Fast enough for me.

Hey.

Musical entries for a musical week.

It's a sick day, collectively, though Jacob has one meeting this afternoon. I'm spending my day in wool tights and a skirt and one of Jacob's giant sweaters and a bun that isn't going to last long because wisps are escaping all over the place like rats jumping from a sinking ship.

I hate to get dressed some days but I never know half the time who will show up on my doorstep so I'll never be the kind of girl who hangs out in yoga pants and a dirty shirt. Though I would love too, some days.

Today I'm working on a story for children. One about princesses and dreams. Oh, the ironies. For inspiration I was gazing at pictures of Kylemore Abbey, Lichtenstein, Burg Eltz and Neuschwanstein. All of my favorite castles from when I was growing up and I dreamed of places I had never been in this life and so my father took me to the library where I would spend hours pouring over books about Castles, traveling in Europe and medieval history until I had tracked down everything I may have seen in my sleep.

Princesses aren't made, they are born. Sometimes in the wrong lifetimes, perhaps. Sometimes in many lifetimes in a row. Sometimes they don't even know.

And sometimes they know all along.

This morning Jacob picked up his guitar and sang while the kids finished their toast. He played three notes and I recognized them instantly and I looked at him curiously and he stopped and put the guitar down again. Then he said the hell with it and he took it back up and played the whole damned thing and sang the words and I actually didn't implode or anything remotely frightening.

    It's time I sling the baskets off this overburdened horse
    Sink my toes into the ground and set a different course
    Cause if I were here and you were there
    I'd meet you in between
    And not until my dying day, confess what I have seen.
He was playing Horse. Then he played four other songs off Rift and very slowly the pain crept in around the edges of my heart and ached like a dull knife lodged in bone. Then very quietly he said one thing, and then went out and slammed the door and lifted it right off the hinges in the process, once again. He was back five minutes later with the box of CDs that he had put away last May.

My entire Phish collection, bless his heart.

Curse his fair and good intentions.

(Shhh. Not out loud.)

Dead people aren't going to decide what I want to hear, Bridget.

Switchfoot goodness for a Monday morning.

Hi. Good morning, I have the flu.

And Jacob will be just about nowhere in this post, for we're going to briefly switch (thanks Loch for pointing out the pun) to fangirl mode. Just for a day, I've earned this.

I have pictures because I made a last minute early morning run to the store and bought a Canon Elph to take to the show. Because Cole's giant Rebel does me no good most of the time.

I'm still tired from the legendary Switchfoot hangover I have read so much about. I'm sad that it's over and yet thrilled and relieved that I finally saw one of their epic live shows, having followed the trail of tour news, photos, daily foot entries and fan accounts. I crossed sides. I have arrived after loving this band for years and years from afar.

I might be changed forever. Okay, shut up, Bridget, no one cares for your drama.

We lined up two hours before showtime (seeing Jon and Andy separately outside!) and so we secured a front row position just to the left of the microphone, which I could reach out and touch, it was so close. Cooooool.

Jacob who may or may not have given me the flu reluctantly opted out earlier that day because he was too miserable to go so I took Christian with us. He was extremely thrilled to go, he is as crazy as I am.

Copeland came out first and played for 45 minutes, 9 songs. They were really good, very tight, nice songs. I can only describe them as a darker version of the early Switchfoot. I loved their song Sleep. I have to pick up the album. Then the lights went out and the fastest set up/breakdown ever took place as they got ready for Switchfoot.

Someone came over to the edge of the stage and gave Ruth and Henry guitar picks that say Switchfoot on them.

Holy freaking cow holy freaking cow.

Everything I ever wanted to see, I saw. I was dripped on, sweat on, I made eye contact, I got to grab hands and sing along. Jon jumped off the piano, he sang into the guitar, he ran up to the balcony and sang two whole songs from back there. He chatted with a group from the US who drove up to see their sixth show and they requested and received a quick rendition of Chem 6A. A kid was pulled up to play cowbell. It was terrific.

Here's the setlist:

Stars, Oh Gravity, Canadian Dream, Gone, 4:12, The Blues (which won the voting contest online), This is your Life, Happy is a Yuppie Word, Shadow Proves the Sunshine, Awakening, Dirty Second Hands, Amateur Lovers, We are One Tonight, Faust, Midas and Myself, Easier than Love, Meant to Live and the encore was Let Your Love Be Strong and Dare You to Move.

Sigh.

They played Happy is a Yuppie Word. My all-time favorite song of theirs, and the song that contains the line that I took for one of my tattoos, that matches the tagline of my journal here.

Nothing in the world could fail me now.

Jerome came down and gave the children two more guitar picks right at the end of Gone, and we thanked him. Drew played endlessly right above us and Jon watched Ruthie jump up and down while he sang. They probably thought we were nuts for having two little kids in the front but there was no crowd surfing and no one was rough. It was perfect. The music was loud, the band was so tight, and so friendly and just plan talented beyond belief. I was surprised at how quiet Tim and Chad were, overall, though there was a crazy percussion, dance-party going on onstage during Shadow and then again during Faust.

They invited the crowd to go to the waterslides in the adjoining hotel after the show. They were terrific. Let your Love be Strong was a silent room and a watchful moment of beauty. Dare you to Move made me cry. But in a good way.

After the show the lights came up and the same man who brought over the guitar picks during setup handed me a coveted setlist. I was stunned. I gave one of the picks to a girl from North Dakota who I had befriended by the stage to share the joy. We went out into the lobby and snagged a few of the limited edition Gravity, eh? Oh Canada Switchfoot Tour 2007 t-shirts and then we went home. Because hello, little kids, midnight. Oh Lord.

Where I lay awake with my ears ringing and my heart racing for the remainder of the night. Because it was that much fun.

Thank you Switchfoot. You totally rock my world.

Oh, and video! I have video but the compression is so amazing I can't figure out where to put it online. When I figure it out I'll update. I got Happy is a Yuppie Word and Let Your Love be Strong in their entirety as well as the bridges of Dirty Second Hands and We are One Tonight plus the cool Chad/Jerome percussion dance from Faust. Working on putting them somewhere. If I can ever accomplish this, I'll let you know.

Slow motions.

Okay, now that's a porn title. But this isn't porn unless you count library books among your fetishes.

I said library books, not librarians.

Naughty.

Yesterday we swung by the city library on the way home from an appointment, Jake wanted to find some woodworking plans and I am trying to learn to cook properly studying quantum physics and so we both went down to the nonfiction/reference areas and started off in different aisles.

Libraries for me are a time-space rift. I am in sensory overload the moment I walk in, so many words, so many endless possibilities, the smell of the pages, the choice. I was sitting on the floor gathering up my finds and was headed to track down Jacob when a book fell off the shelf behind me. I must have bumped it out so I leaned back to pick it up to return it when another one fell down. So I stacked both and stood up and put them back. I turned to gather up my books and another book fell down.

I must be slow. I just kept picking them up and putting them back.

When I returned the fifth book to the shelf another popped out right in front of me and in the space where it had been rested the blue eyes I love so much, crinkled up with mischievousness. Then he laughed, pushing the whole row of books down on me and I sat there and smiled at him, and he hunched down and smiled at me through the hole that he made in the wall while other people watched us with amusement and a solitary older gentleman scowled at hearing laughter in amongst the silent, dusty tomes.

Jacob then impulsively stuck his whole head right through the shelf for a kiss and got stuck.

A series of fortunate events followed as tools were sent for and a heck of a lot more laughter began to rise up from the 600 section. Even from the gentleman who had turned his scowl into a mighty guffaw as he regarded the impromptu rescue mission.

Eventually Jacob was pulled out almost completely unscathed if not just a tiny bit embarrassed and has a torn shirt and a two inch gouge on his shoulder from where the metal shelf bracket carved out a defensive battle wound. Those things are sharp, I expected him to emerge much worse than he did.

We were then instructed in future visits to carry out that sort of activity upstairs in adult fiction or that the very least over in self-help. We nodded soberly, deciding now was probably not the best moment to point out at least we were in the cooking section.

The next time we go I hope I find a book about learning how not to laugh when it's inappropriate to do so.

When she laughs it goes on forever, guys.

Waking up hearing this coming from the shower has got to be the happiest thing ever.

    Hey, I ain't never coming home
    Hey, I'll just wander my own road
    Hey, I cant meet you here tomorrow
    Say goodbye, don't follow
    Misery so hollow

    Hey you, you're living life full throttle
    Hey you, pass me down that bottle, yeah
    Hey you, you cant shake me round now
    I get so lost and don't know how
    And it hurts to care, I'm going down

    Forgot my woman, lost my friends
    Things I've done and where I've been
    Sleep in sweat the mirrors cold
    See my face it's growing old
    Scared to death no reason why
    Do whatever to get me by
    Think about the things I said
    Read the page its cold and dead
    Take me home

Redeemed with a rare and wonderful old favorite of mine for if I am as sweet as cake Jacob will sing whatever I want to hear and I love this song. He does the first part so well I swoon right off my feet and ooze all over the floor in a puddle of Bridget-goo. I love to be sung to, it's been done by famous men and completely unknown men alike (stories, seriously, I have stories) I love all of it. I hope he adds the guitar later.

And I'm guessing Bridget-goo will be blue and sparkly, like the waves just before the sun dips low into to the sea, wouldn't you think? Okay yes, blue. Turquoise blue.

He's also very good at making me laugh. You know how couples have secret languages and inside jokes? If I shared them you'd think we were both crazy but one morning in church just before he started announcements he came down to where I was sitting and whispered in my ear,

Just call me Lupe Fiasco.

And I swear I tried so hard not to bust out laughing because it was so random and I had no idea what he was talking about which made me laugh harder and I was beet red and shaking and trying not to lose it and I almost had my face in my purse because he was giving the schedules for upcoming memorials, of course with a stonefaced delivery and it made it worse. I have been calling him Lupe ever since. I have since learned Lupe Fiasco is a rap artist. Or hip hop maybe? I'm too busy over here listening to my beloved Tool. And Alice in Chains and Switchfoot and almost pretty much everything but rap.

And on with the ever-present euphemism of solid fats (the butter bent, I love that word. I'm like butter, Nosebutter, hell, Last tango & butter), well there's a new one.

Leopold Butter Stotch. Butters! The cutest Southpark character ever. He's just like me, tiny, blonde, even the stuttering. Professor Chaos is his alter-ego, sort of like mine is that wild, x-rated lapdancing cowgirl. Why I was gifted a set of Southpark DVDs I will never know because I'm not much of a TV girl but they're hilarious.

Princess Butters?

Oh noes!

Seriously, no, Jacob. Just noes.

But you're laughing so that means yeses. Which makes us PB and J, baby girl.

Bridget has a rattle (and a hum).

(Hi, mindless rattling today. Roll with it, my peoples, while I get better.)

Bridget's learning to hum. I can hear it. I used to sing alot under my breath but humming seemed pointless.

Jacob is singing so loud today and it's contagious and I'm embarrassed for both of us. Make it stop. What a funny song. It strikes me as very...eighties, for some reason. Jacob won't quit singing it and I'm about to shove fingers nine and ten up his nose to shut him up.

    Well I'm not paralyzed
    But I seem to be struck by you
    I want to make you move
    Because you're standing still
    If your body matches
    What your eyes can do
    You'll probably move right through
    Me on my way to you
He has infinite patience to torture me with songs he likes that I don't. Feel free to tease him, his musical tangents are really weird considering this is the same man who had a shouting match in an elevator shortly before Christmas with my psychiatrist over who knew The White Album better. Because what is life if you don't know the basis for Savoy Truffle?

I pointed out he's going to lose his hippie seventies vibe-thing if he keeps this up and he just gazed at me steadily and smiled.

No worries, princess.

Now that Jacob is home, he has relaxed to an amazing extent. Like nothing I have seen before, and it couldn't have happened at a better time. He may be the strongest person I know but even the toughest nails eventually bend. He was bending.

My friends are pointing out that I have spun myself here to sound like a wholly unhinged princess, and I apologize if anyone is worried. Please, don't be. I didn't overdose-overdose, I simply goofed and took two pills at the same time, being the responsible idiot that I am (because I didn't complain even once this time around) when I realized late last week that I had missed a breakfast pill in the morning rush. Then I was understandably confused and I continued to take two pills twice a day after that, effectively getting double what I was supposed to be taking. It wasn't until I told Claus my proud routine that he stopped me and confirmed that I was telling him I take two pills each time that we figured out why I was walking into walls. I am back to the right dosage and yes, guess who is once again in charge of dispensing?

Of course Jacob blamed himself, being busy and not having time to really pay attention to them but he was so proud that I was taking the pills at all and that I was doing okay, even though I am still slightly a degree away from okay (aren't you, Bridget?). Like sleeping. Sleeping in any solid block of uninterrupted time had become insurmountable. A few more emotional grenades were lobbed recently. And since April we haven't had any large blocks of time to spend together. It's all carried out between duties and appointments and workloads and schedules and it's become a running joke that we were carrying out a marriage on a day planner only no one was laughing. Time has always been our enemy. To use his own words, Jacob was stressed the fuck out and he threw it in. The towel or his hat or whatever you throw in when you've reached your limit.

And so he's home and he doesn't want to be anywhere else for a long while. And I'm happy he's here because we have time. I was admonished for the boasting that he was putting me first, before God. Jacob pointed out gently that God understands that Jacob's primary concern right now is the well-being of his wife and the needs of his family and he is where he needs to be and God doesn't have a problem with that. And that without God, Jacob wouldn't be able to be here at which point I'm sure I threw a faint at having an impromptu sermon in the kitchen but I got the point and I know he isn't turning his back on God and I would never want that in a million years though I do have a deep-rooted newfound sadness about having caused so much turmoil for him.

This is the part where he would shake his head and insist with all of his precious heart that this isn't my fault and possibly the only thing I am one hundred percent convinced that it is and he knows it is but he's too kind to consider it.

I have started some therapies that might surprise people, of which I'm just going to endure and not talk about here. I'm on a prescribed diet plan again, because hovering slightly below 93 isn't ever where I wanted to be. I don't have to stop or start any medications, and I get to spend my days indefinitely, fingers intertwined with Jake's, one step away from one of his annoying forehead kisses or one of his adorable nose kisses. I get to see all the expressions that accompany his words, I get to hear the songs he sings all day long (yes, even Paralyzer) and he's actually got enough still on the go that this is a matter of simply changing his base of operations and switching gears yet again. He's picked up some counseling once again, and he's going to keep the chaplaincy which I'm sure is really because of the whole firetrucks fascination. I keep poking him and telling him he might have missed his calling, which is a play on...oh nevermind. Jacob is a four year old boy when he sees a firetruck go by.

And he's relented on a big terrible issue that he has held on to for too long. Counseling me. He refused, he cut me off cold last May but he went too far, unwilling to function less than objectively, the conflict of interest being too great to be healthy. But he went too far and he wouldn't talk to me, about anything short of getting that fucking barometer and he used to talk to me about everything. Enough to the point that we had reached a strained and difficult place where we couldn't connect the way we needed to, and I couldn't articulate what had happened, but somehow with Claus' help we figured it out and now he has opened his mind again to just talking and it's made such a huge difference.

I needed him and he had shut me down out of fear that he would make it worse. But that's silly, because he makes it better. He's never experienced being with someone in a love relationship in which they ever talked about anything deeper than what was happening on the surface because of the long-distance aspect of his previous marriage and we had so little time to really get to know each other in that sense before the shit hit the proverbial fan that he had removed himself when I really needed to talk to him and it was like pounding on a door and screaming and he would never answer it. He's finally answering the fucking door and I feel like we've got a chance.

Inhale, exhale, Bridget and Jacob. And yes, in the interest of moving forward I'm letting the picture I spoke of yesterday go. It wasn't until I wrote it all down that I could see how stubborn I was being about something I don't need to hold on to.

The relief was written all over his face but then he talked about how he felt (thank you, God). Which was better than any one of Jacob's twenty-nine hundred facial expressions. And a big step for the giant blonde hippie, don't you think? And hey, it's so much easier to talk about him. Because he's fun, and he's here on a Thursday morning no less, hanging out and doing nothing but singing, which I'm sure is going to spiral into some sort of bickerish couchpotatoeyness sooner than later.

...and reading over my shoulder and saying wonderful things like this:

If you join me on the couch, I'll make it worth your while, princess.
Sold!

Requiem for a king and his whore.

Funny how a week's worth of old-fashioned romance can overshadow a week's worth of unsolicited memories. Have you missed me? Did you wonder what was going on between flower deliveries and following trails of paper hearts all over the house?

I didn't, for once. It's been a nice diversion, a welcome deflection for some of the rougher patches of the week, patches that show the wear and tear best on this tarnished kingdom.

I procrastinated just a bit too long in one place. I refused to acknowledge the other thing altogether, and overall let's just say we've enjoyed playing pretend happily married totally normal couple, even though neither of us is ordinary, and oh, boy, where do I begin?

Oh, I know. This goddamned picture. I'll start here.

The real test of the week was Cole's former employer calling to very gently and politely ask me if and when I was coming to collect the rest of Cole's things and that there was some tax paperwork to pick up, because, yeah, I get to file for dead people too.

Loch and some of the other guys had packed up his works and put it all in storage for me so that the company could have his office again. Loch had warned me that I might want his help when I collect the things, but Loch is busy now, working and not able to just drop everything and fly back here to help me clear out this stuff on my timeclock, so I knew I would have to do it. I showed up with PJ and his jeep and Cole's coworkers all hugged me and asked about the kids and I swear to God every last one of them watched me out of the corners of their eyes as we all took padded and draped pieces and boxes of things downstairs.

I had a final look around and Cole's boss handed me an envelope that had been passed around back in July, a collection taken for the kids, to help out. He had wanted to give it to me when I came in but I never did and suddenly here I was, thinner and older and more frail and yet tentatively happy and relieved to be out of the shadow of the talented genius we all watched thrive here.

There were thousands of dollars in the envelope. I don't know what to do with it.

And when PJ unloaded the final box into the basement I went down with scissors and I opened everything. I looked through pictures of the kids that he kept at work, lunch receipts, doodles and sweaters he had left behind. I saw pieces he had started at home and took to work to finish. Storyboards. Paintings. Scenes. Portraits of people he didn't know, faces from inside his head. An entire career packed up mid-stride because he had fully expected to go to work on that Monday morning. A closet full of valuable finished and unfinished works from a formidable artist.

A framed photograph of us that I have never seen before. Big. 14 inches across, framed beautifully. It was from an old photoshoot I did for him many long years ago when he briefly dabbled in professional photography.

I was standing in front of a fountain, the pavement was wet and the trees were full of red and orange leaves, heavy branches weighing low over the path I stood on. I'm wearing a long delicate pink tutu, toe shoes and a pale pink knitted wrap sweater. My hair had tiny braids here and there amongst these huge curls everywhere that had been woven with leaves like a crown and I was standing with my back to the camera, hands behind me holding a huge maple leaf while Cole stood beside me, back to the camera also with his face bent toward me as if he was sharing a secret with me. I believe he was telling me how to pose. I never saw it before, his former assistant must have taken it, testing the light or God knows what. I only saw the finished product in which I was sitting alone on the edge of the fountain. It was in an advertising campaign later that year and I have a copy of the final picture that was used for it. I always thought I never looked like me in that photograph.

I look exactly like me in this photo.

And here I am.

It was as if I was looking in a mirror. I brought it upstairs and looked at it longer and I left it leaning against the wall in the upstairs hall.

Because as Cole's widow I'm in a weird place and I can't find anyone to identify with.

He didn't die a hero. He didn't die with a full life behind him, his memories golden as a loving husband. He died with restraining orders and lawyers and people protecting his beloved wife from him, people supervising his visits with his own flesh and blood, his name destroyed over a mistake he made in loving me too much, his reputation saved only by my hand because right up until this point I have always fought to keep his personal life far removed from his career, from his talented hands as an artist. So that people would not feel guilty as they admired his work, the legacy that has provided my children with secure futures and me with peace of mind. He died violently, horribly, and without a final chance to talk to us, without getting his words out and I still can't reconcile any of it. I'm obsessed with his death. If you look on my nightstand there's a copy of his bulletin from the service, and two books, stories about widows, because even in fiction at least I can think to myself, someone knows how I feel. Lisey's Story and Thorn. They are horror novels, naturally. Pulp-fiction trash, just like Bridget.

I can't help but be horrified that he's dead. Dead is final. It's not as if it's some big event and then you wait the appropriate time and move forward. I have moved forward but he is still dead. He is cremated and long gone. I don't know how to feel because no one ever wrote a book on how you're supposed to feel when you're relieved that someone is dead but confused because you still miss them. Because you do still love them, you can't help it.

I've come to a place where I think that the monster that lived inside Cole ate him up, that he never meant to surrender to that monster but it happened anyway and he could keep it hidden to save face and I would love him and then he would let it out and I would be afraid of him. Somehow in between the fright shows and the dark nights, he wanted me to feel safe and he knew that safety wouldn't come from within. It would only come from without.

And now I have this photograph. Which throws everything out the window. I don't have the letter he wrote to me before he tried to commit suicide because I ripped it up and let it alight from my fingers and scatter over the grass, blown in fragments through the neighborhood, landing in branches and grass and concrete, the words on the page eventually blurred by the rain as it poured down on my world. I will never have that back and I will forever wish I knew what he wrote. Most days I hope it said Fuck you, whore. Some days I hope it said I loved you.

I didn't think I would still feel alone.

I don't exactly know how long Jacob has to be beside me before he takes Cole's place as my comfort. And I don't know how long it will be before I stop looking to Jacob as if he is a parent in charge of me who is going to make everything okay because that's what I'm used to but it isn't what I want but I will never be tough enough to have control of him. I know I'm not making sense.

And I feel like a dog who continues to lick the hand of it's abuser and it won't stop.

Because I was only ever strong enough to pretend. Still. Standing still and standing here I have to wonder if that's all I'll ever do.

I would say...I would say right now I think that the high is gone but reality stays behind. I had expected to find a painting of myself, having been that unfaithful muse but instead I found what feels harsher somehow.

Jacob suggested we ship the picture to Cole's parents so that they could have it but I'm keeping it. And a new argument is born. God help me.

Squealers.

In an effort to let you inside my head, I just want to make it known that the fact that Jacob is now home all the time with us is possibly one of the best decisions ever and I'm already worried about missing him in the fall when he starts his new job.

In the meantime, he sat with the kids for over an hour past their bedtime tonight, reading them poems from Where the Sidewalk Ends, a book that was mine as a child.

The best ever poem was this one, especially when told with a soft accent like Jake's, he had the kids howling and squealing and it was one of the nicest sounds I've been privileged to hear recently.

    My beard grows to my toes
    I never wears no clothes
    I wraps my hair
    Around my bare,
    And down the road I goes.

I asked him to hold my mittens while I buttoned my coat up against the cold. He took them and held them up and looked at them.

Shit. Bridge, you brought Ruthie's mitts by mistake.

No I didn't, Jake, those are mine.

No, here, look.

He passed them to me and I put them on and held my hands up.

See?

I was rewarded with an expression I don't think I have ever seen before. A cross between incredulity and despondency. Just when I think I'm so tough something dumb like a little pair of mittens reminds him that I am not.

No worries, all is alright. I might have narrowly missed what Claus lovingly calls a massive depressive episode. I think the old-fashioned term is nervous breakdown. Yes, I'm so fucking tough.

By the wool of my mittens perhaps.

Back tomorrow with actual words. Thank you for the kind emails.

Reverend Reilly steps down.

Yesterday we went for a walk.

The wind bit into my bones, it was so chilling, the bare trees scratched their limbs endlessly along the sky once more as we strolled briskly around the neighborhood, hand in hand, in an effort to keep Bridget alert. The kids ran ahead a few squares of sidewalk, tagging each other, oblivious to the mild overdose of prescription antidepressants in their mother's bloodstream and Jacob affected that lovely scared-out-of-his-wits concerned look that he wears while he tries to pretend everything is fine when we damn well know it isn't.

Beautiful lush pale peach-colored roses arrived to herald the end of Valentine's week and the completion of a rose rainbow for Princess Bridget, who was asleep at the wheel and missed the festivities.

I had coffee all afternoon and coffee with dinner and I was given a lot of food to eat with the admission via being forced to step on a scale so that Jacob could see exactly how frighteningly low my weight has dropped again, and then we did active things all evening, like reorder the bookshelves, and he suddenly decided he wanted the 600 CDs we own between us in alphabetical order, and we should really do the laundry instead of waiting until tomorrow, and

There's a good girl, fold the towels, okay?
and

Bridge! You with me, princess?

And I would look around with my lips in a little 'O' and my hands clasped in my lap because they were so very heavy and I let my hair fall in my eyes which were also very heavy while I tried to focus on stories he was telling me and conversations he would start and it came very hard but at last it was finally too late to talk anymore and I had skipped all my pills for the day so he figured it was safe after checking with two more doctor friends that he knows and so at last we slept. I slept hard and long and I didn't get up until 11 am and Christian was sitting in the kitchen reading and Jacob and the kids had left for church and I decided to stay in my pajamas. Christian made me eat breakfast and then retreated to the living room to keep reading while I went in search of my laptop and I did, I wrote the future.

The only thing I can say about it is that eventually it ended happily ever after.

And then I pressed delete.

Because it isn't a gift to write what hasn't happened yet, it was a story and it isn't done yet, we've only just started and sometime last night in my fog I looked at Jacob and tried to convince him that he would grow tired of Bridget and her mental problems and he laughed with disappointment, regaining one of his most touching habits, twirling my necklace around my neck as I lay in his arms and he shook his head and assured me that he will be here forever, as he has done every time I voice my doubts.

When he and the kids returned home a short while ago he got them settled with a game and then he gathered me up into his arms and told me I looked like I had slept and that my eyes were clear, lucid green that reassured him that I was in a better place than I began yesterday in.

And then he told me he has taken leave from the church. With six months to go before he was to leave anyway, he's chosen to step down now, effectively putting me first which is something he has struggled with from the night we met. He held it together right up until he got the words out and then we cried. This is big.

I'm not concerned with financial implications, for there are few right now and we are fortunate in that regard. What I'm concerned with is that this feels like a last-ditch effort to get me better on his part and I'm not sure I like that.

Bridget isn't well.

I could hear the defeat in his voice as he worked his way through his professional contacts and family members and it hurts because I know. I know I'm not well and I know this is an endless loop and something has to give but we don't know what it is. And so this magnificent gesture of putting me before God had better reveal itself in a solution or a path that works and doesn't keep shoving us back to the beginning every single time like a cruel joke.

He told me I need him and I need him to not only be strong but to be here and that I need to gain some strength and catch a break and that we are going to make it because we want to, because we believe we will and that he loves me and he knew I was fucked up a long time ago and it didn't deter him then and it certainly won't deter him now, and that my recent constant remarks on this being Groundhog Day, the same day lived over and over again, led him to act when he realized I was right and none of this is working.

Nothing is working, and no, Bridget isn't well.

Today is rest. All rest and eating and talking gently and keeping the kids in their routine above all and tomorrow we'll figure out the rest of it. Or at least now we can begin. Because Groundhog Day is over but Bridget is just beginning.

Or something like that. Forgive me, I'm still slightly foggy and making that face with the 'O'. But it's whole heaps better than being facedown in a plate of toast. Don't you think? Either way it really hasn't sunk in that he is free from bonds that he loved and it's my fault and that he finally threw in the towel and put me first and the implications that this is going to have for Jacob, because he loves God and this isn't a choice he ever thought he would have to make. But now it's done and he said he is relieved and I'm not sure if he's telling me that so that I don't fall apart or if he's telling me that so that he doesn't fall apart but I hope God doesn't harbour grudges and sticks around to help out because I think we both need him right now.

I ramble, don't I? I'm sorry. It's not a matter of falling into a valley of lows again, please understand, it's about trying different avenues and discovering they don't work or I didn't give them enough of an effort. It's about finding what works to become who I think I was and who I know I could be, and it's about a very young and wanted marriage in danger of failing only because we struggle so mightily with obstacles we never expected to face in our lives.

But we'll make it. And someday Bridget will be well.

I'm taking a few days off from writing here, I hope you understand. I'll be back midweek. Not because we're running anywhere and no, I'm not being hospitalized or anything dramatic and gossipy, I just need to catch my breath and I have a shitload of appointments over the next two days and not much free time in there for work, let alone journal-writing. Especially journal-writing that is essentially the same days written over and over again.

See you Wednesday maybe, keep well and keep us in your prayers. We might need them more than ever now.

On seeking warmth.

I can find good, too.

Words written here and there. Mexican food via Irish Canadians. Ha, no, hold it carefully and call it a Chilupo. You mean Chalupa? Yes, whatever. Isn't it yummy? Here, have some tiquotas. What? Just roll with it, okay, because I have no idea what this stuff is actually called.

Skating on the river.

My friends, who are the best friends a girl could ever have. I know that for every phone call I receive from far away, three others will be made to see how things really are and they won't cushion it. And PJ, who brought back my life today, bundled into a huge box in his arms, trailing bridges, notes falling out of his pockets, leads wailing in on a cold winter wind, he returned my CDs because one slip does not always result in a catastrophic, injurious fall.

Store-bought cinnamon buns, which are always four times as big as the ones I roll from my grandmother's recipe. With four times the calories. Who cares?

A dog that would rather sprawl on the kitchen floor than curl up near the fire, asleep where the doors meet causing everyone to have to step over and around him. He makes me laugh.

My kids, who have such awful attitudes sometimes and then with a word or a look they morph back into the little blonde angels I have tried to raise them to be. They're normal. They're loved.

An epic headache, being kept at bay with coffee, aspirins and laughter. A half-assed shoulder rub from Andrew that felt so good I begged him to keep going. I offered him $50 for a ten-minute rub but he wouldn't go for it. Hmmph. Henry will walk all over my back as I lay on the floor later for fifty cents. He thinks he is a millionaire. He may be. We gave up on his overflowing piggy bank and wallet and now he keeps his spare change in the stockpot, because it's large enough. Everyone who passes through the house empties their pockets into the kids' piggy banks. It's a thing.

We're leaving in a little while to go see Jumper. We went to see Spiderwick already this weekend. It was fantastic. Also tonight, American Gladiators, which has become sort of a group tradition.

Erin called today to say she is coming soon for a visit. I am so glad.

And cake. Bridget is always thankful there is cake.