Fuck, Yeah, It’s Friday!!

Happy Friday, everyone.  I did a few things last night after work that I don’t do enough.  I actually took some time to meet a few friends and we just hung out.  We had a few light snacks that I didn’t provide, we met at a place that wasn’t our houses, and none of us really expects anything except to just hang out and be friends.  We discussed our medications, talked about our writing and other creative adventures and misadventures, and we supported each other.  I haven’t done that in three months, because I have been too far down.  This is the first thing I’ve done since we lost Ulla.

I’m probably premature with a “fuck, yeah, it’s Friday” post, because I don’t  really feel a “fuck, yeah” level of enthusiasm.  But I really want it, so again, if you can’t have it, fake it like hell.  So maybe I’m faking some, but yeah, I have to say I’m glad it’s finally Friday, and maybe I’ll figure out how to do some productive things this weekend, and maybe I can rest a little, too.  I’m 14 or more hours behind on sleep this week and I don’t feel it because the medications are giving me insomnia.  Another thing I did last night was sleep almost six whole hours, after I took some melatonin to fight the insomnia.

I’ve been walking in a haze, mostly  undisguised by the obvious shit in my blog (hey, that’s self-effacing humour, another friendly face I haven’t seen much for the past several months.  Welcome back.)  Sorry for all the shit, readers.  I’ve done my best, and my best sometimes sucks, so if you’re actually reading this, first, thank you for not giving up on me and second, um, sorry for everything again.  The haze may be lifting, but one doesn’t know whether to attribute that to time, or to medication.  The doctor wants to give the credit to medication of course, and it may be helping, but I think time helps us to process life’s events and it has been a little time and a process.

The other thing I did last night was sleep for possibly more than five hours, which I haven’t done all week.  I’m hours behind because insomnia is one of the effects of the medication.  And I’m wondering if this is like a rubber band and it might snap back and force me to sleep to catch up.

If you’ve been experiencing anything like this haze I’m in and out of, I hope you can do the good things more, experience the shit less (my blog notwithstanding), and I pray the weekend leaves you a few good feelings:  peace, patience with yourself (remember, “love is patient.” And “love your neighbor as yourself,” which means we are supposed to love ourselves), success, however limited it may be, and a chance to rest.  And maybe even a good laugh, something I still haven’t done for a long time.

Life events drag us into, and through, the shit.  But through it all I don’t want your events or emotions in response, to blind you to a few things:  You matter.  You are loved.  You are priceless and important and irreplaceable.   I don’t have many aspirations in life, because events keep smashing down and don’t seem to show “any signs that they are slowing.” (thank you, Willie Wonka and Roald Dahl).  But if I have an aspiration it is this:  I want to be a n encouraging force in your life, and I want you, in spite of and to thumb your noses or give a great big flying free bird to, life’s events, to do life as successfully and as happily as you can.  And I want you to share whatever that experience is, and vent, and share happiness, in your blogs.  Be you, and I’m praying you find all good things.  And when you don’t, we can cry together.  In my little get together, I shared my tribute poem with my friends and I pray they all get it.  And I pray you do too.

Here is the link to the poem I shared last night.  It’s to you too.




Escaping My Clutches

Escaping My Clutches, 9/28/2016, Deon Mumple

She keeps trying to escape my clutches,
Not realizing, not thinking,
That there, right there, happiness
Is ours for the taking.

Held, firmly, securely, skin to skin,
That’s where I want her,
And she hides, as if it were a sin,
To enjoy the surrender,

Flirting, teasing, it goes back and forth
Sadly, I notice less back,
Escaping, hiding, behind invisible doors
Fortified against attack.

But that smile sometimes still crosses her lips…
Sometimes when stars sweetly align
I’m caught in drunken delight, from tiny sips
Craving more fruit from that vine

After what feels like a drug addict’s fix,
I wait, wish, and hope, for more,
Feeling love and rage and wanting, mix
She’s the one my heart beats for.

Writing in the Morning

There’s not enough time.  After two hours of sleep Tuesday morning I forgot to take my meds yesterday, so that was a fun one.  I was pretty tired but managed to not do enough at work, and not accomplish as much as I wanted at home and out at a social/volunteer obligation I basically let other people do most everything and I watched and only carried a few things instead of actually working.  After the not-doing-much at the event I finally ate some chicken chili in a moment between nausea waves, and fell asleep.

So what’s the cure for my insomnia?  Insomnia!  Hooray.

Except it just makes me feel the rage until I can go to sleep.  This is just a side effect of actually taking the meds, but I’m hoping that’ll stabilize after a few days of taking them.  I may be seeing you at 3 Thursday morning, but I’m sorry to confess, I hope I don’t.  It’s not you.  It’s me.  I like sleep, at least sometimes.

I don’t want to write in the morning.  I want to write at work but they’re flexing their security muscles and I can’t do anything extra at work.  I can’t even visit some sites I need to visit to help the clients, because they’re blocked.  It’s over the top, but I understand if lazy fuckers at work aren’t meeting their productivity goals and they’re spending all day streaming cat pictures on Pinterest and looking for another job because the one they have sucks.  I’m waiting for the employer to realize that restricting me doesn’t improve my productivity. It only makes work more stressful because being able to play some Led Zeppelin at lunch just relieves the tension, and being able to blog at lunch and breaks improves my productivity by relieving my stress from the customers.

I marvel at the stupidity.  You’re supposed to be working, and you’re watching a fucking movie online on the company computer.  Not a 3 or 4 minute song on Youtube, but a movie.  Or, you’re chatting up your friends on fakebook.  And you do just enough work to make it look like you’re working, but you’re not working so I get the honor of working harder to carry your fucking weight, and they underpay me for it because I’ve been at the company longer than you, but somehow you make more than I do.

Corporate America, you’re all fucking idiots if you can’t figure out what the difference between a little stress relief between tasks, and professional loafing, is.  If I’m making my goals, meeting my numbers, every day, I’m not the problem.  If you had people who actually supervised people, instead of people who fail at micromanagement of employees in an attempt to squeeze that last drop of blood out of the rocks, you might see the one who is stressing out and needs a little break from helping everyone and carrying the loafers’ loads, and you might notice the ones who are busy “like-“ing their friends cat pictures and watching fucking MOVIES on the company computer on the company time.

So I have to write this in the morning instead of as a stress reliever during the day it’s a stressor while I try to squeeze out the creativity (such as it is, not very creative-feeling, sorry readers) before I have to run out to work for the corporate idiots.  We’ll see what happens with the new restrictions.  Maybe it’s temporary.  Or maybe it’ll actually make the people who hopefully can’t watch the movies and go to fakebook at work, fucking WORK.

I suppose I should be grateful.  Thanks, boss.  But while I struggle to adjust because it’s change and I really hate change, it’s very stressful.  And if I have stress and rage and insomnia and rage, I might have to strangle the ladies social club that now talks more during the day about their family and their family criminals  and their medical issues and their pets, because they can’t vent that on fakebook like they used to.  They talk and talk, and when they’re on their phones I just wish I had high cubicle walls and a door I could shut to seal myself off from their noise, because I can’t yell at the chatty chats, but I wish I could

I wish they would SHUT THE FUCK UP!!

End of rant, I’m off to have fun at the office.  Hooray.

I hope in spite of corporate, and the general American, stupidity, that you all have a great day.  Maybe someone will get a raise or a promotion.  If you do, tell fakebook, and if you tell me, I promise to not be in a jealous rage.  Meh.  It doesn’t matter. Tell me, because you probably deserve it.  But if you work in my office, SHUT THE FUCK UP, I DON’T WANT TO HEAR YOU BRAG.

Fuck You, Monday.

I hate Monday.  I’m sorry, Monday, but it’s your own damned fault.  On Mondays there are more heart attacks than any other day of the week.  Clearly, Monday is a stressor that it would be better to avoid altogether.  Sure, there’s speculation that alcohol consumption may contribute to causality of the heart attacks.  But I call Monday out.  Monday, you suck.
Ending the weekend, having to go back to shitty jobs, repeating the cycle of hopelessness and thankless grief, it’s a wonder more of our hearts don’t just give up.  Fuck you, Monday.  I want an extra day that offers rest and peace and hope.  Many of us don’t even really get that on the weekends any more, hence the alcohol consumption.  Because if you can’t get rest and peace and hope, pretend like hell.  Alcohol is a central nervous system depressant, offering an illusion of happiness to us.  At least, the illusion of stress relief.

Monday is almost over.  In 10 minutes the whole thing is over.  But before it goes away and I go into the insomnia of Tuesday morning, let me just say again, fuck you, Monday.

According to recent data, Wednesday is  the most common day for suicides, so Wednesday, fuck you, too.  I hate you for friends who decide to quit and I don’t even care if they quit on Wednesdays.  I hate you almost as much as Monday, but you’re not getting me, you grim fucker.

I love the next song, in spite of myself.  Or maybe it’s just that voice.  Maybe it’s the faith and hope of the stories the song tells, I hope those stories are actually true.  Someone do the research, I can’t.  I want it to be true.

I mean, that voice, these lyrics:

What I hate most of all is death in general.   Fight that shit, people.  Let’s all fight it together.

It’s Tuesday morning, I’m hanging between possibly the two most grim days of the week, with stress ahead of me today that probably exceeds the stress of Monday morning.  Fuck.  But damn it, I’m going to fight.

The show must go on.

Get Down the Words and Expose the Context

Young Miss M enjoyed “The Get Down,” Netflix series about the origins of hip hop, so she introduced me to the show.  It’s a love story, mixed with politics, religion, crime, drugs, music,  complications, family conflicts, hero worship, role models, and dreams.

I’ll let you decide for yourselves if you like it.  I actually liked the story line of the show except for observing one tiny little thing.  By doing it, the writer played everyone for chumps, unless they noticed it.

This show was about the origins of hip hop and disco musical styles starting back in the 70s.  It only had six episodes, set in New York, and Netflix is rumoring they’re going to cancel it.  Or they’re cancelling it, depends on who you read it from.

The show has a brilliant cast including Daveed Diggs, the world’s fastest rapper, from Alexander Hamilton fame whose voice was apparently dubbed in for no reason I can figure out, Will Smith’s kid, and a great soundtrack.  There’s a climactic performance by a girl in a church and a guy confronting another guy for stealing music, and the score blends the two events perfectly.   You can see it unless Youtube removes it, here:

I’m honestly surprised they’re pulling the plug on the show.  Or maybe they’re just thinking Netflix was a good starter medium, but not suitable for long-term profitability for the continuation.

Everything on the whole show was great.  She sang the stuff that sounded like a devotional on John 8:38.  And then she sang something else.  You can defend the lyrics as technically biblical, inasmuch as they are a direct quotation of Isaiah 14.  But I found that quote disturbing, and I was surprised the character of the pastor wasn’t shouting over the lyrics for his daughter to stop singing.  Here’s why:

Isaiah 14:14-  “I will ascend above the heights of the clouds; I will make myself like the Most High.”

Sounds great, right?  Not so much.  The quote of Isaiah revealed the pride of Satan himself. And the following verse, in that prophetic weird way of telling something that has happened, is happening, and will happen, until the final event, spoke of his downfall.  In selecting the verse, the writer either revealed something about the character of the singer, or the writer reveals something about the foolishness, or the ignorance, of his general audience, and it’s played out like an inside joke.

We’re the fools if we listen to things like this and just think, “oh, that’s nice, look at the pretty girl singing in her daddy’s church.”  If you want to know if something is truth, you have to take it apart, analyze carefully, hold it up against a standard of truth, and see if it matches or not.

I can’t “make myself like the Most High.”

I can’t make myself like the Most High, but Satan has been telling everyone that lie since the very beginning.  Consider Genesis 3, especially verse 5.  It’s the exact same lie, and there it is mixed in with a little bit of faith or truth in the song.  In Genesis Satan allowed Eve to mix in her little extra additions to the truth, and then caused her to doubt.  In life he does the same  thing to us, and look at the mess.  Prideful people who think they’re righteous and God is on their side, who are no different, and no better, than the Pharisees of Jesus’ earthly days.  They have no real love for people when push comes to shove.  They’re out for themselves.

And, truth?   They’ll sell you a lie for a buck, and send you on your way to eternity, separated from God and you’re still blind to it, thinking you’re going to be just fine.  There is a standard of truth, and Christ followers are supposed to speak that in love.  You can’t have one or the other and be all right. You have to have both.  Without the truth, all you think is that you’re well loved and you’re fine.  We love those pastors but if I’m fine and God loves me but doesn’t need me to work at getting better, why would Jesus say I needed to “repent” or “follow?”  Without the truth, why do we need their message?  Without the love, you think there’s no hope because all you hear about is how your sins condemn you.  We hate those churches because they hated us first, and they think they’re righteous, just like the pastor on “The Get Down” actually hated his brother (see the other , good and true verse from the song, here.) .

People love to quote John 3:16, and that’s all well and good.  But just like the verse from the song, there’s an important context.  Here, Jesus speaks:

11 Very truly I tell you, we speak of what we know, and we testify to what we have seen, but still you people do not accept our testimony. 12 I have spoken to you of earthly things and you do not believe; how then will you believe if I speak of heavenly things? 13 No one has ever gone into heaven except the one who came from heaven—the Son of Man. 14 Just as Moses lifted up the snake in the wilderness, so the Son of Man must be lifted up, 15 that everyone who believes may have eternal life in him.”

16 For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. 17 For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through him. 18 Whoever believes in him is not condemned, but whoever does not believe stands condemned already because they have not believed in the name of God’s one and only Son. 19 This is the verdict: Light has come into the world, but people loved darkness instead of light because their deeds were evil. 20 Everyone who does evil hates the light, and will not come into the light for fear that their deeds will be exposed. 21 But whoever lives by the truth comes into the light, so that it may be seen plainly that what they have done has been done in the sight of God.

We do what we do.  It’s not like God doesn’t know about it.  Old habits die hard, and some old habits feel good.  They may even feel right.  It doesn’t make them right.  It’s because we all sin and because we can’t make ourselves like the Most High that we need faith in the One who can make us better than we can make ourselves.

2 Corinthians 5:
17 Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come: The old has gone, the new is here! 18 All this is from God, who reconciled us to himself through Christ and gave us the ministry of reconciliation: 19 that God was reconciling the world to himself in Christ, not counting people’s sins against them. And he has committed to us the message of reconciliation. 20 We are therefore Christ’s ambassadors, as though God were making his appeal through us. We implore you on Christ’s behalf: Be reconciled to God. 21 God made him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God.

Be careful when you choose what to believe is acceptable, and be careful when you choose what you think is truth.  If your truth is mixed up with lies, you’re like the sad rodent whose grain and sugar are mixed with strychnine.  Be careful who you trust.  Or you may get played for a chump.  I told my daughter where the verse came from and she’s pondering what it means.  And now I’ve told you, and I hope you’ll give it some thought too.


Oh, fuck!  It’s another edition of Math Language Dissection, affectionately pronounced here as Mouldyyy. It just sounds worse and worse, doesn’t it?  RUN!  RUN AWAY!!

That’s right, if you can’t be manic, pretend like hell.  Maybe someone will believe it and let you go home from school early.  Or work.  It never actually works for me.  I have to ask, beg, plead, petition, pray, call in favors, and pay for it on the next workday , twice as hard.

I’m not a doctor but I’d play The Doctor on that show in a heartbeat.  Fuck, yeah.  I’d even shave my entire face for the role.  And that’s saying something because I fucking hate to shave.  And I also don’t think I like running much, unless it’s running jokes.  Oh, sidetracks, how I adore and detest you.  Fucking ADD (speaking of a running joke).

On the plus side, I remembered something.  What was it again?   Oh yeah, I was going to do something about a homophone.  On the negative side, this isn’t the homophone I was looking for.  Fucking Jedi mind tricks.  They supposedly only work on the weak minded…  Um…  Nevermind.  Ha, “Never  Mind.”  Well, when you either never had one or you lose yours, it’s a pretty easy thing.

I still can’t remember the two original homophones I wanted to write about, damn it.  It was a long time ago, but I remember I was going to write about these two phones that loved each other.  There was a picture at the top of this amusing and possibly informative article that made me remember homophones, written by Marc Elliott, but … Um…nevermind, no, that’s not what it was.  Ok, for you people who aren’t in grammar school any more (some of you may be in Grandma school), homophones are words that sound the same but possibly have different spellings and definitely (or definition-ally) have different meanings.

plural noun: homophones
  1. each of two or more words having the same pronunciation but different meanings, origins, or spelling, e.g., new and knew.
    • each of a set of symbols denoting the same sound or group of sounds.

Thanks, Google.

And damn it, I’m not forgetting this time, because this time when it popped into my head, I wrote the words down before I started writing the rest of this article: Calculus.

Calculus: from Latin calculus, literally “small pebble used for counting.”  Thanks, Wikipedia.  The same article goes on to describe Calculus the way those old fashioned anti-drug people used to describe marijuana:  it’s a gateway to divergence into far worse kinds of maths.  And, if you like doing maths like some people like to do drugs, Calculus was the little pebble in your brain that started you down the path toward your personal nightmare of addition to maths, and either you’ll love the Wikipedia article, or you contributed material or a reference or two.  You know who you are.  If this describes you, get help somewhere, and if you don’t, the anti-maths people are planning to join together and stage an interval-vention.  Because a mind is a terrible thing to waste.

Don’t start unless you’re prepared to face the inevitable con-sequences:  Calculus is like a rock in your head that acts as a gateway to further rocks in your head.  Damn, my mum was right, I DO have rocks in my head!

Calculus is a homophone for Calculous, an adjective that describes teeth that have tartar, or (another homophone) calculus, (see also, homonym (where two nyms love each other, right?)) built up and tightly attached to them.  Scary, isn’t it?

Didn’t I tell you to fucking run?!

One kind of calculus is when you suffer from a hard, irritating, slow buildup that can occur over time and period-ically requires a doctor to intervene and help you understand how best to handle it.  And the other is a serious dental problem.  Both are problems requiring a solution.

Yeah, probably the best solution is to scrape all that off, no matter which calculus you suffer from.  Oh, shit.  I just realized, they’re kind of the same  thing, aren’t they?

Never mind.

Waiting for You to Write

I don’t want to confess that I’m an obsessed fan.  But I’m an obsessed fan.  I love your blogs.  I love your writing, I love your heart and your soul.  On some days, that is.  On some days I wait, hoping you will write, say anything, even if you think it isn’t good.  On some days I watch for you, encouraged that you’ve popped your head out even just for a few minutes, to say something to the world.  I don’t even care if you’re saying, “I hate the world, I hate everything, I hate you, fuck off.”  It means you’re alive and I’ve felt your presence another day.  It must be true because I miss you when you don’t post.

Sometimes all I want to say to the world is “I hate the world, I hate everything, I hate you inasmuch as you are part of the everything, fuck off.”  There are days when the drama of my family, and the awfulness of work, and the busy of the things that have to be done and the wishing I could do what I want to get done, is just so maddening, it’s better to say nothing to them so I say it here instead because I want to get it out before it poisons me more.  There are days when I’m so shelled over, or so shell-shocked by life’s events, or so forced-to-be-busy that I don’t write.  And so I understand when you want to be left alone.  Me and Pieces of Bipolar were discussing the whole brilliant actor thing and the Garbo quote came up.  I want to be *left* alone, but I don’t want to *be* alone.  I want to be left alone with you.

There are days when your words, your heart, your spirit, seem so strong that I read your words and I feel your courage.  The word courage is one of my favorites, coming from the French root Cour-, which means heart.  (and then the other thing I like, which has nothing to do with word origins, is that it contains the word -rage.  I know it isn’t right, but when I see the word in there, it validates the feeling.

There are days when your words are so broken, your heart is so fragile, that I just want to wrap my arms around you and give you a hug and pray over you.  When you remember the bad things that happened in your past, when you tell me about current events, I cry with you and you never see the tears.  I want the very best for you but I know that this life is broken.  Because I know how badly *my* life is broken.

When I started this blog I wanted to vent the rage and the sadness and started tracking my mood swings and I wanted to offer encouragements and validations.  And you’ve welcomed me in spite of the frequent bitch-and-moan.  There are days when my heart is broken, when my life is so broken, and your comments and replies, even on other blogs threads, make me smile even if I can’t laugh.  Some days I reread some of my blogs and they’re boring and repetitive.  I’m just surprised people have read it and then kept reading.  I wanted to vent the frustrations of daily life, and if I happened to have a happy thought I wanted to share those with you.

Flashback to Peter Pan.  I can’t fly because I think about how hard life is and I don’t have any pixie dust.  I still hate the fight, and question all the time why it’s so hard to just live and next to impossible to feel anything I think normal should feel like.  I want that normal so bad.  I want it for me, and also for you.  But when I see that you’re still here, fighting it out, grasping depths of courage you didn’t know you had, even if you don’t necessarily feel successful, or normal, I have my happy thought.

It’s you.

Missed Connection?

So, I don’t get out of the bunker much, by personal choice, unless it’s not my choice.  But both Saturday and Sunday I was doing stuff and I had to go out.  I was in a parking lot of a local establishment two days in a row, and on one of those days, I spotted someone who looked almost exactly like one of my virtual friend’s profile pictures on her blog.  I was going to wax poetic about it, but I decided to dispense with the fluff and just get it out.  That means a poem for tomorrow if I can focus long enough to get it out, on something completely unrelated.

At least one of my blogger friends lives the next town over away from the bunker, I guess that’s not too far away when you consider that she’s likely less than 35 miles away from me.  With that kind of potential proximity, it is very possible that it was her.  But I doubt it, and if it was her, I’m not sure if I want to know.  Honestly, it would scare the crap out of me.

I like my safe-feeling anonymity, plus, when you’re as irresistible as I am (writing it from habit, not actual feeling today) you always have to be on guard against temptation, and seeing as you all are irresistible too, that makes things twice as difficult.

The world as we know it could come to an end. Or, this:  http://www.space.com/33176-gravitational-waves-from-second-black-hole-collision.html

Anyway, if you saw me, you probably don’t remember the event:  I waved and probably gave a surprised then nearly comprehending then panicked expression and almost hoped you would stop so I could ask the vision of loveliness if it were you.

Laugh it up.  Mrs M. would have a fit if I brought you home with me, and I totally would, because she’s not to be missed.  In some ways that would be fucking awesome, but in others… life is pretty much complicated enough, especially this week.  The explanations would probably be awkward, but Mrs M would take it all in stride and hide her fury until you left, whereupon I might wake up with a chef’s knife between my left ribs, or dissecting worse places.  I still have waaay too much shit to do to deal with that kind of distraction, but I probably would have figured out how to set it aside or delay it or make it ride a tandem bicycle with me, so the distance would be covered and so we could at least have a coffee and a chat face to face.

I’m a real person, or at least I think I am.  But it’s also possible this is all just a long dream that sometimes feels like a nightmare and I’m a figment of your collective imaginations.  And mine.

I’m certainly not feeling manic but I’m going to pretend I am for all I’m fucking worth until the week is over.  So much to do, so little energy to keep track of it all, much less actually accomplish it.  Ugh.  Yeah, I listened to a song on a friend’s blog and I got it, in her contextual intent, and it made me cry the same as her.  Still pretty tender.  People are still “encouraging” me in their ways, by which I mean they either don’t know or they’re in denial, and they live basically demanding that I accomplish according to their expectations and function according to their definitions of “normal,” and I still can’t, medication notwithstanding.

OK I’m off to try to finish something or somethings, and fix something, and clean something, and hopefully not break anything.

Here’s hoping my vivid imagination and brilliant acting talent can pull it all off.

I’m not avoiding you.  I’m just hiding.

Holy shit.  I think that was actually funny.  I AM a DAMN FINE ACTOR.


So Distracted Sunday

I can’t concentrate for shit.  Oh, and the medication messes with that too.  Me, before medication: regular as clockwork.  Me, after medication: I get one urge per day and if I don’t go right then, the urge goes away and I hurt randomly from intestinal cramps because I made it wait, and then I have to wait and hope the purge urge comes back that day.  I hate being irregular.  Thanks, doc.  This is great.  But I’m not writing about that kind of concentration.  No, really.  I have germ and dirt and sense-of-smell issues and if I never had to go and clean myself off I’d be happier.  And no one else is allowed to clean me off either, because I have personal space issues: from eyes to ass, and everywhere in between or nearby, don’t ever touch me without a special invitation.  I barely let anyone cut my hair.  I hate the burping on an empty stomach too.  Gross.

I was going to write a poem about a friend I swore I saw out at a store yesterday, or at least I thought it looked an awful lot like her, but I got distracted with life and work and didn’t remember it until just now, too late today.  Maybe Monday.  It was in the parking lot and she was in her car and I waved, but if it was her I bet she didn’t know it was me because I haven’t put my face on the internet and I’ve never met any of my internet people out in the real world.

So I was crampy and distracted yesterday when there was work to be done.  I don’t feel like I accomplished shit yesterday regarding the list that needed done.  And I was crampy and distracted today while I was at church trying to pay attention to whatever it was that the pastor said.  Something about trusting in God and staying the course and being self-disciplined, which I know is right, but fuck you for pointing that out, and then And after church, I did fuck all around the house when I should have mowed the grass and cleaned and everything, except I did wash some of the dishes.  I didn’t want to eat either, another side effect?  If Mrs M hadn’t almost thrown it at me, I probably would have saved it for lunch tomorrow.

I have a whole list of shit to do tomorrow that has to be done, and it doesn’t take a break or end this week until bed Friday or possibly Sunday, whereupon it all starts all over again, and I don’t want any of it.  FML.  Still need to reschedule with the doctor, not that the meds are doing what she said they could.  If they were, I should feel a lot more peaceful.   And damn it, I should be able to concentrate and get shit done without it dragging every shred of energy out of me.

The joke that’s closest is where the guy says he’s got a headache and the doc’s response is, You want something to help with that?  And the guy says some variation of Yeah, got any cyanide, or got a shotgun, or some other similar cure-all, except our recent loss renders it not fucking funny.  It’s not funny any more, but then, nothing much is all that funny right now.  I wish I could find something light-hearted but it’s pretty damned heavy right now.  Still.  Because our current medical practice practices better than they practiced 50 years ago, but we’re not where we need to be, because what they offer now might work in some cases but in others it seems like they’re answering the patient, “Sure, here you go.”

So my hope is, that amid the shit and chaos and other scheduled events of the daily grind, I can schedule some serious down-time, and ideally “down” won’t refer to my fucking depression, may it rot in the darkest smallest, most terrifyingly crowded cage in hell where demons and other cursed souls poke it frequently with rusty barbed wired sporks dipped in shit and strychnine and skunk sweat.  And may the crowd in the cell include your depression too if you have it.  I want some down time that lets me breathe, and sleep, and feel successful and productive in places I want to feel successful and productive, not just the ones everyone else fucking expects me to be that way.  While we’re filling the cell it can have panic attacks and side effects too.  Stuff it all in there; we can take weekend tours!  Come one, come all, step right up!  A complimentary pre-loaded spork, hand sanitizers and a free steak dinner for every visitor!!

The meds are supposed to help me concentrate and not be so depressed when the wave falls into a trough.  The weekend tells me maybe they’re not working so good.  Or maybe they are:  Hope for tomorrow and the week, that’s a positive note to end the weekend with.  Someone write it down:  Deon expressed one hopeful thought.

The Hardest Part

The hardest part isn’t letting go.  It’s the wanting to hold on.

Sweeney Todd is on Netflix.  From the organ introduction through the noteable cast, Johnny Depp and the late Alan Rickman, to the very end , fantastic. While I like Criminal Minds and Dexter because they catch the bad guys, I think Sweeney Todd is magnificently dark and awful.  I love hearing an actor who can sing.  I’ve read the music critics reviews of Johnny and Alan and I don’t care.  They’re brilliant.  Since some may not have seen it, I’ll try not to plot spoil.  It’s enough to say that Sweeney Todd is a story of death and love and revenge and remorse and lots of ick factor.

It’s The Princess Bride, with true love and everything, but there’s no miracle.

In an interview with my favorite singing actor, Mandy Patinkin talks with a sage’s wisdom about his current feelings about revenge, but  this is my favorite scene from The Princess Bride:

I heard another interiew in which Patinkin says that when his character finally got his revenge, in his mind he was killing the cancer that killed his own father.

I want revenge, too.

I want revenge against bipolar, against depression, against suicide. In the movie we aren’t told what happens to Patinkin’s character after his revenge. For that, read the book, but be prepared for anything. I won’t plot spoil any more on the book A Princess Bride. But I’ll recommend that you buy it. Oh look, Amazon and Harcourt Brace Jovanovich:  A free endorsement!

It’s true that revenge can go wrong.  Dexter spent his whole life getting revenge against killers  who got away, because his mother was killed and the killer got away.  If you don’t know how that turned out, there’s another free endorsement- Dexter, from beginning to end, is on Netflix too.  And his revenge didn’t always turn out the way he wanted.  I’m sure no one who takes revenge really cares about the collateral damage they may do on the journey of vengeance.  But I’d guess there would always be collateral damage, because we don’t get what we really want.  We can sometimes get close.  But a lot of the time we just lose after we lose and that doesn’t seem right.  It’s not a happy ending, nor even the happiest possible ending.

Believe it or not, God says He is in the revenge business.

Here’s Romans 12:19, quoting Deuteronomy 32:35:

19 Do not take revenge, my dear friends, but leave room for God’s wrath, for it is written: “It is mine to avenge; I will repay,” says the Lord.

I suspect, sadly, that the verses are truth and that’s why our human efforts at  revenge never turn out the way we want except in certain movies.   What we want is, people and things that hurt us get their comeuppance, their karma.  What we want is the satisfaction of knowing that those who hurt us and ours have gotten what’s coming to them and won’t ever be able to hurt anyone else, and we ultimately learn to live on and accept our personal losses.  What we get doesn’t ever seem that good.

When I started writing I said this:  The hardest part isn’t letting go.  It’s the wanting to hold on.  We don’t really have a choice about loss.  We have to realize that losing is inevitable, and we have to learn how to let go in the right way.  I don’t want to let go.  I want to hold on.  I break things, things fall apart, (hey, another free endorsement, this time for Heinemann!) and I grieve a little if they were special, unique, expensive, or held memories.  A coffee cup from a place I won’t be able to go back to.  A T-shirt that wears out and gets holes.  A shirt that gets a coffee stain, a pair of pants with an oil stain, an accidental bleach spot.  The day the car needs a few hundred dollars of mechanic time and spends the money I’m trying to save for fixing my teeth.  My two teeth that need either pulling or implanting or preferably both.

We’re going to lose.  Things fall apart.  And inevitably, we’ll suffer the worst kind of loss- when a dear friend or a family member dies.  The hardest part isn’t letting go.  It’s that I wanted to hold on longer than was possible.  It’s that I still wanted more of our friendship.

In the context of our recent loss, it seems trivial to mention that my dad’s dog died.  But she was a part of his life, a part of his family, and it’s thrown him into a pretty long-term depression, as if my cyclothymia wasn’t hereditary.  How the fuck did he hide it from me, and why the fuck didn’t he talk to me about what I might expect?

My kids have some times when they are depressed already, and I have that talk with them when I feel it’s relevant.  I’ve already advised my son and daughter that they may have inherited my cyclothymia or something close to it, and that the wave of sadness will pass, and they have to learn how to push through until it does.  I’ve advised that any voices in their heads, or bullies at school, or crises in life that lead to negative self-talk, should not be heeded, especially when they call for self harm or self destruction.  I asked them to please come to me so we can talk it through, pray it through, and fight it together.

But dad should have fucking told me too.  He’s doing little, minor, self destructive things, through his medical issues, deliberately mistreating his body but not per se suicidally.  It sucks to watch and not be able to intervene.  He makes his own choices and mum their kids have to live with it.  And maybe, raised in his generation, he was not aware of what he was feeling and coped in the best way he could, and kept it to himself fearing it would be more destructive to talk about it.  Back then the medical community didn’t really know how to treat bipolar.  They still don’t, but at least it’s recognized now along with autism spectrum, learning disabilities, etc.

I wish vengeance were mine to repay.  Sometimes.  But in more lucid moments, I see clearly through the rage I feel about life and loss, that it can’t be my job.  I can’t handle it, and there would be extra consequences if I tried to get revenge on anything or anybody who wronged me.  But I still grieve for things, for my hurting friends, for my friends who have left me behind.  In grade school one of my friends died and no one told me.  I found a news clipping, too late to go to the funeral.  I didn’t even get to grieve normally, or say goodbye.

To death, to bipolar, to cyclothymia, to depression, even to rage, to whatever kind of hell engineers these events, to God if He really does handle vengeance, about loss of friends, recent and past, about my dad’s slow loss of quality of life, about my own shit-happens grieving, never-normal emotions that should and could be a lot more pleasant, about my kids’ possible future if they ride the mood waves, about all that we have lost, and about all that we will lose inevitably, I want to stab that fucking destruction in the heart and tell it,

“I want [it all] back, you son of a bitch.”