Obsessed, 07/19/2017, Deon Mumple

When I wake up, you’re on my mind,
Add the chaos of routine every day,
When routine’s never quite routine, I find,
It’s to routine, I wish I could get away.

I sip my coffee, check, and think of you,
Try to smile, check, and to start to pray.
There isn’t ever enough time to do
Everything, and change is here to stay.

The hornets’ nest spins at the queen’s command,
Minions rise to detest her fair bidding,
I throw guesses in a bag, to face work’s demands,
With blurred eyes.  Don’t imagine I’m kidding.

She might kiss, brutally, before she’s mini-vanned
Well-hid exhaustion behind beautiful flurry
Then I regret everything failed I’d planned, and
Check again, then rush off, in my own too-slow hurry.

Radio drones simulate everything’s great; all stupidity,
As we drive to work, dodging two-plus ton bullets,
Too much laughter at things that aren’t funny,
Then a song, the only escape we might get.

On the outside pretending I give a shit for work goals,
I think of you, when not spitting silent bile at my screens,
Hope you’re all right, remembering your life’s tolls,
Wait for a break, hope you’ve written anything.

I might write, stealing time from a self-made hole,
Leave the reader wondering what it means
Don’t be alarmed, the writer would barely know
Tomorrow, from yesterday’s routines

Don’t worry, I’ve got a routine to hang from
Don’t alarm yourself for my emotional state
If change shreds all, who knows what will come?
Would it be worse than what I now hate?

Before I try to sleep, I check one more time,
To see if you’ve checked in, in some tiny way,
An email,  rant, a narrative, a tear, a smile, a line
Just to know, bad as it may be, you’re relatively ok.

I want at least that piece of peace of mind,
That peace of my world, as intact as you can be
Despite life’s grind, the rewind, and regrind
And I am sorry if I ever make you worry.

Compared to the alternatives I know are possible-
I’d rather not read about you from any other source
Though my normal seems comparatively dull
Routines, checking, checking, rechecking of course

If routine disappeared from the queen’s kingdom
I’d just worry more, for her, her minions, and you.
If you’ve not written, you’re who I’m waiting to hear from,
Call me obsessed; I’m just your biggest fan, being true.

Fallen Angel

When words fail us, our tears fall like rain.
Should we feel anger mingled with our pain?
When there are no answers, and right feels wrong,
The tears are the silenced words to our love song
When I remember, they play all over again.
My fallen angel!

I’m not alone hearing a love song play
With no music and no words left to say
What we have left are wishes that won’t come true
And our grief, deeper than any shade of blue
And words we wished we could have said…
My fallen angel!

No one can answer the questions we ask
But guilt never resolved chords dissonance
What’s left when there are no more words?
And she’s not here if they could be heard?
I don’t know anything left to tell
My fallen angel.

What can I say that wasn’t said before?
When I said “I love you,” I loved her more
And the tears fall, singing my love once again,
For mixed up hearts and lives. My friends
Should know love’s much deeper than pastel.
Don’t fall, my angels!

05/21/2017, Deon Mumple

I wrote a poem before about my Ulla, when I found out she had left us.  And now I’ve written this one by request because too many people fall to depression, bipolar, and other mental health difficulties.  We lost Ulla, and then we lost Johnna who wrote sweetly about how Ulla touched her, and honestly I just don’t want to lose any more of my people.  More famously, and more recently, forgive me for taking it too personally, I lost my favorite male vocalist Chris Cornell.

Sorry for being selfish, but please, all the rest of you warriors, please just don’t leave me here without you.  Ulla said “You matter.”  We need each other. And I don’t want to write any more poems in memory.  I want to write poems of celebration.  Ulla was an encourager of others, and the wish I wished the most other than my prayers for her to be healed was that I could encourage her enough, be a good enough friend, to help her and make her want to stay and keep writing, and keep fighting.  And neither were granted.  I fear for myself, and I fear for all of you.

Here is a short, beautiful tribute written about Ulla by Pieces of Bipolar, quoted by Johnna:
Blahpolar had an immense effect on my life. I doubt she even realised how much. She walked beside me on my own journey even as she carried the weight of her own demons. She said two words that redefined my life – you matter. Two simple words that changed my life. And now, I am at a loss for words. Because she mattered to me, and to you and to us. Words escape me. All I have are tears…https://painkills2.wordpress.com/2016/09/07/thinking-of-you-blahpolar/

A Song for Chris

I want to cry, don’t want to cry,
Fuck you, death, Why don’t YOU just die
I’m tired of grief, and time, the thief
I want to kill death, watch it die.

I sit trained like a dog, to wait
For food, my own death, festering hate
Afraid to walk outside the gate
A rabid temple, a sacred fate.

I’d scream to find a higher truth,
Louder than love.  We’re caged, in pain,
We waste away so much of youth,
In saddest days we can’t explain.

The garden’s sounds frighten my soul
Loud and confusing, silent toll,
No sleep, justice is misaligned-
I find a dream, and miss the goal.

I want to cry; I wanted more
Than cloudy feelings, sad and sore.
If life were ever not unfair
In this life we’d settle the score

But we just die, and there we lie
Until we crumble, rot or fry
It’s not the way I would decide
What I want: I want to cry,

I want all my lost treasures back
So many people I’ve lost track,
Nearly forgot my broken heart-
I want it healed, and not attacked,

Black days to go the fuck away,
Starve death until it’s dead and lean,
and Rage Against the Death Machine.
Don’t want to cry.  I want to cry.

R.I.P. Chris Cornell, 07/20/1964-05/17/2017

Did I Say What Needed to be Said?

If you read my blog you know I just lost someone I dearly love.  If you read my blog you probably read hers, and I can’t say anything worthwhile to you so I’m sorry.  I’m processing all the everything, and I don’t have a fucking positive spin for any of you fucking optimists.  Don’t tell me anything about time healing or getting over or moving on or whatever fucking cliche pops in your head.  I haven’t even got a good Bible verse.  Maybe you have one that’s not cliche.  If you do, go ahead and comment.  But if you’ve heard it before, I have a hundred thousand times and I don’t want to hear it.  Pick something new.  Go search for it, and stay away until you find something I haven’t heard.

How do I keep it together in front of people who don’t have a clue why I’ve been “triggered into depression?” (fucking clinician-speak!)  I can see it before I even start.  Tell them the whole thing and they’re bored before I start… “hmmm, OK so you never met this person but you met online…, (eye roll).”  Fuck you.  She was more real, more a friend, than some people I see face to face.  People I know face to face don’t understand me at all because I don’t let them in.  Not even Mrs. M., although I did tell her why I am sad.

I don’t approach grief “normally.”  Yeah, not that you’d want to do it but I actually had a college class called “the Psychology of Death and Dying.”

So, it’s a great fucking day, isn’t it everyone?  Let’s get started.

In the class the professor offered us the now-classic Kübler-Ross 5 stages of grief:  denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.

I didn’t go into denial.  I’m a realist.  I never started thinking any “I can’t believe it” shit. “Yay, progress before we even start! Good job, Deon.”  Fuck you.  Oh which brings me to the next stage, which is where I start as a baseline.  My friends death just pushed the anger amp to 12, where it’s normally preset at 8-ish.”

I didn’t even experience it as “stages.”  I guess if it did, I might be “normal.”  Instead, all the shit hits the fan at once.  Except denial.  And bargaining.  There’s no asking for more time, no way to prevent any of my other good friends from following her.  I may be trying to strike a bargain here, but I don’t really think so.  You medical and counseling professionals can decide, but to me, suicide is first, deeply personal.  If you choose it, it’s your choice, and no one can do shit about it.  But secondly, suicide is NOT deeply personal.  It ripples out and hurts everyone around you.  We wish we could help, we wish we could fight it for you but we can’t.  We want to say things and do things that will encourage.  People who pray, really do pray.  And beyond that, although we wish it were different, your experience is yours and we can’t do more to fix it.  So I just ask:  Please don’t choose that.  Please stay and fight.  For my own selfish reasons:  you encourage me every day you’re able to wake up and walk with me.  Or hide in your fort blankie while I wish I could.  So here I am, in anger, depression and acceptance.  And in hope for you and me, because although it might currently be shredded tatters, hope is all I have.

As far as I know, so far, I haven’t indulged in any self-destructive behaviours.  Except I cancelled a follow-up doctor’s appointment she set up to discuss the medi-go-round she put me on to see if it helps with my depression.  Fuck, my friend’s suicide really fucked up any positive impact the meds might have been having.  Irrationally, I want to feel something other than numb and crushed and hurt on the inside.  Rationally, I know that hurting myself or destroying my things isn’t going to do any good.  It’s just adding “a whisper on a scream” as the song lyrics go.  Add shit to shit and all you get is a bigger pile of shit.  But what the hell, throw on another shovel, because once you’re buried, one more can’t hurt much.

I feel nauseous.  I haven’t puked yet, but it’s possible.

I went to work today.  Not that I’m getting shit done.  I haven’t told the boss.  She might be sympathetic.  My old boss was just the last part of that word.  The new boss is better.

I was really afraid, with all the rage, to even start writing.  I don’t have a structured writing plan, I just write whatever pops into my little nutter of a brain, and I let it fly and let the readers decide if it’s shit or not.  I usually try to be funny.  I make a conscious effort at it.  There isn’t anything funny today.  Today sucks.  Yesterday sucked.  And the day before that sucked.

I can’t express the rage well.  There isn’t a vent big enough.  There aren’t words strong enough or loud enough.  So while the world spins around and everyone ignores me because of my mask, I’m screaming and crying on the inside.  Which doesn’t feel effective at all.  It doesn’t feel like anything at all.  I wait for the moments when I’m alone, which isn’t nearly frequent enough, and quietly mourn.  I like music so I listen to music when I can, but all weekend, even my surfing didn’t get me anything but sad songs.  I got an email from a friend with a link, and that was a sad song too.  I don’t know if it helped or hurt more, listening to music.  I went from classic rock to classical to modern rock to blues to whatever, and they all sounded sad.  I went to church and felt like a zombie.  Someone whack me, please.  I have no idea what the pastor or adult Bible teacher said.  Then I drove home alone and my family went their ways and did their normal things.

I hurt.

And then I backtrack to process our relationship.  Did I do everything I could have done?  Well, she was in South Africa and I’m stuck here in my bunker with no travel budget, so geographically I’m useless.  I couldn’t have physically been there to help. I did pray sometimes, but maybe not enough. I prayed like I always pray for all my friends in this community – for us to get through the depression seasons, for us to not be self-destructive, for our words to be nurturing enough and soft enough and strong enough and gentle enough and loving enough.  For her, it wasn’t enough.  I prayed for her to be healed, through the drugs, through the other treatments, or by miraculous means outside of treatment, just like I pray for my other friends here.  And for her, I got an answer, not the answer I wanted- not in this life, Deon.  Maybe in the next one.  I’m not bitter.  God chose not to answer my prayer the way I wanted it answered, for reasons I do not understand and may never understand.  And she chose to try to make her own pathway to free herself from her suffering, and I hope she’s truly free.

I’m not angry or bitter with her either.  Her circumstances were unbearable, she was strong but how much suffering should one person have to endure?

Did I say what needed to be said?  Who knows?  Would you believe, we joked and even teased and flirted a little with each other, even though I’m a married guy and she was a woman’s woman?  I told her she was beautiful, and I meant it, and I never actually got to see her face.  I just knew it was true.  And somewhere in there, I did tell her that I love her.  And I mean that, too.  I’m sure I even told her that God loves her.

(I guess it’s hard for God to express his love through our broken nature, so He sent me to her to say it.  And to the rest of my readers: we’re broken people in a broken world muddling through with each other’s help.  God uses willing people to send His message of hope and love.  Some people don’t know that when we’re motivated to help someone whether that’s God using us to show His love, but I believe it’s true. I’m willing, and He loves us even though we have to muck through all the shit.)

So yes.   I said what needed to be said.  I just wish the answer to my prayers for her was a different one, but it’s God, Who has His own plan, whatever that is, not a cosmic vending machine.  I can’t just pick item E12 like a bag of chips or a candy bar.  Wouldn’t that be nice?  I’m angry at God but I can’t just ask for what I want and always get it.  If we could, wouldn’t we all pick the things that make it easier instead of going through and enduring the scars?  I can’t even pick understanding, or not hurting, or how to heal the next person before they leave me behind.  Or how to be healed myself.  I just have to accept whatever reality is, not filter any meaning from it.

Acceptance is supposedly the last stage in the grieving process.  But acceptance isn’t the death of grief.  It just means you cry and hold on to what you have left.

I don’t have any good answers.  I don’t have any good words to say, so if you stopped reading mid-stream, I understand.  But if you made it through, please understand that in my alleged acceptance, I’m holding on to you.  I wish I could hold on tighter.


PS.  If you have that text that I haven’t heard before in this kind of situation, do pass it to me.

Goodbye, Dear (tw)

God, I hate this.  Seriously, fuck bipolar, fuck depression, fuck suicide, fuck death, fuck everything that hurts my friends.  I originally posted this here.  Readers, writers, please stay with me.  I need you more than you understand.  You are SO important, you are SO significant, I love your words and more importantly as much as I hate the world and everything that sucks about it, I love you all more than I will ever say.  I have to hate everyone to maintain my mask, but the truth is, I only hate the people who hurt me and my friends without any reasons except the selfishness it takes to hurt someone and the glee of the hellish power rush it seems to give the ass holes who mistreat other people.  So if you’re one of those, or if you have one of those spirits, fuck you and that spirit too.

This is my tribute to a fallen warrior princess. She captured my heart with her spirit, with her words.  I love her.  I wish I could have said this in a better way.  But it’s hard to write when I’m sobbing.  Fuck, here I go again.  Fuck!  I wish so much that we weren’t broken.


Goodbye, Dear

Having never met, still I love her soul,
My suffering took a lesser toll,
Now grief forces me to walk alone
Gripping my hand, it won’t let go

I wish I could have made her laugh
One more time, lighting her darkened path
Laughing, with that beautiful tone
Then turning, and,

Deciding to stay one more day
There really is nothing more to say
Like all friendships I think my own
Fleeting as sand,

And yet somehow, it’s forever
There were no magic words for her
To make her well, no prayer to pray
Sun sets, ending another day

Now grief leaves me to cry alone
Gripping my heart, it won’t let go.

~Deon Mumple

I’m Your Angel

I’m your angel and I’ve come to help your journey on the Earth,
I’m only visiting, to encourage everyone, with love, and peace, and mirth,
I was awkward at first, while I was getting used to living here,
It’s still awkward and it sometimes hurts, just breathing the atmosphere.

I know I can’t stay long, but I don’t know when I’ll have to leave,
And I’m already heartbroken knowing that when I go, you’ll grieve,

I’m your angel, with a note, or a hug, a kiss, a comforting word,
To spend some time, share laughs or tears, or commiserate in the absurd.
Sometimes it’s very hard, even for me, to do what I know is right,
I know I’m not alone in that, it’s good to have friends in the same fight,

I know I can’t stay long, but I don’t know when I’ll have to leave,
And I’m already heartbroken knowing that when I go, you’ll grieve,

I’m your angel, I know secrets, I have to share with you,
Although life’s not something you or I control, every word is true:
God loves His creations more than you or I love anyone,
And wants us to trust in His Son, Jesus, so that when the journey’s done,

I know I can’t stay long, but I don’t know when I’ll have to leave,
But if you know like I know, I know you won’t always grieve:

I don’t really understand all about how He makes us one big family,
But the way I think about it, He adopts us when we believe,
There’s a great big Reunion on the schedule of Heaven’s calendar,
I’m your angel, here to encourage you to join up, fellow traveler.

I’m your angel, and I’m leaving soon, but please know I love you,
And I want to see you at the Reunion after we’re all done passing through.