpose and your worth apart from anyone, because no one is going to give you anything but shit.  And if money is involved, get it in writing or you’re screwed.  That’s my takeaway.  That’s my wisdom from 26 years of being worthless, underpaid, underappreciated, and not getting what I want from anyone.  I’m still trying, I’ve survived, and that may be a bigger accomplishment than anyone really realizes.

Sorry for the bitch-fest.  It had to come out.  And Mrs M wants me to move my ass now because her family is waiting on us.  Have a great day if you can, and if you can’t, have an OK day even if that just means surviving and getting through what you can.

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.

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