Wednesday, 6 September 2006

Sex in a Carhartt coat.

In preparation for winter, I took Jacob coat-shopping after finding the best looking coat ever. A gorgeous spendy goose-down filled brand spanking new Carhartt coat with toggles and a hood. Why? Because he practically froze to death last year and I went so far as to offer him one of Cole's coats even. Cole offered him one again a day later. Because Jake had a threadbare jacket that will not cut a winter here on the flat miserable prairie. And with a truck as old as he is to drive he needs something he can walk or wait out a storm in.

He really needs a new truck too but I'll talk about that later.

Instead I dragged him out and put him in a Carhartt. Damn, he looked so fucking cute I threatened to rip off his clothes in the middle of the store. He loved it. He thought it was very expensive but relented when I put the finer points of him not being able to touch me for the first half hour after he comes home every day this coming winter because he's too damned cold.

He bought the coat. He'll finally be warm outdoors in the winter, and he won't furrow his brow and walk so fast no one else can keep up with him, as if they could with his long legs anyhow. Now if I can just get him to trade in the newsboy hat for something that keeps his ears warm he'll be all set, but instead he's growing out his hair. By spring it will be almost to his shoulders but Oh my god it's the most adorable thing ever. His gorgeous white blonde hair in his eyes, into his collar, wound around my fingers. Okay, I'll share the hair fetish.

Damn the mediocrity when I can find porn in a brand name jacket. No, bless the mediocrity. Blessed, indeed.

A brief sojorn.

I couldn't let today pass without an honorary mommy blog entry.

Today in the Reilly household, public school officially began.

I think I'm surviving it, though with Ruthie gone it feels as if my right arm or my shadow even has been torn off and taken away. Henry only went long enough to meet his teacher, choose a cubby for his things and get a tour of the nursery/kindergarten room. He starts on Friday. And boy, does he miss Ruth.

As soon as I stop crying I'll possibly be guiltily excited about the prospect of a couple of hours to myself in the mornings. Time to breath, time to not be distracted, time to do something for me, or even clean or paint some part of the house left untouched for an undistracted moment thus far.

The homeschooling didn't work. We gave it two grades and declared it a disaster, Cole and I deciding after Christmas that this just wasn't going to work anymore. I called the school, we had a tour, registered both kids and then the summer flew past in a flurry of agony and ecstasy and now here we are, (well Cole isn't here anymore though) loading backpacks and watching clocks already.

I can't wait for the academic fun to begin when they discover that Ruth was a Waldorf  homeschooler, which means the first three grades are all about art and music and housework and crafts and not so much reading, writing or forced group compliance. It will be interesting. We spent more time assembling nature tables than we ever did practicing writing.

At least she's a confident, secure child with the entire world in front of her, one giant spherical endless promise.

I really hope she likes school more than I ever did.

Tuesday, 5 September 2006

Night arrows.

I would really love to know exactly what it is that makes the nights so unbearably miserable. It's like when the sun goes down below the horizon it sucks all the light out of the world and the dark presses in, prepared to wreck everything that was built in the day.

I'm not even afraid of the dark. It is not afraid of me either, choosing to surround me and suffocate me in total blindness, refusing to relinquish me until the sun arrives with the alarm clock, racing over the opposite horizon in a quiet attempt at rescue.

Because the nightmares, my God. They're still here. They were here waiting for me while I chose to sleep drugged and dreamless, knowing that Jacob could and would get up with the kids because I wouldn't be able to if they needed me and I needed to sleep. And now that the drugs are gone the terrible nightmares have run screaming up to the threshold of my mind and they're breaking down the damn door.

I wake up screaming. Or sobbing. Or just plain scared shitless. Or wondering what ever the fuck could be this bad that my body won't just let me sleep, instead choosing to relive and invent and examine and beat every bad experience to death right in front of me.

Monday, 4 September 2006

Day four was awesome too.

At the zoo today they had baby monkeys, owls, lemurs and reindeer as the fresh additions to the usual attractions. Adorable. It was glorious, dusty and smelly and again, a fun day in the sun that left us more burned, more tired and more spent as a family than we have been thus far. It was a blast.

It's not lost on me that Jacob is seeking distractions to fill the time, and it's not lost on him that I need distractions. We have a long week in front of us-the kids start school, Ruth has a birthday and my old wedding anniversary is going to pass us by.

But it's okay, we're/I'm doing okay. I am. He is supportive and loving and patient. He understood what I was doing when I got rid of all those pills, oddly enough. He had been expecting it for some time. Everything is better, it's okay. Life off the meds is so much more liveable than life on the meds, stuck somewhere in an emotional wasteland. This is better. Normal average happiness and sadness reigns supreme. I'm taking deep breaths, loving hard and living large. And I'm only four days into full, sanctioned sobriety here. Woo for me.

And I swear I'm going to bed at 8 pm because I am completely worn out. I believe we have packed an entire summer's worth of fun into one single long weekend. Makes me happily anticipate the fall ahead of us, and the winter too. And everything else that lies in our future.

Sunday, 3 September 2006


I'm going to take a poll now.

Which would you take for a cold? Jack Daniel's or Nyquil?

I'm leaning towards Jack. Because I know how long I have before it wears off, I know what it will do (mainly dull the pain and help me sleep) and frankly medicine scares the heck out of me.

Remember who you're talking to before you vote.

And thanks. Either way it won't be taken until 8 pm or so.

You know you want the livesickdrunkblogging.

Bye, Summer.

Today was our annual farewell to summer event, complete with my seven present honorary big brothers (well six big brothers and one big husband now), all of whom spoil the kids madly. They came together and made up and let the water flow under the bridge despite a hell of a lot of upsets and tension over the summer. Jacob, Ben, Loch, Mark, Chris, PJ and Robin swallowed the issues they have with each other and planned a gorgeous day, starting with breakfast and church and then heading to the fair where we screamed our way through enough roller coasters, Ferris wheels and bumper cars to make even Henry declare that he had had enough and wanted to go home. The day was capped off with dinner out and then with cake and tea on my patio and then everyone mercifully bowed out and Jacob and I could get the kids into warm showers and fresh clean beds.

This is exactly the way you are supposed to feel at the end of a fun, hot summer day: dirty, filthy, sweaty, full and smiling from ear to ear, your voice hoarse from screaming "YES!" when the roller coaster operator asks you if you're ready to go around one more time. Because the louder you scream, the faster the coaster will go, or so it seems. A metaphor. If you surrender to your surroundings, you will ultimately enjoy yourself. So true.

We are slightly sunburned, thoroughly worn out and uncharacteristically content. The issues with Ben and Mark are resolved, for now. Cole's absence noted but unmentioned, as it always was because he was always working and rarely went. Another milestone of the 'special day' variety under our belts, emerging as new memories. The fear that next year Ruth and Henry might be too tall to ride some of their favorite little-kid rides.

Jacob and Loch getting checked out by the gay dads. Love it.

Bridget getting checked out by all the young dads, taking their life into their own hands as I walked, surrounded by my muscular pseudo-brothers, fighting for the blue cotton candy and trying to keep my hair from sticking to my lip gloss on the fastest rides.

At one point I stopped walking and tried to glue the memories into place so that they will be there when I go to find them later on. I really like these new ones.

Bridge! You coming?


Come on, sweetheart.

Princess! Let's go.

Come on Mommy!

I think I smiled so big some part of my old life broke off and drifted away.

Yeah guys, wait up. I'm coming.

Saturday, 2 September 2006

I left my heart in Aspotogan.

The post from last night may be deleted. Much as I despise deleting my writing, that entry reaches a whole lower level of hell that I rarely visit anymore. I'm okay now. Believe it or not.

Instead, let me regale you on this beautiful Saturday morning- go google pictures of Aspotogan, where I really really wish I was right now, because it's so beautiful, peaceful and simply gorgeous. Wait until the leaves turn color.

Friday, 1 September 2006

Eggshells to walk on (unspoken history).

(I don't even know where this came from, so just don't read it. Bridget's meaningless words in an attempt to get through another day. I almost titled this post Suicide Bride, but I didn't want to scare anyone. I was flawed long before my (first, and wow does it feel weird to have to differentiate) husband kicked the crap out of me, just so you know. In case you just fell into my universe and thought I was having trouble letting go, or something.)

Jacob is holding his breath and not straying far out of reach lately. I noticed that.

He's worried and it's needless.

Sort of like my fragility now is essentially needless. Pills are not going to help what's wrong with me, I don't care what the doctors say. The fragility is...uninvited, to say the least.

And it never ventures far.

I hate myself.

There are things I don't write about that would leave you with a skewed impression of me. I'm not such a strong person. I can pretend until the cows come home, but it really isn't there. There's something wired into my brain that allows for little comfort. I'm sad alot. Despair rules my moods and I fight tooth and nail with it every single day. Depression. Chemical. Not so much psychological. Sometimes both. Sometimes so difficult I can't take it anymore. I operate with a coerced, superficial effervescence because I have no choice. It's the only way I can get through the day.

And Jacob is the only person who doesn't run screaming from me when I'm at my worst.

And when I found the bottom of my soul once, he was there. We don't talk about it. He pulled me out of a crimson bathtub and put his bare hands on my wrists to try and stop the bleeding. He called 911 and wrapped me in towels for dignity. He cried and he screamed at me to stay with him, not to die now, not today, not on this day.

I heard him. I heard his voice break and I have never heard him sound like that since.

He blamed Cole every step of the way and he sat by my side in the hospital every moment that he could be there. In those horrible moments he became everything I would ever see in front of me.

Surrounded by death indeed. It's an easy out for a tortured one. A way to escape the pain without wondering when it will return. A difficult acceptance for those who don't know what it's like and an incredible burden that I never asked Jacob to take on, but he did anyway.

Cole made fun of me. He cracked jokes and made ultimatums. He goaded me to try again, if I had the courage, he once dared. I demurred. Jacob was like a light. Only concern. Fear that eventually waned slightly, enough for him to relax a little but if you think the memories ever elude him then you are mistaken. He walks like a haunted man, old in a way beyond his thirty-five years that speaks of vitriolic reflections.

I did that to him and for that, I hate myself even more.

I have made him to feel like this and I'll probably do it again and I don't even know why.

Happiness isn't enough. It should be but I don't see that. God doesn't look after me the way he should. Jacob tries and he is so close and yet he's miles away from me. Probably the closest one though.

But not now. When? I don't know. When it gets too hard. When the kids won't be as touched from my absence, ever the logical girl I remain, yours truly. When I can't feel like there's ever going to be another bright flash. When there's no chance left to climb out of the hole I was born into. I really never expected to see myself make it to this age. Jacob is determined that I will live forever. I want to, I really do. Those are the moments I hold onto dearly, with both hands and my whole heart.

There's your mess. There is what's wrong with me. Clinically depressed. Wired incorrectly. A highly-functioning, albeit self-destructive permanent suicide risk because of something that I didn't cause. No answers and no help because this is how one lives under these circumstances.

It's just the way things are. It's why I stand in a mosaic of broken glass that everyone must cross to touch me, retreating quickly when it becomes excruciating. Watching from a safe distance.

It's why I answer the phone twenty five times a day and say I'm fine. It's why people stop in unannounced constantly and why when things are really bad I am never left alone, everyone swoops in to close ranks, why even when Jacob finds it all too much and takes off he's usually three blocks away or somewhere around the house, quietly trying to be here even when it's so hard.

It's why I won't wear hearing aids so that each day when I get tired of the attention I can tune out easily and blame something else.

I didn't hear that.

It's why Jacob took full responsibility for me a long time ago, stepping in and letting Cole off the hook for me. Why they were grudgingly close. Because Cole wasn't man enough to do what Jacob could, and Cole found that to be a gift because I am a burden. A few risky ventures along Jake's path to find his limits and finally coming to a place in which he chose not to be further than arms length, in case I needed him. I love him. I love him for loving me in spite of myself and choosing to wade further in instead of running away. I love him for saving me from myself and for protecting me from the monster that I am and the demons that chase me that no one else has ever seen. Some question that they exist at all. Those people aren't paying attention. I know.

Except for Jake. He has seen them and he no longer sleeps at night.

Why do I joke about it sometimes? It's all I've got. I can't lean on it as a label or I would no longer be here on earth. The blessings are abundant all around and yet the crushing sadness obliterates everything in it's path and I can't do anything about that. But you can bet when I speak of hanging off the gingerbread it's okay. It's when you're met with silence that you should address your concern. The worrisome times: when I stop writing, talking, listening at all.

It's why when I say I'm a mess it's because...well...I'm a mess. And I'll never know why. But as you can see I am doomed to fail. I don't know when or how, but I do know it's a sure bet. And no, I'm not making threats or promises or trying to predict the future, I'm simply explaining a little more about why certain things are the way they are. Why we struggle, why we hurry up and wait, why everything is a little more effortful or a little more obscure for us than for everyone else.

Bridget won't be around forever you know. I certainly hope I will be, but I stopped making promises like that a very long time ago.

Funny how I can write diversionary words to freak everyone out long enough to make the pills a less than big deal.

The purposeful mistake.

In an effort to fight for what's most important-creativity, emotional barometers and hell, just being able to feel something, anything, even if it makes my heart soar or it rips into me like a knife, I had to take drastic measures.

I flushed my medication. All of it. Refill included that I needed a chair to reach. Because not taking it wasn't enough to make them see.

It's all gone. A really smart move on the Friday of a long weekend and I feel like a criminal but I had to do it.

The shit should hit the fan shortly. But I'm ready. Because I really really hate the person those pills force me to be and I don't want to see her anymore.

Broken mirror.

This morning after dropping Jake off to have some tests the kids and I were driving home through downtime when out of nowhere a little red BMW with a license plate that read SEXY cut in front of me. A pretty girl with long blond hair was driving, she looked to be about 25.

I was instantly jealous.

And I'm no slouch, really. My hair is the same, I drive a sportscar, mine is black. People check me out on the road, too.

So the differences? Well, I don't drive like a maniac, right now I only drive when I absolutely must, thanks to the pills. She drove like she had a deathwish. The booster seats holding precious cargo in my backseat keep me grounded and obeying traffic signals and speed limits.

The differences were probably ones I couldn't even see, if you'll excuse the snap judgements. I bet she's six feet tall, carries a spendy handbag, shops often for the latest styles. She sleeps around a little, not a lot, and probably goes to parties every weekend. She has rich parents or a sugar daddy (probably the latter with that plate on the car) and doesn't have doubts about who she is, what she means to the rest of the world or where her place is in life.

Me? Eh, you know. Troll-size Bridget with her small but mighty rotating dress collection, loyal til the bitter end, hasn't been invited to a party in years, budgeting every last dollar and positively brimming with destructive thoughts twenty four seven.

Thinking back to when I was 25 it wasn't much different, except I had even less money and was still surprisingly short, though I did have a heck of a lot of fun every weekend.

There was one thing I did have over her, but she'll never know it.

I don't need to impress anyone.

Seriously. A licence plate that says SEXY? What are you trying to prove? And who really cares?

It's official. I really am 35 and showing every day of it.