I will be brave
I will not let anything take away
What's standing in front of me
Every breath
Every hour has come to this
We're awake. It's four in the morning. I woke up like this. With tremors and terrors, I mean.
I was doing so good. And then Jacob flew and it all just went to shit.
I know, Bridge. I know.
I had figured out how to navigate Cole's arrogance, his violence, Caleb's crimes, his predilections and Jacob's crushing shock at all of it. I had put the past to bed. I had learned how to live around it and without it and I thought I had it. Jacob's absence has me leaving the door open to my brain hoping he might hear me and come back and instead all it's done is let everything back out and I'm back at square one.
Looking around, I think I hate it here.
(You new here? Oh, sit down. There's so much to explain.)
Square one, I mean. Don't read so much into it. Joel explained a long time a lot of what happens when Huge Trauma piles on top of Huge Trauma, but in beautiful, poetic and fanciful dreamlike terms so that I could process it properly and understand it. The way you do.
Oh, is it just me?
Claus was far more clinical and the other six or twelve (actually fourteen if we're keeping perfect count) professionals just had sweeping condemnations of letting me exist in the real world at all. According to most of them I should be medicated until I can't feel my skin anymore and just float through my days not even looking forward to lunch, because it would be better for everyone but also most humane for me.
Humane is a word you use to describe treatment of animals and I never forgot that, honestly. Even as they couldn't believe I could hear them. Well, fuck them. Fuck them all.
We'll be okay.
Lochlan's response to all of it was to draw the army tighter. To keep the status quo. All of them do. Too hot? Let's put in a pool. Too cold? Let's put in a sauna. Too dark? Open the curtains. Too sad? Live in a hug. Too far? Move in. Not enough privacy? Make a gazebo getaway or a music studio or a den, there's enough space. Or three living rooms. Because whatever. Too stressed? Someone will hold out a finger and stop the world as we triage whatever broken heart needs to be mended. When we boil the Collective down past the polyamory and the history and the various dynamics of who loves who most and who lives where the bottom line is no matter what we've done we're a family and we back each other up, even as we lust after each other and tear each other down, leaving deep wounds and new connections in a brutal swath of damage and repair across our point.
As long as she smiles here and there. As long as she stays here. As long as this is better than anything else. She'll be fine. We'll be fine.
I don't do drugs. I do this. I lose it and then I find it again, somehow. Miraculously and with help.
I put my hand up and cup Lochlan's face. I'll make it up to you.
He turns his face, kissing the palm of my hand. You already have.
I was doing so good. And then Jacob flew and it all just went to shit.
I know, Bridge. I know.
I had figured out how to navigate Cole's arrogance, his violence, Caleb's crimes, his predilections and Jacob's crushing shock at all of it. I had put the past to bed. I had learned how to live around it and without it and I thought I had it. Jacob's absence has me leaving the door open to my brain hoping he might hear me and come back and instead all it's done is let everything back out and I'm back at square one.
Looking around, I think I hate it here.
(You new here? Oh, sit down. There's so much to explain.)
Square one, I mean. Don't read so much into it. Joel explained a long time a lot of what happens when Huge Trauma piles on top of Huge Trauma, but in beautiful, poetic and fanciful dreamlike terms so that I could process it properly and understand it. The way you do.
Oh, is it just me?
Claus was far more clinical and the other six or twelve (actually fourteen if we're keeping perfect count) professionals just had sweeping condemnations of letting me exist in the real world at all. According to most of them I should be medicated until I can't feel my skin anymore and just float through my days not even looking forward to lunch, because it would be better for everyone but also most humane for me.
Humane is a word you use to describe treatment of animals and I never forgot that, honestly. Even as they couldn't believe I could hear them. Well, fuck them. Fuck them all.
We'll be okay.
Lochlan's response to all of it was to draw the army tighter. To keep the status quo. All of them do. Too hot? Let's put in a pool. Too cold? Let's put in a sauna. Too dark? Open the curtains. Too sad? Live in a hug. Too far? Move in. Not enough privacy? Make a gazebo getaway or a music studio or a den, there's enough space. Or three living rooms. Because whatever. Too stressed? Someone will hold out a finger and stop the world as we triage whatever broken heart needs to be mended. When we boil the Collective down past the polyamory and the history and the various dynamics of who loves who most and who lives where the bottom line is no matter what we've done we're a family and we back each other up, even as we lust after each other and tear each other down, leaving deep wounds and new connections in a brutal swath of damage and repair across our point.
As long as she smiles here and there. As long as she stays here. As long as this is better than anything else. She'll be fine. We'll be fine.
I don't do drugs. I do this. I lose it and then I find it again, somehow. Miraculously and with help.
I put my hand up and cup Lochlan's face. I'll make it up to you.
He turns his face, kissing the palm of my hand. You already have.