Hope is not in what I know.

It's difficult to stay centered today. I'm being thrown off kilter by this day, out for revenge for so many warmly-lit, extravagant nights in Jacob's arms. In any case, the jealous lover I name as daylight rips me from Jacob's grasp and turns the sky grey in retaliation. A bitter foe of all things signifying comfort, he stalks me, a dangerous game I must now play of outrunning the rotation of the planet. My futile, bitter marathon begins anew.

It's snowing heavily. We could see the storm approaching from the west for hundreds of miles, something you learn to watch and wait for, living here on the flatlands. The wind has blown our corner the world into an ominous ball of ice, bare tree branches scratching their protest against the cold onto an unrelenting canvas of frigid air. The ground is frozen, impenetrable, and unforgiving underneath my boots.

This morning we rushed down the sidewalk, under those same bare branches and past the orange and black decorations clutching the outside of each house along our path. Our hats pulled low, mittens shoved hard into the bottom of pockets that failed to keep out the cold. It was the first day I walked the kids to school alone, and so on the way home I put my headphones on to listen to Snow Patrol, which usually cheers me, and walked slowly home. When I got to the end of the street I crossed the empty field that runs the length of the neighborhood and stood watching the sky, watching the morning freight train as it slowly wove around the perimeter of the city, names painted on the sides of the grain cars, a colorful rainbow of proof that we were here. A moment in time seized and celebrated. A simple tag succeeds in its attempt to add life to a monotonous line of black and brown tin cars rolling across this endless landscape.

    Get up, get out, get away from these liars
    Because they don't get your soul or your fire
    Take my hand, knot your fingers through mine
    And we'll walk from this dark room for the last time

    Every minute from this minute now
    We can do what we like anywhere
    I want so much to open your eyes
    Because I need you to look into mine

A brief pall of homesickness seized me then, for this will be the first winter here without Cole. Cole, who used to remind me that winter meant sports and Christmas and snowball fights and snowmen. Cole, who used to embrace the low temperatures and proclaim his hardiness, impervious to the plunging, ludicrous temperatures, hanging Christmas lights outside wearing a t-shirt and jeans. Cole who insisted we buy an electric blanket and who encouraged me to turn the heat up higher because he said he'd just work a little more to pay the higher gas bill. Cole who said the early darkness of the nights meant morning would come sooner and I believed him because it was all I had left.

For one moment that froze the bottom of my heart into a sheet of ice as thin as glass. I missed him desperately. Then the illusion of the glass was shattered and I was standing alone again, my destructive thoughts swept away by the gales. And Cole is still dead. Dead and gone, never to return. Kind of like last summer. Except next year there will be another summer but there will never be another Cole. Maybe time does work it's magic in keeping the good parts and blurring the bad ones. Time will answer that for me, just not yet. I'm not sure I'm done vilifying him inside my head, while my heart has softened to his memory and moved on.

I turned, pulling up my hood again, and walked back to our street, returning to the relative safety of the concrete sidewalk to walk under the branches that shelter my soul. Through the curtains I could see lights on inside the house, our imaginary protection against the bleakness of the winter season, and I went up the steps and into the porch. When I shrugged out of my coat I was greeted with a hot cup of coffee and an invitation to return to the arms of my Jacob, both of which I took with gratitude. Leading with my heart while my head tries to navigate its own version of a long cold winter.

There is so much to look forward to.

Splinter.

I'm so very very tired this morning. Here, some more conversations.

    The sound in my mouth
    It gets so loud
    It gets so loud
    The little words can't slip out
    Words like sorry
    I'm so sorry

    Where would you find yourself
    Without love
    Give love to someone else
    Is that enough
    If love is to find yourself
    Are you fighting love
    Or are you picking sides?


Ben fell off the wagon with a resounding thump last night, hopefully banging his head with enough force to knock some sense back into it.

One of the most difficult things about this dissolution of a long close friendship has now settled on the fact that he keeps trying to mend the fences that he summarily destroyed into matchsticks. I can't change my cellphone number again. Ruth and Henry have a hard enough time remembering this new number, after I was forced to change it back in May because of the order against Cole. I always have my phone with me and my kids being able to reach me when they're not with me is a lifeline that for some reason helps me sleep at night, even if it means receiving drunken apologies at 2 in the morning. If that's what Ben thought he was doing.

Hey.

Princess, don't hang up on me.

What do you need, Ben?

I need to tell you some things.

Start with how much you've had to drink and where you are.

I'm home. Too much. I'm alone.

Are you okay?

I'm peachy. I just need to talk to you for a little while.

No. Here, talk to Jacob instead. I can't do this, Ben.

I put Ben on speakerphone and passed it to Jake.

Ben?

I need to talk to Bridget.

Ben, maybe you need to get some sleep.

Let Bridget talk. You never understood me, preacher man.

She doesn't want to talk to you. Please don't call her anymore.

Let her tell me.

She has, Ben. Many times.

Oh. I get it. It's been a while though.

It's only been a month, Ben. Bridget has been through enough. Let her be.

You let her be. It's all your fault.

Goodnight Ben. Next time call Rob.

Yeah. Fuck you too, preacher man.

Right. Bye.

We returned to the warmth beneath the blanket. I could sense Jacob's mind churning with fresh doubts. He breathes deeply, differently when he's getting upset.

Don't do it, Jacob.

Do what?

Let him inside your head.

Maybe he's got a point, Bridge. If I had waited, things would have been so much easier for you.

Do you hear yourself, Jacob? I'm glad everyone got a chance to see who Cole really was before he died. He finally left a mark people could see. Are you telling me that you would have wanted me to go through three more months with Cole so that you would have some sort of peace of mind borne out of ignorance?

Don't say that, princess.

Besides, you didn't know for sure I would leave him, since I never had before. And no one can predict the future.

I could have done things differently. You would have been safer, somehow..

Jacob, where are we right now?

Under the quilts, in our bed. In our house together, kids and cat are asleep. It's dark. Safe. But does the end justify the means?

In this case, it does. No one promised that life would be easy. Don't let Ben of all people cast a pall on our lives together.

Since when did you become so optimistic?

Well, I met this amazing man and he changed me forever.

In a good way, I hope.

In an exemplary way, Jacob.

Oh, now, there you go with all those big words again, piglet.

Piglet? I thought I was the princess.

I'm thinking there's been too many people using that nickname and maybe you need a new one, Bridget.

I think since you gave it to me, it stands. Besides, piglet? What the hell is that?

Well I thought it was cute.

It's not cute.

At least it isn't perverted.

Oh I could make it perverted, Jake.

I give up.

The great hundred acre wood cellphone quote-off.

Hey.

Hullo, Bridget.

Hullo, Jacob.

It is more fun to talk with someone who doesn't use long, difficult words but rather short, easy words like "What about lunch?"

I have it ready whenever you get home, coincidentally.

Oh, bother.

Jacob, why are you talking like Winnie the Pooh?

Because I am a Bear of Very Little Brain, and long words bother me.

I see. Winnie?

Yes?

Promise me you'll never forget me because if I thought you would I'd never leave.

There she goes! Good one, Bridge.

So are you coming home to dip into the honey pot or what?

Some people care too much, I think it's called love. And the honey pot remark is just begging for one of your dirty comments to follow it, you know that, don't you, Bridget?

Of course. It goes without saying.

Caleb (ties that bind).

Caleb is gone. I can pull the chopsticks out of my ears and see if the self-induced lobotomy is reversible at all. Jacob can take a deep breath. Onward, Bridget. Momentum.

Caleb is (was? No, still is) Cole's older brother. He's 43 now, so he was off in college when Cole and I got together as teenagers and he's mostly been an absent brother save for small moments. He knew little of our lives and tribulations, preferring instead to take his yearly trips south to warm beaches and hardly ever calling the house. He and Cole emailed each other maybe once a month but overall, they weren't close. Caleb was similar to a third parent in Cole's mind. Someone to resent, someone who's shadow he had to walk in. And be compared to. There's a suit and tie mentality where I'm from that speaks of wearing the clothes and having a good (corporate) career. Artists don't get that kind of respect, even though few of them in this day and age can make a living of it the way Cole could.

I finally felt strong enough to call Caleb and let him know I was going to be shipping him several boxes of Cole's belongings, things I thought he might like to have. He surprised me and said he would fly out for a couple of days, if I could recommend a good hotel. I did and I asked him not to come but Caleb arrived on Thursday morning. When I met him at the airport he told me I looked beautiful. Too thin, but beautiful. He wanted to swing by the hotel and check in and change before coming for lunch, so we went there first. He invited me up. I sat at the table in his room and we made very awkward small talk while he hung up his clothes and even more awkward conversation on the drive to my house, the house I once shared with his baby brother.



It felt weird. Really really weird.

Jacob had picked up the kids at school and was making lunch when we came in. Caleb and Jacob have met on several occasions but have zero common interests and understandably things would be strange between them. Lunch was perfunctory, quiet and stilted, the kids chewing slowly and watching their uncle with wide eyes because they don't see him much. After lunch Jacob took Ruth back to school and took Henry to work with him so that I could sort through the boxes with Caleb. We made tea and sat on the floor comparing memories, looking at pictures. Caleb wanted to know about Cole's final projects, how he and Jake had gotten along when it came to the kids, and what our plans were for the future. We argued over little things and big things alike. It turned into a long, difficult visit.

Dinner that night and lunch yesterday went much the same way. Polite, strained, pleasant even, slightly weird in that the brothers shared so many unconscious mannerisms, and even hold their forks the same unique way. Several times I would look up and find Caleb watching me with curiosity, a slight frown on his face. Possibly because he knows it's the end of our connection in a way, not because he stops being the kids' uncle or my brother in law, we've agreed to leave everything as it was, but because maybe he's happy I'm not alone, because he knew of the problems I had, Cole had confided in him superficially more than once that our marriage wasn't so wonderful. But Caleb knows I tried and I stayed as long as I could. He knows I loved his brother. He probably hates my guts and thinks I'm responsible for driving Cole to an early grave. Hell, half the time I do, why wouldn't he?

At the airport last night we stood together checking the monitor for Caleb's flight out and he turned to me and smiled sadly.

Bridget, when you wrote in your journal that you still loved Cole, were you telling the truth?

I just stood there and nodded with my jaw on the floor as he kissed my cheek and turned to pick up his bags. Shock set in.

Caleb? How did you know about my journal?

The answer surprised me.

Cole sent me your link a long time ago. He was so proud of you and your writing. He said it was that good that I should read it. He was right. I've been reading it every day since. Because your words come out exactly the way you are in real life, Bridget: unbelievably fragile and yet strong and so determined. Untouchable and intimidatingly frail but hopeful for the future. It's contagious. It's addictive, like you were to my brother, Bridget. And as much as my brother hurt you, he really did love you. Never doubt that for a second. He loved you so much, and I know you wanted me out of your life, but I don't want to leave it. 

And with that, Caleb turned and walked through the doors, leaving me standing there stunned by his words, so kind and gentle when they didn't have to be. Letting me off the hook for my guilt. Leaving me whispering softly, under my breath.

I know.

Quietus.

He moved in close to her, sliding one hand under her shoulders and the other slowly up her thigh. She started to tremble slightly as he kissed her urgently. As she caught her breath he bent his head to taste her skin. He kissed all the way up her throat and bit her earring briefly, making her laugh. Smiling down at her he pulled her legs apart and she felt his hardness against her. She shook her head and he quieted her with his capable reassurances that he would not harm her. He entered her in one brutal push and then paused, assessing her response, looking for the confirmations he needed to progress. She gasped and locked her arms around his neck, preparing herself for his physical onslaught. He smiled and tried to moderate his own breathing, the fever of her warm skin fueling his lust for her anew, taking it to a place he didn't know existed. He began to thrust into her, gently at first, rapidly losing his control, wanting to possess her, make her scream and writhe beneath him. Wanting to make her his forever. She whispered to him that she wanted him, harder, faster, more. She dug her nails into the damp brawn of his shoulders and his heart soared with a grateful leap. He reached underneath her to cup her ass forcibly against his groin, grinding into her fiercely, forcing her to remain pinned against him while he rode her, so that she would climax with him from the stimulation he created. She cried out to him to slow down, to wait for her, but it was too late. He couldn't hear her as the ecstasy exploded instead his head, dulling his senses momentarily, his entire being rocked with his orgasm, flooding into her as she reverberated in kind, feeling the tremors pass through both of them as they lay, still connected, now spent by their exploits.

He raised his hand, combing his fingers into her hair, cradling her head in his hand and kissing her lightly on the mouth while he worked his strong fingers on her, bringing her with him to that place where she couldn't catch her breath. He felt her tighten around him and she started to cry out, and he whispered to her softly to stay still. She fluttered her hands on his head as she came, the waves of euphoria crashing over her, enveloping her in their sweet rhythm, taking away her thoughts for the moment. He felt her body relax once again but he kept her in his arms, positioning her well within his embrace while they lay together in the dark hours of the early dawn, their breathing lulled, basking in the luminosity of the sunrise. Daybreak came slowly that morning, the uninvited sun pouring into the windows while they drifted in and out of a sleep replete with affirmations of their devotion to one another, content at long last.

(Today's writing will be unexplained. Call it whatever you want. I'm not saying a word.)

This is your Bridget on drugs.

Why did I promise to write about this again? Oh yes, distractionism.

    Cause we all just wanna be big rockstars
    And live in hilltop houses driving fifteen cars
    The girls come easy and the drugs come cheap
    we'll all stay skinny 'cause we just won't eat
    And we'll hang out in the coolest bars
    in the VIP with the movie stars
    Every good gold digger's
    Gonna wind up there
    Every Playboy bunny
    With her bleach blonde hair

    And we'll hide out in the private rooms
    With the latest dictionary of
    today's who's who
    They'll get you anything
    with that evil smile
    Everybody's got a
    drug dealer on speed dial, well
    Hey, hey, I wanna be a rockstar

I'm not known for living fast, believe it or not. My highs are so high and the lows are so damn low that as long as I have enough time in between to get my bearings, life is pretty good. I say I don't have regrets, maybe I lie. Maybe I'm just as average as everyone else. I don't go seeking out excitement.

No, that couldn't be it.

Maybe I just have enough good and bad memories to to call it an interesting life so far.

I know I'll never be famous, but I'll possibly never be boring either, at this rate.

The one night I went out on a limb and did two things I swore I would never ever do (that would be a)karaoke and 2)getting high) turned out to be a defining moment in my life. Oddly, it was the same self-destructive summer that I first slept with Jake. Maybe it was some combination of the freedom of the time we were in and my need to prove to myself that even though I had a one-year old baby, I could still have fun. Maybe it was just the calm before the storm.

In any event, it was a rare warm summer night in which everyone was present for a loosely organized pub crawl. We were celebrating a whole bunch of milestones in the group. Cole and I had a babysitter for the whole night. In a rare show of bravery I partook in the pot brownies being passed around, usually I ignore that stuff. I had two. Jacob took a pass and was the designated driver/responsible adult for the night (he usually preferred to be in that role). I felt so good that night. I don't think I've ever felt like that before.

I probably never will again. It's an artificial confidence.

Within a few hours we wound up at a karaoke bar, this after hitting a Mexican place first for far too many margaritas and tequila shots. The boys talked me into doing a song, something I normally wouldn't do but I felt as tall as everyone else right then and so I did it. I chose to do On my Own, from Les Miserables, which started with jeers and booing from the crowd, because they wanted me to sing a Veruca Salt song. But I've been pretending to be Eponine in the shower since I was a teenager, and I knew I could pull off that song. By the end of it everyone was stone still, in rapt attention. They ate it up. My ego found its own spotlight to shine in.

I enjoyed a lot of accolades from my own friends, who previously had heard me warble a few off-key notes of Happy Birthday or the occasional Christmas carol. Singing isn't something I usually do well. The admiration from the strangers in the bar was completely unexpected though.

Most of the crowd followed our group down to the next bar, a college bar where they were having a Coyote Ugly dance off type competition (the movie had just come out) for a $1000 prize.

Oh please. I love to dance. But not up in front of a crowd like that. More tequila is definitely required.

So after twenty minutes of convincing (because they thought it would be funny to watch me embarrass myself), liquid courage prevailed and I said Fuck it. I grabbed a cowboy hat off some guy I didn't even know and joined the line up on top of the bar. I gave it everything I had. This is how the cowboy hat lap dance almost sort of maybe possibly got it's start. There's my power trip. Everyone was watching me dance. The little blonde right smack on the centre of the bar.

And so I brought down that house too. Free drinks for the winner and a solo encore performance was requested. So I got back up there after two more shots and ground it down. Guys I didn't know started throwing twenty dollar bills at me and yelling for me to take it off before the end of the first song. Cole and everyone else I had come with were transfixed, Cole being rocked by the occasional appreciative slap on the back or congratulatory nudge. I was just starting a second song when a dazed-looking Jacob (back in full responsible adult mode now) abruptly lifted me off the bar and flung me over his shoulder. He was booed but he didn't care. I was getting a little wild (okay, a lot) and the whole bar had erupted. He carried me out while the DJ announced that Bridget was leaving the building, and to give her one final round of applause for being the hottest contest winner that the club had ever seen. I blew kisses and collected the prize money that was passed to me over Jacob's shoulder while everyone hollered and stomped and clapped the whole way out. By then my ego had simply exploded all over the place.

Yay me! (waves tiny, inebriated fists).

We got outside and Jacob put me down and asked if I was okay. I said I was fine through my flushed cheeks and wavering brightness. The other guys, Cole included, were just standing there, still dumbstruck because they had just seen something they never saw before. I was having fun. I was completely wasted and I could still perform a routine that left all my male friends with unwelcome kickstands and wet dream material for the rest of their lives and all my female friends with jealous bents that we never managed to ever overcome, much to my eventual (sober) shame.

And hey! Rent money for two whole months!

I was told I passed out in the truck on the way home, holding my prize money tightly while they all talked about the fact that they had no idea that I could do that.

I...er...well, I usually kept myself reigned in. I was the sweet girl up until that night. Then I became the sexy one. A slippery slope indeed.

I wonder if-

Hey, Jake, remember that dance contest?

Who could forget that, Bridge?

You think anyone has??

Trust me, no one will EVER forget that night.
This, THIS is the reason that whenever any of my friends bring baked goods over I'm unduly suspicious and beg off sampling them. It's not because of the whole eating thing, it's because of that night when I got high and danced on that bar and learned a few things about myself in the process.

Like how to harness that kind of power, the one that left everyone dumbstruck.

And how incredibly easy it is to embarrass the hell out of myself. Which is why I never touched drugs again.

Yep.

Ouch.

    I wouldn't recommend sex, drugs or insanity for everyone, but they've always worked for me.
    ~Hunter S. Thompson

Buttered toast.

   So if you wake up with the sunrise
    And all your dreams are still as new
    And happiness is what you need so bad
    Girl, the answer lies with you

Jacob's unruly blonde locks, perpetually-bearded face, mirthful blue eyes and easy-going smile with his giant white chicklet teeth framed by the deepest dimples you'll ever witness belie his intelligence. His looks scream hippie college drop-out, his very-tall, slightly disheveled, worn-denim appearance leaving you to think that he's about to pick up a guitar and sing a Nick Drake song and maybe light up a bong before telling you that Yes, God loves you, brother. Or more likely Peace, man.

He likes it that way. He said it takes the pressure off, no one expects much of him and so people listen when he talks. He has a very deep and surprisingly loud voice, which probably helps. He's no wallflower, definitely no pushover and really, he can be quite a hardass when he wants to be.

He's very smart, very civic-minded, very politically active and up on current events.

I'm actually the cute one. It's a running joke.

Smart guy that he is, I caught him spiking my juice with my pills this morning. Like he's done every day because I wasn't taking them. Which is why I felt exactly the same. For the past few days I wasn't so sure if I should be thrilled that I didn't have effects from stopping them so abruptly or if I should be devastated because I still felt like I had the emotional capabilities of a dessert fork.

I think I've met my match. Though since I'm obviously not that bright anymore, I'm not sure what matches, other than our hair color and possibly our sex drive. Thank God.

Ha. I have no train of thought today. Come back tomorrow and I'll tell you an old story about drugs and karaoke and being carried out of a bar to thunderous applause.

Painted penitence.

One of Jacob's many talents lies in his ability to be very upset with someone and still coexist in a slightly-removed, invisibly perfunctory manner with that person. He did it with Cole for most of their friendship. He's been doing it with me for four days now. I know I upset him, insulted him. I know he's disappointed in me, I know I twisted his screws and for maybe the third time ever in my life with him I hit bone. Being as laid back as he is, he's very hard to rattle with mere words. You have to be very certain of whatever verbal pain you're about to inflict, for mostly it will miss the mark, until you sharpen the point just a little more and dip it in poison. Then, when you're very determined, it's going to go all the way in.

The worst thing? He'll leave that arrow in. Because the pain is new. And because he wants you to have a visual reminder that you might possibly have mortally wounded the Nicest Guy On Earth.

In reality? It's a flesh wound. He knows I lash out when I'm frustrated. He's done it himself.

He made me pay for it with silence. And waiting. And wearing his arrow all over the place. I stood in the doorway of the den last night for almost two hours minutes staring at him (which is very very fucking hard. Almost like spoon torture.) and he pretended he was busy. I gave up and went to bed. He followed, to sleep holding me in his arms, his favorite spoon, but not speaking of the arrows I had hurled at him.

It serves me totally right. I was so ready to congratulate him for winning the silent treatment contest this morning over breakfast. I go crazy over that stuff. I will chew my own leg off before I give in. And I'm just plain horrid to be around when he doesn't respond to me.

He poured my coffee and brought it out to the table just like he always does. I thanked him like he was a stranger and then tasted it. Ack. It was from yesterday. It was ice-cold. I decided I would drink it. Because it helped to illustrate the entire old, stale, miserable off-tasting argument that we were indulging in. That coffee signified the bitterness that had seeped into our proverbial life's cup. It was awful. But dammit, I drank it because it's what I deserved.

He was trying not to laugh. I was halfway through silently naming him every swear word that I had in my arsenal (which is pretty immense, varied and wonderful colorful) while I sipped from my mug and made faces at it. Then I noticed his shoulders were shaking and he was biting his tongue.

Princess, I can't let you drink any more of that.

No, it's fine, thank you.

Stop it. Put your petulance away and come and hug me like you mean it. Then I'll get you a real cup of coffee and we can talk about how we're going to make this work. We haven't come this far to fuck it all up now, have we?

I shook my head and the bitter taste left my mouth. I watched his genuine smile emerge, and with that action he pulled out the imaginary poisoned arrow and we spent the rest of the morning together, with very good fresh coffee, painting the floor in the porch and talking about how we weren't going to fly off any more handles. That was for me, because Jacob threatened to tape me to the floor if I did.

And I apologized profusely for my hurtful comments. Being a gracious man, Jacob merely pointed out that I might be right. When there was no commitment, no pressure and no way for him to cross those boundary lines from friend to lover, life was easier between us because his hands were tied. He also pointed out that I am doing something he didn't expect. I'm running from him. When things get bad I push him away and I fight him and I look everywhere but at him to help. Which is what I had to do with Cole, and it's so ingrained now it's an automatic reflex. Here I've been asking Jacob to fix everything and then not letting him do anything.

The revelations are so huge, and they just keep coming. Something's working. Either way I don't feel insane today, and that's something. Huge. Revolutionary in my tiny kingdom.

The porch sure looks pretty, too.

Frailty.

    See my shadow changing
    Stretching up and over me
    Soften this old armor
    Hoping I can clear the way
    By stepping through my shadow
    Coming out the other side
    Step into the shadow
    Forty six and two are just ahead of me.
The largest ongoing argument has finally paled and taken a back seat to something bigger than both of us. My hearing aids are in a drawer now. Sometimes I put them on and then within a couple hours they're right back in the drawer. Ben, who will be thrilled to know he can still cause problems for me without even being present, has provided to be the cause of the permanent end of commenting on this journal. I don't want to read what he has to write. And Cole, still wreaking havoc from hell, because I know he wouldn't have wanted it any other way where I and especially where Jake, is concerned. Here, honey, lap it up with a spoon.

What's come to pass is that I finally figured it out. My so-called princess complex isn't even remotely as invasive and unwelcome as Jacob's need to be my savior. His need for control of my well-being. Which is still only vaguely different and separate from whatever Cole would do that left him in control of me.

This weekend I got time off for good behavior. Because I, at this point, am fumbling for some screws of my own to twist. Jacob let me have the bottle and told me I was doing great and I should be fine to take the pills on my own. Because hey, we've already been struggling mightily with the parent/child thing and would like to put that to bed. So he gave up the pills in a show of good faith. He has faith. He's a good person.

And I promptly stopped taking them. Because, well, obviously I can be a child. Immature, petulant, whatever favorite description you've got for my misbehavior, put it here. Not so good of a person, struggling with faith. Hell, struggling with everything.

I didn't stop taking them to set myself back, or to be a brat. It's simple. He cannot see it.

I wanted my own damn control.

I'm going to take charge. So I'm going to heal via the time and space method. i.e. the more time and space I can put between myself and the bad things that have happened in the past six months, the better off I will be. No more pills, no more sessions, no more emotional barometer readings, no more bullshit disguised as help in the form of constant reminders. Every time I get somewhere I feel like I can't get it out, or worse, I heal over so very slightly and then the wounds are ripped open again and I'm forced back to the beginning.

I'm not a fucking mental patient. Hell, everyone's depressed, suffers from some sort of bullshit. Everyone's questioned their value, their sanity, their ability to navigate their life without hiding behind a label. I spent twenty years quashing that stupid depression label. It's not lost on me that that label is just about as old as my previous marriage.

Which speaks volumes. Loud ones.

I did it before without pills. Cole wouldn't let me take them. Hell, I tried to kill myself and then I smartened the fuck up and got over it. Jacob wants promises that I'll never do that again. I can promise him until I'm blue in the face, hiding behind the label that says I'm not so sure. Or I can step out and be accountable and let him off the hook for my emotional well-being.

And he can stop being the second control freak I've ever loved.

Someone once said You teach people how to treat you. Well, so far I've been teaching everyone I know how to destroy me. Where my weaknesses are, what my flaws are and how to expose them. How to tweak my fragility just enough to push me as far as I can be pushed.

They like me that way. I'm not stupid. Bridget does pain beautifully. Give her just a little more, please.

Claus said he would speak to me soon and he wished me well. Because he thinks I'm coming back eventually. My doctor told me not to stop taking my medication cold-turkey. There is no other way for me. Jacob is traveling a bumpy road between amusement, incredulity, pride, anger and disappointment, as he tries valiantly to extricate himself from settling into the role as my keeper and find his place as my husband. Him trying to live hands-off is like asking him to reach up and fish me a star out of a midnight sky.

I wonder who will last longer.

This morning I told him I think I loved him more when he had absolutely no say in my life and how I lived it but I knew he was there. Then I broke into a million pieces. Because I hurt him.

He didn't even try to fix that, he just turned and walked away.

The hardest part isn't letting go- it's holding on.

Jacob, what is this?

Let me see...oh, that's just..nothing.

It wasn't nothing. Several days ago I noticed a folded piece of paper balanced on top of the wastebasket in the den, as I finally felt enough energy to clean a little, I reached under the desk to empty the basket and my fingers fell on the paper instead. It was notes for a sermon. Jacob usually writes out his sermons or even types them up on the computer and then works at them out loud until he no longer needs the notes, but he never ever throws the notes away or deletes them. This one appeared to be complete, and new, for I had never heard it before. I sat down in the chair and read it, starting with the title "Let your Life Speak". I was in tears before I got to end, knowing full well why it ended up in the wastebasket. It was dated for October 1. Which meant that was the date he wanted to deliver that sermon, to herald the arrival of fall here in the city, turning over a new leaf, letting the actions you choose tell of your character, of your faith, of your love of God, of being who you should be, who you want to be.

Instead Jacob spent October 1 in a waiting room biting his nails and trying to hold himself together while I was in surgery fighting for my life. Our baby was gone, the kids once again with the neighbors while we inhaled the acrid antiseptic scent of life interrupted.

But it isn't nothing. It's some of the most beautiful writing he has ever done. It showed the most joy and enthusiasm for life that I have ever read from him and I didn't want it to disappear. I brought it to him and asked him, hoping he'd look at it again and decide that he could still deliver it with the same emotions.

Only he can't. Right now he wants to be protective and strong and grateful. He feels like trying to give the sermon anyway would weaken him, would expose us to raw wounds and would hurt so deeply once again. He's patient to wait. He's aware that we are catching up, and that we can only go so fast. Healing takes time. Or at least that's what he always tells me.

So with that in mind, I folded it up again and put it away, at the bottom of a drawer containing various treasures like extra skeleton keys for the bedroom doors and Ruth's stray hair ribbons, a tin car that my Dad gave to Henry and three silver baby spoons, my skating badges, extra copies of photos from Jacob's collection and emergency phone numbers for the church.

Jacob, you told me once that when you struggle to deliver a message that you learn the most. Maybe you should give this one.
Inwardly right then, I wanted to ask God why I always make Jacob cry, but I didn't. Instead I hugged him as hard as I could, not letting go. Because he needs comfort as much as anyone. Even with the wings. And the tears.

He's going to preach that sermon this morning.