(If these posts make you uncomfortable, then I don't know what to tell you. I'm not a whole lot better, there's just many more days between me and the hard parts. Or something. Thanks for keeping up with everything though. It must be frustrating to be a reader of my words. Almost as frustrating as it must be to be one of my friends.)
I've been figured out, haha. The air isn't air, it's anxiety and everyone else has a helmet on into which oxygen is pumped to keep them motivated, alive and calm. Relaxed even. My helmet is broken. I'm getting no air, just pure anxiety. My blood anxiety levels are so high I've gone past the toxic range and into mutation mode. As in, I'm probably going to grow limbs out of my brain any second now. I hope they can type. And run.
Gee, that's a great description of me. If it wasn't so spot-on I'd be really pissed at New Jake for telling me it at all.
He tells me all of this as we drink forbidden afternoon coffee and he gets to be the victim of my mental load out.
This is what happens when you're a soft, friendly face who says How are you really doing, Bridget?
You get tears and the hiding of the little streaked face and blubbery sweet lies that everything is fine and then it falls apart faster than I can stick the pieces back on, licking the backs, hating the taste but determined to hold my shit together so they don't think I can't handle life.
I can handle anything.
Except when I can't.
But the other thing I can't handle is everyone standing there looking down at me with that awful mixture of adoration and sympathy. Like, yeah, you're so tough, little girl. I'd be dead by now.
Yes, I know.
I'm trying to find the silver linings but my playbook is missing. Ben probably ate it on his way to work.
Cue more sympathy, since I knew what I was getting into but it still sucks. Especially since he's not really working, he's avoiding, which is different but he insists it's the same.
Oh, okay. Gotcha, Tucker. Carry on.
New Jake has been dispatched to try and deal with the worst of the fears today. Mostly because my panic over Sam moving in has reached a fever pitch. Because my panic over Ben's crushing, omnipresent absence is destroying me. Because my panic over Caleb and Lochlan's three-decade tug of war never gives me a moment's peace.
So it's panic. Maybe I have a panic disorder. It's so pretty. Put it in the bouquet with the other mental flowers and I will leave them on display in the front hall so everyone who comes into the house will know that I am loved.
And neurotic as all hell.
They do make some mild pills for this sort of thing, Bridget.
(Right. Even my allergy pills, taken so sporadically I don't know why I bother, turn me into a living, breathing...brick.) Jake. You're new, right?
Relative to the others, yes.
Ask them what pills do for me and then come up with something else, okay?
Science has advanced. There's probably something better by now.
If Science was sitting on a risk-free emotional lobotomy for me all this time and never said anything, well, then, I'm never talking to Science again.
This is why you don't take pills, isn't it?
What do you mean?
You're weird and wonderful this way. Maybe that's why no one pushes you. They like you all fucked up and jittery and hilarious and creative.
Yup, that's it. Hey, did I ask you if you were new yet?
And you answered me, right?
I tried to.
Okay then just stop now. I can't take anymore. And please take Science with you, the bastard.
Helmet is full, can't hear you. Bye.
Love you, Bridget. I just want to help you. I love it when you smile. You're so pretty.
Okay, you can stay.