Back from the brink of the world.

(Hey, so yesterday's post is literally just an old war wound I needed to lick for a second and is not directed at anyone currently living here on the point, so don't assume. You can, however, assume I am fine and dealing with residual anger as it pops up. That's all, and sometimes I use this for a word-dump and I'm sorry if you arrived fresh as a daisy from breakfast and looking for entertainment. 

Also I didn't put a trigger warning on it because I don't do that, the whole site is a trigger warning. Hell, I am a trigger warning but again, thank you for the emails of concern. It's nice to have people out there who care.)

(Also had a week-long nonstop anxiety attack in there that almost did me in completely.)

I'm making an old favourite this morning, cocoa-molasses cookies (a variation on the recipe here) and trying to find a copy of the Violet Evergarden movie to watch, now that I've finished season one, the bonus episode and the special. Gosh, it's right up my alley. She and her gloves and her typewriter and her broken heart. I kind of wish I could whip off my hat and show mechanical ears the way she takes off her gloves to show her prosthetic arms but at the same time maybe not. 

I had a good laugh with Dalton over the fact that every character who carries a bag in these shows always always has an orange messenger bag that's completely nondescript. It's funny because I have an orange messenger bag and everyone comments on it and I love it so much. It's loud and ridiculous and matches nothing I own but it's also exactly something I would carry now that I no longer carry a designer bag. I gave them up and never looked back. I like function over form.

Dalton was a warm heart to curl up against this morning when I came in from running around the yard with the dog, who slept well and had the super-zoomies and wouldn't you know it, so did I and it was four less than zero out and they're calling for all kinds of snow this week upcoming but that's okay. It gets dark at five-thirty at night now and it's bright before I can finish my coffee each morning and I have hope because winters here are easier still than anywhere else. 

Caleb says that's why he moved us here. Easiest winter without leaving the country, or we would live in the Canaries right now, or Monaco or Sicily but since I won't leave Canada this is it, though it may not be forever. Our ten year plan is complete, the new five-year plan is now under way and then some big changes may take place, as that's what we've decided and it's not for sharing now but perhaps later. Ruth and Henry won't live at home forever but while they do everything stays the same so they have that glorious, underrated security and that's the takeaway here. 

Feeling safe.

The imposters were found out immediately but the charade has persisted through the years. Outward perfection. Perceived wealth. Oneupmanship, a sport as revered as any in these circles, where family tragedy was to be quashed down into a manageable, historical denial and the hype train rattles on. There's horror underneath every fresh coat of paint, and the lights we shine upon the hard parts are fuelled with gas. Designer labels and the exhausting pretense has left me cold, as I realized so early on that it was all so horribly wrong.

No, actually it left me angry, not cold. Learning how to reverse engineer support, belief, warmth and encouragement is an impossible task now and the efforts to try and escape the quicksand of compulsive perfection and ultimately endless failure is a gift that should not be wished upon anyone, ever. All of it could have been fixed with simple acknowledgement or extra effort but back then one didn't look inward, you didn't look behind you as you ran (something I always do, no matter what, even if it means landing on my face) and you certainly aren't going to go and talk to anyone about the fact that you were the one that found him swinging from the rafters in the garage when you were of such a formative year, were you? 

No, because you can always slap on another coat of paint over that and just carry on, right?

I was already fucked up before you gave me to the wolves and yet that doesn't matter one bit, does it? 

My entire life now dedicates itself to changing history and fixing all of the worn spots, so that this doesn't happen again. Twice as much work for me because you wouldn't do any at all.

Jar of hearts, almost but also I may just get out a jar because it would make so much sense.

There is a glass bowl full of foil-wrapped hearts on the big table in the kitchen. That table is sort of a catch-all. People paint and draw there. I do the budget there. It's where we spill over doing meal prep if we run out of counter space. It's where we dump our bags or personal things after leaving coats and boots and shoes in the front hall. It's where packages that have been delivered are left for their recipients and it's the first area of the house decorated for any upcoming holiday in the form of treats left out for anyone passing by. The table itself is a heavy thick maple with rough-sanded planks and a bench on each side with a wooden armchair at each end. It can sit ten for a meal and looks like a set piece from the top of the wall in game of Thrones. It's probably my favorite piece of furniture just for the variety of use it sees every single day and now it's decorated again for the first time since Christmas. 

One more appointment this afternoon and I have a few days free on the other side of it. I can't wait. There's been like twenty things to look after at the end of January into February and I forgot that I hate being super busy. 

Wish me luck.

Peaking at twelve hundred metres above sea level.

Five kilometres, straight up in the snow. Ridiculous incline. Coffee at the top and then the hard part, coming back down. Up is so easy. The reward of being at the top is so beautiful, I look forward to it. The punishment of my knees on the way down almost crushing. Coffee again at the bottom. The backs of my hands are so cold I am almost crying but the tired I feel is a physical exhaustion and it's such a beautiful change from the emotional (heavy) tiredness I am profoundly grateful. 

Sam baptizes us with snow and then saltwater. He smiles warmly as he does it, grateful also for the change of scenery. It's hard to believe we went straight from this peak back to a mountain of chores, but with all hands on deck we aced that too even as it involved a major bathroom repair, a truckload run across town and some electronics rejigging to make sure all of the property cameras worked, as two had stopped. We walked the dog, celebrated Henry's school victory and now I plan to sleep like the ghosts do tonight because that was incredible.

Pajamas and brandy at seven? Lochlan smiles. He loved today too. 

Hell, yes, I confirm. Who's going to turn that down?

In the quiet.

Not a wailer. I don't cry out loud. I flood into my sadness like a rogue wave, drowning in tears and pain and I try to swallow myself up into a little ball. I don't make a sound. I don't cry out loud. I don't cry out loud. That's either the way I'm built or it's a reaction to early instructions, gun against my temples, told that it would be safer both for me and those I love if I didn't make a sound and so I don't. 

They hate it. I didn't say enough at breakfast and got called out hard. I didn't make enough noise, didn't give a good reaction to a great plan. I sat, holding my triangle of toast with cheese with both hands, staring out the window as Jacob paced on the point. I'm having trouble getting rid of him, as my mind doesn't want him anywhere in our sights but my heart won't let him go so there he is and there he stays. 

Lochlan is having a sleeves-rolled-up, all-business sort of morning, hair tied back in a ponytail, low against his neck, probably wondering how to do battle against the nine-foot ghosts of my past in the bright sunshine of an early Saturday afternoon without the collateral damage of whatever inevitable lobotomy might occur afterwards. I would welcome it, he would not. He said I have a mirth, a light he never ever wants to be without. A tender presence that means his world and he's not going to lose, he said.

He said he'll make the ghosts go away, not because he wants to punish me but because he wants to help. 

Jacob comes up and taps on the window. Time is money. Am I coming out? Am I going to put up with this guy calling the shots? I can infer all sorts of attitude from that one knuckle-rap on the glass. 

I nod. Of course I am. Lochlan is everything and Jacob knows this. The minute Jacob was gone, Lochlan took back over again and he's determined to get it right this time and legally, hierarchically, and reasonably I believe him, and so does everyone else.

Watch over me.

Neither awake nor asleep I am on the steep edge in between, arms out, fairly confident in my balancing abilities, walking the line between dreams and life, as always. 

Jacob slides my bangs away from my eyes with his thumb. 

Morning, Princess. Nice to see you sleep. 

Drugs, I mumble, still clinging to that edge and not ready to pick a side. Issinevitable, Pooh.

Necessary evil. He kisses my knuckles, reading them with a strange look. Not sure in the end that he actually adored my tattoos or simply put up with them. I should show him the big X on my abdomen if he wants to really be surprised. 

Mmmmm. I turn away from him, back toward Lochlan, who is out like a light. 

A kiss bounces off the back of my head as I fall back into a shallow sleep and I forget to pay attention. He is there. I have to acknowledge him but if I don't is he actually there? He can be Schrodinger's Jacob and I can be in denial. I'm not actually crazy if I don't tell anyone I talk to him in the most unscheduled ways now. He just flits in and out of my days or nights like a will o' the wisp and I have to focus or he's gone again. I'm only doing this to remember his voice or the way his eyes crinkle right up when he smiles, right? I'm only doing this so I don't have to acknowledge that he's gone, across the marsh with the geese and into the dim twilight again, flooding me with a homesick cure, burying me alive. 

In the actual morning I wake up, the ledge is far off in the distance, depth of field putting it behind the fog and Lochlan is in front of the ghosts, who bide their time and their directives, left by me in another life but still holding and will never change. I keep my enemies close but my ghosts even closer and Jacob looks concerned but satisfied that Lochlan is jumping through Sam and August's hoops to keep me on track, so I don't go right off the rails. 

Where? (Crap, I'm busted.)

By the stables, just in front of the blackberries. 

And the other? 

On the roof. 

Far enough to be safe. He has his own ideas and I don't understand his any better than he understands mine. 

An open letter and a lot of freezing.

 Dear hearts,

I hope this missive finds you well. I am not dead. Instead I got roasted. Instead of being angry, Caleb was flattered and laughed about it all evening. Too bad, I was looking forward to my overhand flight into the sea but apparently he only gets angry if I act too stupid in front of him or more curiously, not stupid enough.

If you want clarity about the deal, there's a fine line between being crafty and then being shrewd enough to be able to ask open, honest questions that create a need for transparency and hard answers from the other party. They will realize you are smart, but perhaps not sophisticated and so instead of pretending to know everything and play along, it's much better to play confused and call it all out so that it is laid down step by step and there's no chance of ambiguity or coyness later. 

Works for me. *shrug*

Besides, he points out that our age difference is slightly less than a decade and perfectly acceptable so it's not really a 'daddy' thing. 

*'Mkay.*

In other news, I had a fountain pen explode in my hands this morning and spent this afternoon getting a thousand dollars worth of dental work done. I lost a filling a few weeks ago and then part of one of my big baby molars went with it and boy, that was fun. I hurt so I'm going to whine at PJ while he takes dinner shift. Have a good night.

Perpetually and decidedly not yours, 

Toothy Miss B.

Just checking in to say it's been an absolute pleasure. LOL

Caleb got a little too glowy-crowy this afternoon, picking at Lochlan just sharply enough to make me annoyed. That's almost the worst kind of mad for me because I get frustrated and stubborn and easily flustered. So when his phone rang and it was on the table he asked if I could grab it as he was talking to Lochlan (or I should say boasting) and so I did and it was his senior lawyer, the partner just checking in to congratulate him once again. 

I answered Caleb's phone with the name of his holdings company, as one does when you're not the phone owner and it's business. 

Ah. Good afternoon. Bridget, is it? How are you?

I'm fine, thank you for asking. How are you today?

Can't complain. Listen, is Caleb close by? 

Sure thing, just one moment. 

I laid the phone face up on the table and yelled, Daddy! Phone! 

When he's off the phone he's probably going to throw me out to sea.

Wicked true.

 Oh my God. I think I prefer days where being in pajamas is optional and I can throw logs on the fire until they're all gone and then let myself be hypnotized into the ether. This rare alternative now smacks of cruelty and charge as I stand in front of the fridge at two-thirty this afternoon in my work dress, stilettos on, ipad case under one arm, stabbing at some cold rice and chicken while propping the fridge door open. I don't have time to heat it up, don't have time for more than a couple of bites because someone had an emergency meeting and then one ran super-long and so help me, I told Caleb if I wasn't home before the mass exodus of traffic hits the ninety-nine, just after dark at suppertime, there will be a reckoning the likes of which he's never seen before and will never ever forget.

(Spoiler: We made it. It's four thirty-nine and he has volunteered pajamas and brandy and take out. I have declined in favour of pajamas, pot roast, broccoli and diet Dr. Pepper.)

Besides, third fucking set of meetings* in a little over a week and I don't need to be there. He just wants something to look at when he's bored and someone else is talking, wants to stir the pot with Lochlan by taking me away for the whole day and wants to liven up his life for it is so quiet now without the two-thousands techbro music, cocaine and Russian prostitutes, all ordered and then written off by corrupt former frat-boy bosses anxious to live the Wolf Life. 

It makes me laugh. Caleb now lives with a women who buys living lettuce and sews her own aprons, who has a long list of lovers and he is weirdly not even at the top. I hate techno, cocaine AND Russian prostitutes (or from anywhere, for that matter) and as I've said before, if you're going to write something off on my watch better make sure you qualify.

I feel like I was designated Caleb's conscience when I was still in Grade 5 and he's been running flat out ever since, unaccountable, unchecked. 

Except he's an old man now, quick to anger, quick to be placated. 

What do you think, Bridget?  

Suddenly I'm being taken seriously? Right. I bite the end of my pen so they can see my sharpened milkteeth and spout off a bimbo reply. It's on purpose and it gets the polite laughter and Caleb's eyes flash so dark I am shocked as I return my gaze to my agenda. 

He wraps it up fairly quickly and I am steered, by the arm, stilettos on snow and gravel, back to his car. It's a short-term lease. So am I. Limited mileage (HA) overpowered (WAIT NO) and ridiculously overpriced (HAHAHA YEAH). Sparkly paint job (INDEED). He loves it. He swears under his breath but doesn't throw me in the seat, instead waiting patiently for me to get situated and then he closes the door gently. I already had my punishment. This is merely payback.

Once home he disappears to his study upstairs and I find my flannel pajamas. Going to wear them to dinner and start a new fashion trend. Crank up the heat and find Lochlan, who pours me a glass of wine and asks how it went. Caleb returns just at that moment and we grin at each other. 

Mission accomplished. Four trips into the city, two pair of ruined stilettos and one very good deal now done. He owes me so big now I can probably rename the moon. Taking them all with me when I do. The sad part here is the dumber I act the more they let me get away with (the lawyers, not the boys).

 *(nothing to be alarmed about. We were offered a price for some real estate Caleb has held for a long time, one he didn't plan to sell but seriously for that sort of figure I would hand off my soul again but in playing it cool and being all super nostalgic and wistful about it in the end we walked away with far more than the original offer and I'm still forever pinching myself when I'm rolling high. Get it? High-rolling? Ha.)

Perfecting strengths (and I never looked back with the same eyes again).

(Movements change first, then the narrative that you file away without fail, then finally the emotions come on board and when that happens you will feel so much better. 

August promised me this and I understood him and look forward to my efforts ringing with reward. It's such a slow process. I have a tendency to be so destructive it's bloody unreal. He said I need to stop expecting things to change overnight. I don't. At least I didn't think I was. Maybe I am.)

I did it right. Breathing didn't work and so I called in the biggest support and the first person I go to and then we did distracting, physical things and then I had some focus in dismantling all of our muddy gear, muddy trucks, ruined shoes, freezing fingers and then it felt satisfying to look at the photos we took and talk about plans for the next time and with that the contentment settled in and I felt a huge reprieve from the endless panic as of late.

This morning Lochlan played and sang Slightly Defect Hands and then Into the Fire and I brought my coffee over and sat with him because he sounded so beautiful. 

We had a great night, truth be told. Watched all the shows we're all keeping track of. Went up and had a long hot bubble bath together followed by s'mores and brandy in bed by the fire and then we didn't sleep all night. He wanted a second inspection of me, the first being a cursory check for catastrophic wounds and this one merely for imprints and bruising. 

He didn't find a thing and I'm not sure if he struggled with that. I know I would, as it's easier to find a concrete reason to hate someone who could be devouring the love of your life versus treating her gently, which implies love and only serves to catalyze jealousy into the opaque green glass of Lochlan's eyes, fusing him into a frustrated stasis. Caleb loves doing this and is playing with him, though when called on it denied it up and down. All it will serve to do is keep me away from him, and he won't be Saturday Night anymore for a long time. I don't fuck with that, sorry. Not going to put Lochlan through that. I follow his feelings in this case and leave my own at the door.

The night was unspeakably perfect. We have a routine and it's beautiful and by the time the sun rises the whole world is blooming with new love built on top of the original and it's so overwhelming I can't even describe it today but it's almost as if we have to rip each other to shreds in order to find our way closer to each other. Everyone says it's because of history but I always feel like we're trying to strip each others' skin off in order to fuse our veins and even our bones together into one.

(He starts in on Suddenly. I think I might burst.)

You can't do that, Peanut. 

Hush. Keep singing. I love this. 

Follow your own heart. 

I am!

You know what I mean. 

Right. Keep playing. Please.

Love you, Peanut. 

I love you too, Locket. 

God, I'm so tired. 

Me, too.

Can you reach me here in the silence?

 The rain is screaming down from the sky, sheets of misery to wrap around our chilling bones, the wind its easy companion as they swirl and dance across the bluffs, ruffling the leaves on trees, swaying branches with their tendrils of struggling winter.

 I watch all of this from Caleb's windows. Up at four, the ever-present tiny early welcoming committee of one for the sun, waiting for the sky to change from cloaked to exposed. Saturday nights are for the Devil, as of late and then the early hours are for the wolf he becomes and then the later morning hours are for Jesus, but that's only if I go down and fire up my ipad in order to listen to Sam's recording. 

Except this morning I woke up in a blind panic, nightmares crowding in, heart racing off into the dark like the scared animal that it is, cold water rushing in to fill the space. Salt stings, waves roar and I can't hear anymore at all.

Caleb is there but he doesn't know what's going on, why I'm swallowing my breaths with choking sobs, why I'm fighting my way out of his arms. The only thing I've got as I dig through an empty box of tools is breathing so I press my nose against the glass, staring at the ocean and I breathe in through my nose as far as I can fill my lungs and then I exhale through my mouth, fogging up the glass, obscuring the view completely. When everything outside goes away completely I turn around and try and extricate myself as fast as I can.

Okay please don't fight me but I can't breathe and I need to leave here and find out how to fix it. I can't do it alone I can't do it with you either. 

He pulls me in with one hand against his warm skin, arm around my back, hand against the side of my head so I can feel his heartbeat. He starts to sway to an invisible song and he picks his phone up with his left and struggles out a message and then he grabs his pajama pants and puts them on before resuming his sway. He kisses the top of my head. 

Shhhhh. Just count the beats. See if you can match them. 

My heart hammers away and his is barely elevated but a challenge is a challenge and I am off and running, focusing in on the quiet thumps I can feel against my head. He's using affection, distraction right off the bat and it's a rare but becoming wildly more frequent tender display from a man who gets everything he wants by force.

Lochlan is there before I can count to ten. Suddenly I am a sandwich.

Let's dress warm and get out for an explore, Ben says. Don't know where he came from. He must have followed Lochlan. Caleb nods against my head. 

We drove for a few hours and then walked trails in the pouring rain. It was incredible. I am tired and wet and cold and now I feel alive.

Isn't it beautiful? I took this picture just before we made the trek back.

Hush, hush, darling.

Doing my best Gwen Stefani this morning, belting out the lyrics to Don't Speak while I knead more bread because the bread that rose so beautifully yesterday ended up having the parchment fused to the bottom and I couldn't steam it off nor would it peel off so I ended up shaving the whole bottom of the loaf off with a bread knife and then I sliced it so it's messy but delicious toasted with cheese and I guess that's the main thing but for sandwich bread I need something a little more solid. I threw away the rest of the parchment. I actually hate the rye flour and I want to use it up. What I love about rye I guess were the caraway seeds crunching between my teeth but I didn't even get those at the store because they didn't have any so I make it without them, though sometimes with dill and it's okay but not spectacular so back to the regular white bread because fuck this shit.

At least I tried, though I feel as if being adventurous these days is choosing a weird movie to watch or making strange recipes. We've bought all the weird fruit at the store and the weird vegetables too and watched everything that Netflix, Disney, Amazon Prime video and crunchyroll have to offer, or so it seems and I've resorted to sitting in my kayak on the beach in the rain reading under an umbrella. I learned I didn't grow up on turnips, they may have actually been rutabagas. HI MOM. AGAIN, THANKS FOR THE LIES. I learned I tie my shoelaces backwards (blame Lochlan, he taught me) and I also learned that I can happily buy Nike Air Force One Lows without special-ordering after all because my feet are so small in Nikes I'm practically in the toddler range. Size 5.5. I bought ones with an aurora swoosh and I'm thrilled, only it's muddy so I can't wear them outside until it dries up a bit. 

I have eaten my way through every mango (hate them) and Pomegranate (LOVE THEM) in the big weekly fruit basket from Ben's team. Beginning February 15 he will be returning to 'work' as it were, finishing anything he didn't completely finish and opening up for offers for new work. He will be six months out from his accident and is virtually unscathed at this point with only fractional issues now that I would easily notice but you will never catch. The relief is crushing here for us for that but his medical team said it was the fact that he had a whole team of helpers and supporters so there were no 'days off'. Sam credits God, Caleb credits himself for...holding back (ASSHOLE) and Lochlan says Ben is so much stronger now than every before because he didn't break, and that's sort of like Bridget, isn't it? 

I appreciate the comparison but I'm not strong at all. I haven't had a single day this week that I haven't resorted to bratty, spoiled and positively helpless tears over some completely normal thing because I don't know how to deal with big things or normal things, come to think of it and so I sit in the kayak on the rocks and read my book and wait for the waves to come and take me somewhere new. Somewhere where everything I think of is a good idea and everything I attempt is successful and there are no setbacks, glitches, events or bad news and maybe the sun comes out the quiet the swells so I don't paddle with my heart in  my throat. It used to be painful but it's not anymore, I'm so used to it and I don't like that feeling much either. 

It's as if they don't have my size, and I'm not that big so it should be easier, shouldn't it?

Really fighting this transiting of Pluto in Capricorn.

Making rye bread and drinking coffee all day today. Watching tv. Waiting for the rain.

What a fucked-up day.

Sorry, had a sick day. Woke up in terror and panic, calmed down a little, went to a few meetings, did a few chores, threw three big pots of chili on the stove and then grabbed myself a cookie and sat down to start Violet Evergarden on Netflix because I promised Henry I would watch it and that was last spring. 

It's so good. And I needed a few hours to just do nothing. Need a few more, I think and maybe a better wake up tomorrow because today I woke up with a bad headache and felt sick and then just lost it, as I couldn't put anything in their spots and couldn't see around them, everything grew together to be this big hulking obstacle and I did what I'm supposed to do, I woke up Lochlan and told him I was struggling right out of the gate and he pulled me down against him and talked me right around everything, putting feelings in drawers, kicking doors shut  on memories as he went and by the time I handed him his teacup half an hour later things were better for me by far.

The appointments were unscheduled, necessary and done with absolute manipulation in order to get things done. Go in wide-eyed and ignorant and ask for the moon. Before you know it you're sitting in an office signing things. Perfect. No time to stress. No waiting at all. We got lucky though, because the lack of planning on our part obviously does not constitute an emergency on anyone else's part, as the saying goes and things are running smoothly again. 

But yeah, somehow it got better, even though I could have been more restful or more productive or whatever, sometimes the day just gets away and that's fine, as long as the morning is resolved. That was scary and I'm glad it passed. 

And PJ has negotiated the best deal in the history of tax preparation. He sent me a clip from a porn film and said he can do that, if I'll do his taxes. I sent him back a warning that he can't sexually harass the person he hires because it's against the law and he poked his head into the kitchen ten minutes later. 

Is that a yes, then? 

It's a mayb-

No, Padraig. Lochlan glares. 

Fine, you can come too, PJ rolls his eyes in mock exasperation and Lochlan laughs.

For the record. For the wolves. (For the hoard! she yells from the background)

I am almost a week late on this, but The Thunder Rolls has a fourth verse and it reallllllly sucks that hardly any of the covers feature it, for it is the resolution of the song itself and if you're going to sing a story-song but leave out the highly rewarding conclusion then you are doing a disservice to all of us, to yourself and to the fucking song. 

It goes like this: 

She runs back down the hallway
And through the bedroom door
She reaches for the pistol
Kept in the dresser drawer
Tells the lady in mirror
He won't do this again
'Cause tonight will be the last time
She'll wonder where he's been

We need closure, guys. You can't have a swashbuckling, violent, lightning-strike filled song and not finish it. But this most recent attempt (The band is State of Play) gets credit for the band part of the video, especially the singer who looks like PJ (!!) but not for the guy with the fauxhawk who would have flat hair in that much rain, thanks. But damn, that last verse is the part we need, and not a cheesy video recreation of the first three verses that we don't need to be hand-held through. I hate those. I refused to do one once in a video and they changed the whole thing to make it super symbolic/esoteric instead and it went on to become the most successful video the band ever did. Just saying. Don't dumb down for your audience. The ones who need it will never appreciate it and the ones who don't need it will resent you forever.

So it looks like Overscene's cover reigns supreme because they do the fourth verse by default. I love that. Kudos. But Garth's original is still the GOAT.

****

Guess what time of the year it is? Right. Not BC day  or Groundhog day or Valentine's Day approaching, but tax time, and the negotiations to do them, because I am trustworthy and obviously discreet and so this is apparently my burden. My titan is a huge walking T1 form, I guess when I'd rather be Jaw.

(We're caught up on Attack on Titan! JESSSSSSUSSSSS so many episodes. I never thought we'd finish but here we are, now waiting for weeklies.)

(Also look up the Jaw titan. Definitely the coolest.)

Caleb came to me early this morning. Name your price. 

I am BUSY and I don't want to think about taxes. I am busy singing Keep the Wolves Away and plucking at the guitar. It hurts my fingers. Ben promised nylon strings for this little backpacker guitar a thousand years ago and it still has metal ones. Since Caleb's here I'll change some of the lyrics on the fly just to stick it to him good. But after his stand n' glare I put the guitar down and think for a minute.

Three of everything from that online shop. The stationery one. Including the Sailor pens. All the pens. That's how serious I am.

He calls my bluff. Of course he does. That it? 

And a cash bonus. 

Have a figure in mind?

Fifty. 

Fifty dollars?

Fifty thousand. 

For the taxes for the whole point? 

No?Also you can write off your tax preparer. 

I know she would like me to. 

Ha.

How about we just do this house, and August if you like and I round it up to a whole number.

Sixty? 

One hundred and fifty. 

I wonder if two weeks straight of solid taxes is worth an average years income. 

According to you, yes. It's like watching someone turn themselves inside out. 

Then have a professional do it. 

No. I would rather do it myself and take my chances up against the government than bring in an outside party. 

Right so that's pressure on me.

You don't break any rules.

Of course I don't.

That's why I need you. Everyone else wants to gamble.

(They do! They say to claim everything, to hide as much income as you can and then hope the government doesn't notice for seven years. Then they get you to sign on the dotted line saying they're not responsible if the goverment does notice. It isn't worth it and you shouldn't do it, I think. Earn the dime, claim the time.) 

Fine. 

Settling for one fifty and a big haul from your store, then?

Yes. I am dejected, defeated and burdened now. My voice is flat, my face expressionless. I fucking HATE taxes. But now I can go around and negotiate a price for everyone else and that's always fun because I go easy on them and they give me everything I ever wanted and then some.

There will be a bonus, as always.  He dangles it over my head like raw meat, dripping blood into my eyes.

Your bonuses are usually dangerous.

The way you like them best.

7:49/4:56 (The girl who loved).

Today is busy but feels lighter somehow. The light creeps in so much earlier than before, lingering later, like a good Devil with a bad habit, hanging around a halo that will never fit, even if he uses violence. I don't feel as if winter weighs as much as it did yesterday. We've caught up on floors and bathrooms, everything is clean. Changed the beds today. Ruth's car appointment. A whole heaping ton of laundry and I made lunch for Henry who is buried in schoolwork and has hardly seen the light of day. I gave all the animals their nail trims and burned some incense to try and bring back the heady bonfire smell that was all over Lochlan when he came to bed last night and I died a thousand deaths trying to keep up with him besides. That's our foreplay. Smoke. Fire. Sparks and ashes. Flame and char. Best smell in the whole world after fresh cold salt.

Today was sunny and clear and cold. We opened all of the windows and chased away all of the ghosts. We found a new routine in an old day and challenged ourselves to be-

You can do it. Sam is encouraging and leading, almost. Just think of something optimistic. Like that little magnet that says Today I will be a bird with a french fry.

I can't do it. I'm not an optimist, I'm an alarmist. The glass is never half-full of half-empty even; it's always too close to the edge and about to fall off and break. 

Today I will...

That's it. Come on. 

I will be...

You can do it, Sweetheart. 

Today...I will be a black bear with Bridget's severed head!

THIS is why you need therapy. No one says shit like that. 

It's a better visual than a fucking FRENCH FRY-

Not really. 

Well, I think it is.

The best laid schemes of Bridget and men.

It's Monday! Burns night. I am ready! Scotch eggs, neeps & tatties, garlic rolls, sausages, the good whiskey and the best Scotsman ever, who hasn't needed a visual prompt for years, and shouts the refrains of his favourite poet over the roar of a bonfire in the pouring rain and snow with the wind at his back like a ferocious beast and he holds back the dark with style, let me tell you. It's a magnificent sight to behold and for some reason the dark seems darker, the wind more fierce and the food always always tastes better than usual, that's for certain. Tonight he is doing The Banks O' Doon and Tam O'Shanter, (and never To the Devil) as he likes to switch things up a little but he will most likely fly by the seat of his pants as Lochlan always has and always will.

Since I have a lot to do and the boys are prepping the bonfire now I will go and start in, as the night comes quickly still these days but at least the sunrise does too. Happy Burns Night and remember, starting tomorrow we can really begin the countdown to spring in earnest, the same way we do everything around these parts.

Bye Petunia.

 Nope. Dogs went to someone else. Ben took them to another really good friend who is between dogs because even though they are beautiful girls, I couldn't do it. Have to put my dog (and my fear, apparently) first but Paul understood completely and the girls are safe with our other friend. Just yeah, not a big dog person, probably never will be and the whole 'look at them as small horses' didn't work at all. A dog is nothing like a horse. 

I get credit for trying though and I did welcome the chance to work on the dumber fears. I told that to Ben and he said he'll set a peat fire later.

Dogs of war, Petunia and Poppy.

 Did I mention I'm also afraid of large dogs? So what does Ben's friend do? He decides to go on a wilderness retreat (alone in a cabin that belongs to his family, just north of us) and leaves two of his four dogs with us for the weekend because these two hate car rides. They are three year old Cane Corsos. Both female. Both are supposedly small but they come up to my waist, both outweigh me by about twenty pounds. I didn't like either of them but damn, they love me and when introduced, Paul told them, literally, to 'love' me. 

You love Bridget-No, no, Loooove Bridget. And they would come and lean against me, one on each side and wait for further instructions. 

Meanwhile, I was told to stand still, with treats and once they stopped I could give them each one, with a pat on the back. Good girls. Then I was told to walk forward, and they came WITH ME. 

Another treat, another pat. 

Then they were told to stay (by me) and I walked forward again. Alone. 

I am turned around at the end of the yard. I tell them to come. To love and they both take a side and lean again. I love this so much. 

Leave them here, Paul. 

Right. I'll see you Sunday night. 

No, forever! I laugh. This is amazing. 

My dog pretends he can't hear me when I call him but if I even think about candy or breakfast foods he is right there, bruising my knees with his nose until I share. He is a little asshole but I love him because he sleeps pressed up against my legs at night and he is within sight always. But he's a Shih Tzu. They have hilarious attitudes. He will be safely away from these girls, who might eat him. They will sleep in their pens in the front foyer. Gates closed but not locked. They will not budge until I summon them, which I also love and I'm amazed that they'll be this content in a strange house with strange people. 

We repeat all the rules with Ben this time but not the 'love' guard-part. Just the come and stay parts. We're going to run with them in the snow all weekend. Paul is super happy with the plans. Apparently they vomit all over his truck if he takes them more than a hundred miles. 

Ha. My dog does that at twenty miles. We have to put him on someone's lap with his head out the window. I also get easily carsick and sit up front. Somehow I don't think we are the exceptions but maybe the rule here but weirdly I'm no longer afraid.

Rule 34: Don't ask questions you know the answers to.*

Sam is on deck this morning. When I come downstairs he has coffee ready. He is Ben's workout partner this morning but I get enveloped in a hard warm hug because Ben isn't even up yet. Sam has a key for the main house and he always feeds everyone first so I think I made a mistake in giving them (he and Matt) the boathouse. It would be more productive to have him here but if anyone should have some privacy it's them. 

Not me, I have none. Zip. Zero. 

The hug lingers forever and I lean back and swing gently against his elbow. His face is half an inch from mine. He smells like coffee and shampoo. 

Thought if we have time we can take our coffees out to the gazebo and talk for a bit. 

About?

Anything you want to talk about. 

Sam loads a tray with the cups and two bananas and off we go. I hold the doors. When we get there I crank the heat and close all the doors. The glass lets the light in and keeps the breeze out. He puts the tray down and I pull out two fat pillows and we sit crosslegged, facing each other. I pick up my cup, take a sip and burn my tongue. I peel a banana and take a bite to soothe the pain. 

Did you want to talk this morning? He tries again. I now have a huge mouthful of banana and am studying my cup with interest, trying to keep my mouth closed while I chew. 

Mrpghmw.

I'll take that as a yes. Lochlan is concerned that by scaling back the meds it will just cause a renewal of your anxiety-

Eharkkkr!

I'm sorry?

I finish chewing and swallow another sip of coffee. He's right. 

What do you mean?

Anxiety is my middle name. 

Right so what fears specifically are you dealing with right now?

Peat fires. 

What? 

I'm afraid of peat fires. 

And?

Flowering teas, but you know that one. 

Yeah, that's a weird one. But you can avoid both of those. 

I don't know, peat fires can smolder for AGES underground. Did you see the fog this morning? What if it wasn't cold air against warm air and instead it was-

Peat fires.

RIGHT.

Don't squander these resources, Bridge. 

Don't medicate into someone you'd all like me to be, Sam. 

We're trying to help. 

It's the same old song and dance, Samuel. I say it gently. I can't be fixed. We both, hell, we all know this. Drugs are just easy patient management. I get it. I can try harder but I can't keep doing this. 

Peat fires. 

They're terrifying. Look it up. 

I love you, Bridget. We'll find something that works. 

I know, I lie. I love you too. (That part's true.)

*(Yes, I know what rule 34 is. It's the irony here.)

Go, go, into the night again.

Some music is just for the cold. Or just for the heat. Or for somewhere in between but not for both. A.A. Williams is like that. I feel like when I play Williams' music I conjure wintertide and the trees crowd down close to listen near me, weighted by the snow. Monday marks the end of Yule for us. Though the Christmas adornments are long put away and we are obsessed with the minutes of the sun in attendance (7:54 to 4:48 now, we're getting so close to an acceptable amount), the absolute end of Christmas season is marked for us by Burns Night (this coming Monday) when we kill the power entirely on the main level and cook over the fire (outside if possible), read the poems of Lochlan's favourite Scottish wordsmith and toast, with our whiskeys held high in the firelight, to a simpler, romantic time. It's a fun ritual to mark the end of winterval, what we call it when we are finished with it and ready to move on to spring, ready to move on to a quiet, warm spell where the coyotes and the owls shut the fuck up already and let the birds sing their most beautiful songs. 

I have all my ingredients for the meal this year without scrambling. I'm so proud of myself for remembering but remember I have my big fancy planner and I write everything in it that needs to be done and I'm so organized I should be running the military from this steep crag above the ocean. A semi-benevolent antihero in a dress. The tiny reprobate witch with faltering power. The hopeful romantic.

I would order them to drop their weapons and push the snow clouds away. I would order them to stand at the ready and fix my fears. To keep things running smoothly without these endless cogs in the gears. Sometimes I panic so much I can't breathe. They send me out in the cold with a scout to watch over me, to listen to music in the wind, my orders to feel better tumbling like stones in the surface until they are smooth and ordinary and I can't pick them out from the crowd. It doesn't work but for a little while. 

Then I get caught up in chores or painting or this music and I forget about life for a little while. The small things can be piled into a mountain, for sure and then I look around and realize no one else is standing in front of this mountain, they have views as far as the eyes can see. 

I am blind to that and instead of focusing on the view my eyes are veiled with panic and pressure and surprise and I need to just follow their lead. 

As always.

Follow them up the street. Follow them through the woods. Follow them into the dark. Follow them through the years. Follow their paths, cut through the easy parts so that I can do it. Shadow them close and instructed and things will be okay. They make it seem easy, why isn't it easy for me? It's a white-knuckle insurmountable ride but I seem to be doing it, in spite of the ache in my hands and the fear in my heart, hardly blanketed by the snow that quiets the screams inside my head.

Hey Lochlan. 

Mmmmm?

Did you turn off the fog machine? (<-- That's codespeak for asking if he cut the amount of drugs I'm being given for My Own Benefit, something I have very publically begged them to do.)

Possibly. He winks. Not sure why we celebrate the start of the panic and the emotional tidal waves that just never quit but they sure beat the Nothingness instead. I wish we could somehow fix it down to a thirty-seventy split but this shit is not an exact science and I refuse to be a science experiment.

(Also, in writing this, even as I learned that I'm not all that medicated currently, I worked my way from A.A. Williams down to Bon Jovi and now we are about to sing Bed Of Roses at the top of our lungs. As we always have because it requires a full performance.  God, being twenty-one and having this song hit the radio was just the greatest thing EVER at one point. Awesomely, it still is. 

Music is the drug that works. Trust me on that.

I told you, Ben whispers against my head so hard it hurts. I press back and he kisses my hair. Welcome back, monstergirl. 

Pfft. Wasn't my idea to check out like that.

Maybe they should sell Bridget Care and give me two brain replacements a year.

What a beautiful day. Sunny, ridiculously cold and I was up early and downstairs letting the dog out before anyone was up. The dog usually has to be peeled out of bed around eight but some mornings he just needs to go and so I took him out and puttered around the kitchen while he explored what had to be every single inch of his run. This week alone I have seen one bear, two deer, four escaped chickens, fifteen horses (happily behind their fence) and eight llamas (also fenced). Sadly the bear was in the front yard and the deer were standing right at the edge of the ninety-nine waiting to cross. We wanted to go back and make sure they made it but the last time we returned to check on wildlife it had already ended badly so now I won't go back. 

But animals. Everywhere. It's so cold I've been living in heavy jeans and big sweaters and reaching for my gloves before a mask when we head out. Did I tell you? My hands got cold and I dropped my early Christmas iPhone and now there's a hairline crack across one corner. Guy at the Apple store is like 'Don't worry! Two screen replacements a year!'  and I was like what the fuck I'm still getting a screen protector and all the boys said not to bother but not sure if they noticed it's such a freaking hassle to go to the Apple store and then wait for the phone to be done and half the time they give you a refurb and I don't want a phone someone else dropped so how is this great again and now I have a screen protector and I tell myself there's no crack. 

You really have to look to see it anyway. 

But yes, I've been so cold and I usually am too warm so this is really great. You can always put on a second outfit over the first, turn up the heat, find some arms or crawl into the woodstove, right? But you can't take that last layer off so I'll choose cold any day and that's saying a lot because I lived in the Prairies for eight years and every single winter morning I woke up, looked at the temperature in debelief because I didn't even know you could still carry on as usual when it was that cold and resolved to never live anywhere cold again. 

Regardless, this is a pipe dream because not only is it January in Canada (even on the relatively mild West coast where I am) but as I said, I hate the heat.

I did let the dog back in (he promptly ran back upstairs and went to sleep on the floor near the bed) and had a long hot shower. Then the day got underway. Not so busy but busy enough but I never did get warm and tomorrow we've tossed around the idea of doing some winter kayaking before the snow hits on the weekend and my mind is changing to naw, let's stay in bed and stoke up the fireplace instead but I know fresh air (warm or cold) is really really good for me.

(As I said, some days I try.)

(I mean, if you want me to be picky, I prefer the Sumatra or at least a darker roast, black and God, don't give me so much food but) Out loud a warm thank you (and a big tip) is fine.

Gloves hiding my knuckle tattoos with my pale green wool coat and a boughten coffee today in the cold icy sun as we embark on a little business first and then a little breakfast after and I tried to make butternauts but the butter was too soft to carve properly. Lochlan told me I should ask for cold butter but I wasn't about to do that. That's how the butternauts started and maybe this is how they will end, drowning to their deaths in the tiny square graves of my blueberry waffle, screaming silently until their little helmets melt into their little bodies and we'll never know of their myriads of adventures because they can no longer speak. 

Besides, unless something's really wrong I don't ask for extras, favours, substitutions or something different. That's a pretentious thing to do, I think and so I just don't do it. I worked in food service. People like that suck. I mean, of course I'd like double pickles on my MacDonalds hamburger but I'm not going to ask for them because that wastes their time and it messes things up and seriously I can put more on at home and-

You never did want for much. 

Still don't, I point out helpfully. We are tenuously getting along. It's so wonderful. I forgot how well we work when we're not arguing but also I should point out that things always work best when he is the dad and I am the child. That way no one can argue with him. Except I'm not a child and I found my own voice and my place in this world and goddammit, if I see a double-standard, a bluff or a just-plain-wrong, oh, you're going to hear about it. 

Hence, his attempts to distract me with the temperature of the butter and the unfortunate but completely predictable death of an entire platoon of melty little butternauts. 

Huh. 

Maybe we should have just grabbed a burger, after all.

Old standard.

 Since PJ has been cranky lately (a usual this time of year) and Lochlan and I are at odds, Ben has been sent to play fake guardian angel, keeping the true angels away while I flail through life bouncing off a flannel shirt or eight as I go. Better than an electric fence, I suppose as the zap and subsequent bark from the big black bear wandering out of the driveway kept me rapt in the early hours, between waking up and being allowed to actually leave the room long enough to have a shower. Then I had to wait for Ben to be able to go downstairs and get coffee, and now he is my shadow that blocks the sun. I don't exactly mind. I miss him when he's not around and he parked me within reach for two hours already this morning while he did a workout and ran through his morning routine which involves quashing cravings, healing traumatized brains and retraining short-term memory. 

(For both of us, truth be told. Only he makes real, visible progress and I am so jealous I could cry.)

The reward is a walk on the beach, a scream into the wind (still within reach) and a long talk about how I'm feeling. If you're wondering how that's going it's going great. They are forcing me to take the meds, they don't care if I can't think for myself or feel anything and I'm never alone so no privacy, no quiet time, no lunch being just what I wanted to have without either taking it to a vote or having to make enough for two or three people. I get it, I am a horrible little troll who needs to be babysat and also if I'm not I have a tendency to make ghosts my new best friends and in their place the devil, besides and no one is actually mad at me today. Sam thinks by staying I didn't get hurt worse, Lochlan can't even believe I called his bluff and went in the first place. Ben is mildly irritated that I didn't bring him along for kicks protection but at least he says how he feels upfront and doesn't expect me to fix it for him or do anything different, though I pointed out he was right and I should have and I won't do it again (without him, as if I am not tired enough already). He liked the apology even though he said it wasn't necessary and pointed out it's going to be a better year. 

Besides, more daylight, Bee. What does the sun come up at now? Seven?

Seven-fifty-seven. 

And it doesn't set til like six now? Right?

Four-fifty-four.

You still count down to the minute. 

Yes. 

Why, Bee?

I'm afraid of the dark. It's a frank statement. I am. I wasn't, once, but I am now. 

I think you should stay on these meds. 

This is a death sentence. 

Give your brain time to rest. Go off them later. 

I know. I know the logic. I don't want to live like a zombie.

You're not. 

How do you figure?

You're cranky today. That's a feeling. 

Lochlan said it's an attitude. 

He worries for you. Be comforted in that.

Jesus antlers.

He pressed his thumb against my lips, forcing it in gently until it came to rest against my front teeth. A smile spread across his face so slowly it poured like golden molasses in the late-morning hazy sunrise. 

Skip Jesus today. Please, Neamhchiontach.

What's in it for me, I mumble around his fingers. Christ. Hobble me and I'm yours. Easy catch. Fish out of water. Fawn in your highbeams, I'm roadkill before I even knew there was a highway underneath my legs.

Satan. Satan's in you. I mean, in it for you. He laughs softly. He leans forward and kisses my cheek. 

Jesus won't be very happy with me. 

I'll run interference for you, he whispers and pulls the blankets up over our heads.

***

I skid into breakfast late. Bedhead. Uh, bitemarks you can't see and they're not deep but they hurt nonetheless and I am chagrinned. I forgot about this. I forgot what day it was other than Sunday and then I started thinking about knowing Sam's sermon because he wrote it when I was present and then I remembered the late brunch we planned with a whole trunk full of mushrooms we got from a forager down in the valley who said we wouldn't regret it for a second so omelettes and a fritatta were planned and I knew last night's invitation was going to cut it too close and I was right. 

Or should I say, he was right. He is always right. Lochlan has never lost an argument in his life. He's abandoned a few of them but everyone still knew he was right. He isn't less than a hundred percent integrity unless he's stealing out of necessity and then it's still absolved via a good deed or a generous gift. His karma is straight up, level and replenished easily. 

And boy, is he mad. 

I throw myself into my chair. The plates are already on the table.

You're in rough shape-

I'm fine. 

He stabs his eggs with a fork. Sam needs to baptize you again, I bet and then you need a swim to heal those bites. I could see the way you were moving from the second floor landing. Before you checked yourself. 

He didn't mean to-

It doesn't matter what he meant to do. 

I asked for-

BRIDGET. 

I bite my lip. 

Just don't say anything. Do I need to look at the marks? He's not looking at me as he asks. It only serves to make me feel worse. He's never going to ask me to stop. If he did I just might. 

No. They're fine. Nothing's bleeding. (Except my heart. My heart is always the exception here.) 

We eat in stony silence. Jesus does not fill the space. Of course Lochlan didn't go to church. He stays home and works himself into a lather if I'm with Caleb. But he won't tell me not to go these days. Instead he nails himself to the floor and blames me for it. I have nothing to do with this. This is between the three of them: Caleb, Lochlan and Jesus.

La Moldau, though. Damn.

Moved. 

(Plus it's easier to talk about music than anything else. Ben taught me that.)

Something about playing piano before eight in the morning is beautiful. I think I've sat down with my coffee cup at hand every day for the past ten days and tried to bang out something or other. This morning was Merry Go Round of Life from Howl's Moving Castle. A gorgeous, upbeat piece, almost reminiscent of Vivaldi without the freneticism. Like Brahms without the jumpscares. More sophisticated somehow and less jarring. Always and forever flows better, and yet has a simple optimism that keeps you engaged right through to the end. 

It's like going to a museum Hemingway-style. Hungry. 

Half-awake Bridget appreciates things without perspicacity very early, before the day throws itself on me, making me bitter, picky.

It almost cured my headache so now I've moved on to some Debussy with a little of the quieter Dvorak sprinkled throughout. 

Okay, now Dvorak takes the fuck over.

A second cup of coffee, the first long forgotten and ice-cold poured out and replaced with a fresh hot cup and some toast would do me well right now even as the pain in my head is almost drowned out by the trumpets I can hear only on the inside as I play along.  Dvorak is king.  This is beautiful. The resonating strings-

Fuck this. Going to get my violin so I can do that beautiful climb. Maybe I just need a classical soundtrack to give me momentum because holy shit this works. 

(You know you loved it when you grieve at the end, because it's finished.)

No net no net no net no net oh there's the net.

 You know what happens to a candle when you find out it's counterfeit wax as in there's a birthday candle rolled in super-cheap wax. The middle burns down and the rest doesn't budge and eventually it smoothers itself because the melted wax has nowhere to go and so it eats the flame? 

That's me on drugs. 

And I can't do it. I can't write. I can't sing. I can't paint. I can't settle enough to read a book or kayak. I just float around like a shell, a breathing ghost. The cheap wax on the outside. Have you seen the past few weeks? Paralyzed by stationery, indifferent to ghosts and the living alike? It's almost better to feel everything than nothing. It's better to suffer for this art of a life, it's better to not be immune, untouchable and hard. A jar of hearts won't help me like this. Lochlan hates it but feels desperate. Caleb can just buy better. PJ can't even be in the same room with me, he says it's a stranger, but he doesn't say that to me directly, just to them. Ben tells me to shhhh, that it's necessary to stabilize everything and then maybe we can see about trying tiny changes but to leave it for now because they can't have me standing on the edge of a proverbial, figurative cliff 24/7, that they are tired. 

That they worry. 

That they can't control the ghost without the pills. 

It makes me laugh. 

Jacob is not a ghost. He's real and it's my dreams trying to clue me in. It's my intuition, feeling him near. It's some magnificent attempt to drive Lochlan away for good to pay him back for being a scared teenager. It's a wish for a do-over and had Jacob even come near me I would have shouted for him to stop, shielding my eyes, hand up as if I could physically keep him away. 

If I could go back I would and I never would have met him and Caleb can't BUY that but oh what if he could, instead of golden rings and glass houses and other mens' loyalties? 

Thanks to my metabolism for medications this casual, chemical lobotomy isn't going to be enough. My brain is four minutes into Everglow, my brain is down the block screaming so loud you can't even hear it from here. My fingers are back to fluttering and I am not at peace right now, I don't care what your eyes are telling you. 

I look at Sam, sitting at the table writing sermons in his field notebook, his favourite stubby little Kaweco pen glowing warm from overuse and I want to scream in his face but I haven't come back from down the block yet. 

I need my outlets-

Right now you need peace of mind, he says gently. 

Lochlan nods. It will all come back. 

And in the meantime?

Bounce off the walls, Peanut. I'll catch you.

Half alive.

And it took so long just to feel alright
Remember how to put back the light in my eyes
I wish I had missed the first time that we kissed
'Cause you broke all your promises
And now you're back
You don't get to get me back

Caleb has no time for cinema, he's busy. It's spring and this is birthday season. We'll skip right past Valentine's Day and skip past the upcoming but lesser-known Burns Night because those are Lochlan-holidays and he doesn't get those. And he's becoming a lot less regimented and a lot less formal and way more fun the older he gets, but I probably couldn't get him to sit through a Ghibli movie if I tried, though he did offer to watch one if I really needed him to. He's Howl. Super-agreeable. Can provide whatever your imagination spits out and pushes far too hard until things are trepidous but still highly escapable.  

He'll be fifty-eight this year. Still the same age as Tom Cruise but decidedly nothing like Tom Cruise, who doesn't actually age. Caleb has laugh lines and frown lines and is turning light grey around the edges, fully half his beard is white now when he doesn't shave and he lives a practiced, scheduled life, favourites within easy reach, hardly deviating except in that one way and he's as charming as ever, sitting here. 

Choose something else. 

He wants to buy me something..significant, in his words, with an obviously capital S. Since Christmas did not work out the way he planned. Anything. Name it.

But not the thing I ask for. It's okay, I have a list. I want to sing. 

You have a beautiful voice-

I want to hear it. It's so hard to hear it without a half-hour of setup for the monitors and the mix-

I would give you that if I could, Neamhchiontach. 

I turn to the edge of the bench. I've been working on Jar of Hearts all morning. It's a little bit of an easier reach for me, which is encouraging because I sat down to work on Speak to Me and it's a lot harder so I was discouraged and when that happens I'll do anything to make that feeling go away. 

He sits beside me. Whats happening?

I need to nail the piano and then I can work on vocals.

Then play, he orders. 

I start the song and he sings it. 

Now your turn. 

I'm more than surprised. He sounds pretty good. I've never seen so many of his teeth. I'm usually in his mouth.

Now will you play? Until I get this part down. 

Yes. 

He played (he plays! They all play, I know, I tell you nothing as I tell you everything) and I sang and we ran through it three times and I finally was happy with it and took over piano and by then those who like the song were in the doorway and those who hate it had to leave the point, because I play so loud. I'm a smasher, I push against the keys, against the pedals, I pound and flourish and one of my tricks to hit the notes I can't hit as a supremely shitty mezzo-soprano is to go louder as I go higher. 

Luckily I am a Capricorn rising and not the least bit shy which to me is already a freaking superpower as in I am the one who will make the speech/pick up the phone/take charge/make a fool of myself first and then everyone else will feel more comfortable. I've never cared once what anyone thinks of me and so one of my goals for the future is to get my singing to a place where I don't mostly hate it. 

You would think by now I would be there but I am not.

Garden of Words.

 Finally. A main character who shares my super power. 

I went from wondering if we were watching a low-level fetish anime to realizing that boy, everyone is pissed off, and everyone hates Miss Yukino because all men fall in love with her. She feels powerless to control her own life and then she says fuck it and follows her own damn heart. It was short, beautifully done and the music and environment paintovers were just delicious. I finished it alone because PJ bailed to go to sleep early and left me alone in front of the screen. He said he'll finish the half-hour he is lacking right away so we can forge ahead, though we did get Amazon Prime TV or whatever it's called and now I have to get through my immediately long and varied list on it, too. Lochlan took his place and had no idea what was happening but I quickly filled him in and he said it was good.

Last night the wind howled, the house rocked, the dog cowered and the power flicked and disappeared, not returning forEVER for the second time in as many weeks. 

I am almost done with the west coast and I have to admit I laughed so hard when the movie spooled up and the first thing they mentioned was that it's rainy season and it featured a windy, blustery moment that almost marked the absolute change in both characters. 

So maybe I made it happen but whatever. Next up is Spirited Away. I've seen it before but I don't remember much of it so adding it back in.

Overshare, over land.

Today will be a good day. Today we're picking the next movie out of a hat (at least three days a week PJ and I have committed to consuming the entire Studio Ghibli catalogue this season, so we put all of the names in a jar, and pull one out to watch each time. We've watched My Neighbor Totoro, Kiki's Delivery Service, and Howl's Moving Castle so far. Someone pointed out Christian Bale does the voice of Howl and it took me a few hours of wondering around amazed that he can speak fluent Japanese before realizing they meant the dub. 

Never ever watch the dubs, if you can help it.

I have all of Ben's rings on and I'm in leopard print leggings and a long black t-shirt, tattoos on display and my hair...is...well...jesus, it's grown right out from the pixie cut into this flippy shag that just..actually doesn't look so bad, I don't think. PJ's hair is to his waist but he keeps it in a braid. His beard is catching up but he won't braid it even though I have offered to buy him silver beads to put in it. Man, if I had a beard like that I would go full pirate but he says he's afraid if he puts it in a braid that I will be tempted to swing off it like a little monkey and I don't know where he gets that from. That sounds like it would hurt.

PJ is also in a full Seasonal Affective Disorder spectrum right this minute. Like me. He hid it for years but there is a distinct sea-change in this non-pirate, one that little seems to help. Just before Christmas it's almost like the lights go out for him and they don't come back on until late February so we are attempting to surround him and keep him cheered. He takes some low-level meds and he sleeps too much and yet he has stopped drinking as much as he once did (Getting old, Bridge) and at least that's good and he's working on losing a few pounds and finding more purpose and he's really having a go at helping to look after Ben now that his regular role is waning. 

(It's difficult to be a full-time live-in nanny and favourite uncle to a twenty-one and a nineteen-year-old who both work and do university courses all the time. And yet we plan to never formally end the role because in my opinion PJ has been the most consistent father figure of all time, part of their lives since birth and that is worth more than gold. 

Between he and Ben and me and my feral brain our hands are full on yet another rainy Tuesday here in the trees by the sea. 

We pulled The Garden of Words for today.

8:02/4:34

 I am drawing in the gazebo, left along for moments as Lochlan runs in to grab us coffee. He is reading and catching up on news, I'm trying to do a simple storyboard for a short film idea I pitched to someone who wanted to do one and had no ideas and I've never done one before so I struggle and it's overdetailed and almost painful and yet it's the dumbest, most innocent thing. 

Yup, just described myself. I laugh out loud at the thought.

It's nice to hear you laughing, Princess. Jake is sitting on the steps, just beyond the reach of the overhang. getting soaked. I stare at him as his shirt grows dark, from the shoulders and back down. He doesn't seem to mind. I don't think he ever did. He's a Big Feeler. Like me. Maybe not dumb or innocent but definitely overly cognizant of the weather and the moon and the stars and all the feelings to be felt whether you welcomed them (and him) or not. 

I don't think you're supposed to be here. I start packing up. He's just watching now. 

Nice supplies. Who bought you those? 

Don't you have somewhere to be? 

I'm where I need to be. Shadowing my girl. 

I shove everything in the nylon tote I used to carry it all out here. Don't follow me in! 

Piglet, I-

You're not actually here. You're not real. You're not talking to me and I need to call Lochlan back outside-

Peanut who are you talking to? I turn around, clutching up my things, ready to run and Lochlan's back with a cup of hot coffee in each hand. He's been indulging me in self-care where I can't. Lots of breaks. Lots of treats and quiet moments. Lots of time, just doing nothing. Is it working? I thought it was but it isn't if Jacob is here and suddenly three's a crowd. 

I have a headache. I'm trying to talk myself out of it before I talk myself into it. 

You're not crazy, Bridget. 

Tell that to him, I point to the far wall of the gazebo where Jacob leans against it, wet-shirted, concern all over his face. 

Schuyler walks into view, coming across the lawn. Perfect timing. Lochlan thinks I mean Sky and not Jake.

You guys have a disagreement I need to know about? 

No, I'm resigned. I just think I'm still really really tired, Lochlan.

Well then stop carrying that arse around. He points to Jake. He's too big for you anyways.

Fire rush.

Lochlan went downstairs for coffee for us this morning and I fell asleep waiting for him to come back. It took so long and I am so tired. The rain makes me tired, life makes me tired and it dawned on me last night that we have settled into a definite delineation of chores somehow leaving me with the lions share of cooking (AKA Lochlan's). Even last night everyone was too tired to go out for food runs so we cobbled together a wonderful feast of cheese, sausages, peppers, onions, pasta and garlic with raw veggies on the side and it was really good but I ended up cooking. Again. PJ bailed on me too so I told everyone who has this week (bailed, that is) to go pick out a pretty piece of jewellery because I'll never act like your wife for free. Maybe your lover but she's not going to cook, now, is she? So they have until Wednesday next week to produce the goods or make it up to me by catching up on their cooking nights. 

I don't know which way it's going to go but if they are as lazy as I think they're becoming with this one chore should I buy some Tiffany stock or would that be considered insider trading at this point?

(Fun fact, precious metals are still (always) a really good bet. Real estate, banks and farming commodities, not so much, IMO and I haven't been wrong yet.)

(My wishlist is on the group chat. Snort.) 

Lochlan doesn't believe in Tiffany jewellery but figures we can sell it later. Which is interesting given the argument we had two weeks ago. He came back forty minutes later with fresh hot coffee and...Monte Cristos! Okay, I should have asked for sandwiches instead of jewellery because DAMN. This was the best thing I have ever eaten in my life. I ate mine and a quarter of his. He finds them really rich. But I did note that he used my favourite bread for them (rye) and even included a dime-sized drop of ketchup because that's how I eat the last corner, I dip it in ketchup. 

So good. We should have had these last night. 

Every meal. Every day. We need to make a Monte machine that just churns these out. Making french toast is so tedious and if I make these myself they don't taste as good. I know it's the adage of someone else making it but oh my God. So good. 

After we were fed and lying back again against the pillows sipping coffee I asked if he checked on Ben. 

Yes. I took him down a sandwich too. He's really back into it, Bridge.

I know. It's kind of reassuring even though I hate it. 

Yeah. I agree. 

Thanks for taking him breakfast.

I would have anyway. 

I know. 

I do like having you all to myself sometimes though. I live for these moments.

You do? 

I do. 

Aw. Me too. This was my dream. 

Eating sandwiches in our bed? 

Yes, because you never let me eat in bed growing up. 

This bed is big enough that we can move away from the crumbs. That bed just became a huge taco shell with us in it. 

Yeah but it was nice. 

Not with the crumbs but yes, you're right. 

We smile at each other stupidly.

Squares.

Piet Mondrian moved to Paris and threw away his perfectly good art career for some sort of poseur Cubist avant-garde bullshit Abstract movement which is a travesty if you've seen his former work and a walk back into memory lane if you've seen the latter. When I say 'our time' I mean the early nineteen hundreds, of course but just about every second Canadian public library or community college I have ever seen had some version of the red, blue and yellow squares on it and he became famous but miserable because he left behind the love of his life in the netherlands and so of course-

Bridget. He's pinching the bridge of his nose again. Headache, probably. Can't be me. 

You asked what was on my mind!

Seriously? That was on your mind? 

Yes, I saw a museum tote bag on the pen shop site when I was looking for quink.

Oh, does this mean you're going to place that order I asked you to place before Christmas, finally?

Probably. 

Is that a yes or a no?

Depends. 

He looks weary and wary at the same time. I swear, he and Trey (Cole) are the only two men on earth who can pull that off, which mean it's not them it's me.

On? 

If they have the quink. 

Oh, I'll bite. What is quink? 

A very not waterproof ink that's great for painting, as you can go in with bleach and make these crazy sepia drawings on top of the ink layer. It's so cool-

So buy some and get me my order, please. 

Yessir.

Without being belligerent about it, especially since I know you'll tack on four hundred dollars worth of things to it. 

He is a raging minimalist. I mean, I am too except for art supplies and handbags and even the handbags have waned from the time I wanted to fill the top shelf in my closet, carrying a different one every day and now, because I gave them all away and there are five remaining. 

Art supplies take up one rolling cart and....the stables. It's a little out of control but save for the pastels that were handmedowns, I use everything. So adding a bottle of quink to the mix isn't going to mean I have to rearrange or anything, it just means I am adventurous.

No, I think I have my list down to fifty dollars. 

Well then add to it. You never buy anything. 

I don't have to. You do. 

I mean we send you out for a treat and you come home with things for us.

You need things-

Bridget, you're missing the point. 

No, I'm not. I'm pointing out that I have what I need. 

He turns to me abruptly. You do?

The meaning has suddenly changed. 

Yes. 

He smiles. Go place the order then. Add what you want.

Will you draw with me tomorrow?

Maybe. If you like.

Okay maybe just the Horseshoe Baes.

Today is going to be a productive but restful day. 

Today I will start to learn to trust my process.

Today will be good. 

It's not much but it's a start. We also did deep breathing out in the gazebo, in the rain to clear out the negative creeping overnight thoughts and blossom positively into the new day. They're throwing everything at this now, and I humour them while I learn.

Because I am a skeptic.

Because I am difficult.

Because I am afraid.

 I started off right. Coffee. Helping with laundry. Seeing Ruth off to work and Henry out of bed (since his school has going all online he likes to sleep as long as he can and work until dinner. Man, if I were him I'd be up a six and done by noon or one.). Talking to Caleb about some financial things (he is very proud) and ordering a book off Amazon (which I will share if it's good), preordering Jon Foreman's album Departures (so good already) and planning a day of sewing as our mask supply sucks and painting, because I should do more art and less mindless reading and fretting. I want to be a creator, not a consumer. I want to treasure and curate, not collect. 

I want to streamline life and work in things like this, though I daresay being told to breathe while I listen to bells and the rain all around me is a fun way to spend thirty minutes and it probably helped my headache (now on day four #&$#%*@) since I hold my breath when I'm in pain (so always) and I'm trying to learn to be a tea drinker but it's not happening and I always go back to coffee just like I'd probably be a wine drinker but I always go back to bourbon.  I want things that make me think and be surrounded by people who are good for me without being focused on me instead of themselves. 

Okay. So far so good. What's next for today? 

***

Lochlan asks me if I'm ready to get back into hockey. 

Uh. Maybe. It's weird though and I hate the empty arenas. (Who am I kidding? YES.)

That is weird. Usually you hate the noise.

Hockey without noise is just sad.

Right?

HOWEVER. 

Oh no, what are you plotting, Peanut?

If I grab a million from Caleb I can get Chara for next year. Let's start our own team. Seriously. The Horseshoe Bay wavebreakers or something. I'll need time to think of a proper name. 

It's expensive to mount a franchise. 

Yes but Caleb has money so I'll just get more of that.

What position will you play?

Pfft. I'll be the coach, of course.

Joel, you left too soon, dude.

Chara what now? 

I took a hockey break and the Bruins are captainless now and Zdeno Chara's gone to the Capitals for $750k? Seriously? What? No, hahahah. 2021 is not going to be this weird. Too much in six days. Epiphany indeed.

Not a recipe but an ode to my bed.

 Today the boys are making a big breakfast together (Thursday bonding exercise) and I am sewing madly at the machine, making flannel patchwork cloth that can then be made into other things. I got a lot of complaints yesterday for calling myself crazy, by people who don't know me who said I should know better than to use that word because it's a stigma and the boys should know better because it's disrespectful. 

It's hyperbole, and I know what I am and they are nothing of the sort but thanks, I love being corrected about myself and my family by people who have never met us. Look, I can send you a great list of blogs to read if this one doesn't float your boat. Hit me up. 

Jerks. 

But anyway, there are hashbrowns baking and bacon frying and eggs sizzling on the flat top part of the oven and there is toast in shifts and someone set the table and August (I thought he was a coffee snob. I was wrong. Dude's straight up a food snob) is juicing fresh oranges because the big jug of orange juice in the fridge is apparently not good enough for this meal. Caleb's (!) making a fruit salad and Ben is eating as much as he is cooking, as he is in charge of mushrooms and peppers and onions. 

PJ poured me some champagne. God bless all of them.

This makes me want to go to the diner and get a Denver sandwich. I don't even know if the diner does takeout. We only go to the sushi place, the Chinese place, very rarely now McDonalds and that's it. 

No Thai. No Vietnamese. No Mexican on the regular and this is freaking sad. We're all great cooks but it counts when you don't have to cook yourself and no I'm not complaining, for pete's sake stop looking for something to bitch at me about, it's just that I miss certain things. 

I don't miss cooking this morning. I was going to make cheese toast and Lochlan decided we should all cook together. And then he sent me to sit this one out, because I take the lion's share of cooking and it's like running a mess tent most of the time and complaints only get you more of whatever you hate but that's okay too. 

Looking forward to this brunch as it's been almost an hour and breakfast for me is way overdue and my blood sugar goes for a long drive in a too-hot car, facing the wrong way and is already vaguely sick. I wonder if I go back to bed if they'll bring it up to me? Honestly that's where everything tastes best.

It stopped raining for a few hours.

It was a good day. 

PJ and Lochlan and I tackled the bathrooms and the kitchen, doing a big heavy cleaning that hadn't been done since the day before Christmas Eve. I had planned to do a quick cleanup but then never did and this week is catch-up week for sure as we work away at a long list. Spring cleaning here starts at the first of each year. By eleven I was scrubbing at the corners of the windowsills and the undersides of chairs.

Then, black forest ham sandwiches with sauerkraut and oranges on the side. My favourite right now. Henry took a short break from his university work and he and I watched the first episode of season two of The Promised Neverland over lunch.

I should probably wait until all eleven episodes are out so I don't need to wait but I also don't want it to be spoiled so I'm thinking.

I watched it again after dinner (that was steak and cauliflower and Caesar salad) with Sam and Matt. The dog howled the whole time (there are characters he apparently doesn't like) and thank heavens for subtitles. Everyone likes this show, probably because it moves way faster and is far more heartwarming than Attack on Titan, the other show we are slogging through right now, so far behind we'll never catch up. 

The other good news is that Jon Foreman announced his next solo album is coming in February. 

The last piece of good news is that Joel's notes don't cross the line to casual, so I can't figure them out at all, but August took a look and he said he understands it. 

So I'm crazy?

Bridget, we're all a little crazy. That's how we get through life. 

But am I unforgivably crazy? I ask, voice wavering. Rather be eaten by a demon, at this point. 

Never, Sam says with authority, and I figure he should know.

It goes: A Change of Seasons, Apparitions and then Strange Days. That last one's the hardest, by far.

I feel like I'm losing for money
I feel like I'm losing for free
I feel older than the dead angel on my shoulder claims to be

I feel like we're drinking and driving
I feel like we're running into walls
I feel like swimming in your apathy as a kind of parody
For miles and miles, miles 

I feel like somebody's missing
I think that somebody's missing
I think somebody's missing 

Tried the song on this morning, though I'm forced to sing along because I don't know the tab on piano and it's too much of a rollercoaster ride to sing to be able to focus on anything else anyway. My spirit animal looms large today, singing comfortingly into the cavern of my skull, enjoying the acoustics of my pickled brain. The chorus, oh, my heavens this is why God invented music for me, I swear to Him. 

And to Matthew Good, God of my emotional lows because dammit, he's a litmus test for whether or not things are working and clearly I can feel this so bad I guess they're not. Or maybe Lochlan has asked them to back off a little in case my brain doesn't bounce back and he doesn't recognize me here, like this. He can appreciate the late-stage Radiohead-worthy guitar solo but then the final lines ruin him. 

(I feel like somebody's missiiiiiiiiiing.)

Right. That would be Jacob but the spectre of Jacob is still right here and excuse me, I thought someone was going to fix this and did I go through all of that punishment to my liver and my memories for nothing? Please don't tell me I did.

I'm taking this song for a bit, honey.

No you're NOT.

Then skip ahead to the next. I'm not going to let you fall today.

I press the button. 

Apparitions begins and my whole face splits open in a grateful grin as his own face falls apart in response.

Jake leans down and speaks softly into my ear. I think I'm going to give him a break and just take off for a bit. 

I reply without looking at him, my eyes not leaving Lochlan. Don't go. 

Lochlan says evenly, fighting for composure. I'm not going anywhere, Peanut. Why won't you believe me?

A break in the clouds.

Early this morning and I am lying in the Devil's arms, who is up on one elbow with me tucked in against him and he won't stop staring at me and I keep closing my eyes and just drifting away, completely oblivious to everything, the drugs running liquid quicksand through my veins. He loves this. They love fucked-up Bridget. I just love carefree no-worry Bridget. She is so laid back. I'd like to be like her someday. I just have to navigate the side effects which are the ever-present brain fog, no emotions at all (even happiness or contentedness), an exceedingly dry mouth and super harsh dizziness/motion sickness. The moment I feel like I have to throw up I am done with everything and so later, if he lets me go, I will make a plea for the half-dose or whatever's next. This isn't sustainable and that's part of the problem. 

But for right now, if I close my eyes and stay very still I don't feel like I'm moving. I just feel warm and safe and adored. 

He bends his head down and kisses my forehead. Want to go back to sleep? 

No. I need to get going. 

There's nothing you have to do today. 

I laugh. You don't know my schedule. 

Sure I do. At six this morning, you're going to make love to me. At seven, I will make love to you. At eight we can make love to each other, and at nine we will call for some coffee and croissants to be delivered up. Room service. 

Who will bring that? 

PJ, if I give him bribes. 

Good luck with that. 

I'll go make coffee and bring it up, then. 

No, I have to go. It's Monday. 

It's a braincation. Stay. 

I'm calling Joel again. I want my files before he skips town without a word.

We have them. 

Okay, rewind that. You what?

We already have all of his notes. 

What are you talking about? 

August went and got them and spoke with Joel. August will be spending the next several years upgrading his credentials and going back to school. We have an agreement. 

You're creating a live-in psychologist.

Psychoanalyst. He already has his masters. This will just be a top-up of his education and then he has free reign to be your official replacement for Joel. 

Out of the frying pan, don't you think?

No, I think August has proven himself over the years. He is not in love with you. 

Who told you that?

He did. 

He always was a good liar. 

I believe him.

You shouldn't. 

Why not?

Maybe I'm in love with him.

Well of course, or he wouldn't be here. And yes he's in love with you, but it's not in a dangerous way.

My head explodes at Caleb's admission, and this plan. If I could feel happy on these medications, boy would I right now. Does Lochlan know about this plan?

It was his idea. He came to me with it to see if I thought it had legs. 

Does August want to do this? 

Get dressed and go see him, he can answer the rest of your questions. Caleb smiles and leans forward, kisses my bottom lip instead of my forehead, and gets up, heading into the bathroom for a shower, closing the door. Caleb has never once in his life suggest I go to August, let alone considered him an ally. 

But here's the army. Working together. Mounting a strong offensive against the ghosts. I dress quickly and head back up to my room to see Lochlan first. Then I'll go see August. 

What the fuck. Christmas day came so late this year. But it still got here in time.

The value of closure.

Another decent nights sleep. Six hours unbroken and I feel a lot better. I have eaten breakfast. I have had a full-nights hug. Didn't have to look over my shoulder in the dark. Have secured four extra games of checkers with the boys who remained near but stayed out of the firing range just in case they needed to run shifts (spoiler: they didn't). 

I've discovered I really enjoy sitting down on the big wrap-around steps curving down to the back of the house, the ones that are wide and go from the upper hallway down to the patio doors. The overhead light is a yellow-warm  and bright and it's not uncomfortable at all and the board goes on a step by itself and a tall person can sit on the step above it, back against the wall, feet out sideways and still reach down. And I can lean forward and reach up from my step. I might bring the meditation pillows in from the gazebo just for extra comfort but they are big and hold a whole person and it might be worse instead of better. I can open some of the doors to hear the rain if it's not too cold and I can figure out how to beat the boys at a game we've been playing since the treehouse days. That's what it reminds me of, sitting in the hallway taking off snow gear in time for dinner. It's a safe memory and so for now it can linger.

I have won a few games, too. As many games as the number of decades we've been playing. 

I called Joel. I think he's trying to extricate without incident. I think what he's trying to do is ghost me but just so there's no mistake in who's dropping who I left a grownup voicemail detailing our history briefly and thanking him for continuing to help and to try to be a friend long after it was clear we probably never should have met. That shit happens and life isn't pretty and I hope he is happy and has what he needs. I didn't make any offers to be here if he ever needed us or any apologies for being the patient that destroyed his career or even for fighting him tooth and nail for the entirety of our relationship on every single thing. Not all friendships are perfect, especially one built the way we built it. It wasn't supposed to be a friendship and we tried way too hard but now it's done. 

I'm not mourning him. I'm relieved. I almost wish I could call my ghosts and wrap up our relationships and then they would move on as well but at the same time they are woven right through me and so the fight goes on. Maybe I'll fight harder in 2021. Maybe I won't fight at all and move toward acceptance and they will too. 

Maybe those pigs will just fucking fly. 

We'll see. 

For now the drugs are good and plentiful, there's no ghosts around that I can see and Lochlan has taken to becoming my human blanket, including while we made omelettes and plot to conquer this rainy season upon us.

The girl who cried Wolves.

 I don't know how coherent or sense-making this will be today. I'm swimming in an ocean of klonopin-molasses that is my brain today and it feels so nice not to be anxious. I will reply to emails eventually. I watched them roll in while I lay on the kitchen floor behind the woodstove, where you walk into the hall past the kitchen, high traffic so they wouldn't miss me, phone stacked neatly on ipad as I do when I'm about to go somewhere. I figured Lochlan could put them upstairs if I was taken away or put down or whatever you do with your broken pets in this day and age but here I am. 

I already said sorry for wasting their time and for freaking everyone out but I panicked and they all said more than once that it's better to do what I did then yo do what I usually do which is to stop talking altogether and just implode but I don't know if this is better if the result is the same.

Also fun fact for his 2021 New Year resolution Joel gave me up, I guess. He refused to come out. Refused to help Lochlan on the phone. Refused Sam's plea for a little help now and we'll sort out the hurt feelings later and in the background the whole time I am yelling AWESOME. DON'T COME BACK and then August took over and he and Ben and Lochlan sat down on the floor and we played checkers until I couldn't keep my eyes open any more and I slept for twenty hours. I didn't sleep at all New Years Ever. I was passed around and then fought over and by the time dawn broke I hadn't eaten, hadn't closed my eyes except in ecstasy and was playing with a fire I didn't know how to control and it caught up with me. 

Had a facetime with the Russian doctor who was very kind but due to covid he did not come out but he called the pharmacy. And he's called back twice since. He knows damn well I can turn him way up on my phone but I can't understand him or turn him up in person, with a mask. With that accent. It's impossible.

I wasn't going to hurt myself but I was hurting so badly I sounded my own alarm. I keep dodging pills. I hate taking things. And then I see what happens when I don't, like yesterday, but as I said I missed my pills, two whole nights sleep and a solid meal at any point in there and it caught up so fast I swear to God if I look behind me now it's right there, matching my pace, reaching out with both hands to grab me and I hate it and I wish it would go away. 

(And Lochlan is not a jerk. Gosh. He tries so hard and I give him nothing but shit for it. I'm sorry to him too. We make jokes about me having to request things like scissors, the can opener, tylenol, trips down to the beach, I don't know, anything that should be childproofed and yet it's not a joke and it's not funny at all and I understand how lucky I am to have someone like him to be here because he told me Thursday afternoon to fucking cool it and, as always, I didn't listen.)

(For those saying it's impossible to write on heavy drugs. HAHAHAHA You haven't met me. I have the world's greatest drug-metabolism ever and this has been part of the problem forever. I can run a marathon on this shit and I wouldn't wish that on anyone.)

(For those saying I need therapy. Yes, I have it. It doesn't do much and it isn't them, it's me.)

(For those hating, you can take a fucking day off please.)