And sometimes waiting two and a half minutes for a Foo Fighters bridge is just too long, Dave.

Foo Fighters isn't Radiohead now, are they? And sorry but songs like Street Spirit go from the outset. There's nowhere to hide when you press play on that one, no excusing it as a soft transition or a pause in the anticipation, no apologies and no darkness in which to fade into while you wait out the waves of emotion breaking over you, pulling you under into a blissfully-warm sea.

I had that discussion with Ben once if not a hundred times and he used it (me) to make his music better and then he all but stopped making it, just on the precipice of something even more beautiful, and I blame the devil for that too. 

No one is Radiohead though and the older I get the more I put on three or four albums instead of eighty in a week and I hold my cards closer than ever before for my lack of poker face.

Who's talking in circles? Not me, called out the little deaf girl treading water in a sea made of her own tears and all of that unspent emotion. 

Maybe it's the rain or the wars or the fucking price of gasoline right now. We should all go full Mad Max/Tank Girl on all of this shit but instead I will keep treading my dog paddle, looking out toward the horizon past the tankers (worth more than ever) and the fog and the clouds and wish for sunny cool days and remember that I reminded you, babes, that music is political. But you keep forgetting.

***

Batman, just last week:

 You don't have any friends, Bridget, you just have lovers. 

(He's tuned into Radiohead too.)

House of Cards?

Good girl. But what if you tuned that out and tuned into reality?

Why on earth would I want to do that?

For healing, maybe transition. Progress. Improvement. 

I'm perfect though.

He bursts out laughing and his cheeks pink in embarrassment. My apologies but that was well-timed.

What was?

Nevermind. You're one of a kind. 

I don't say it if it isn't true. 

So why the doubt?

It's highly specific to the genre. 

The doubt. 

Yes. Are you having trouble following along?

He bites his lip to stifle another laugh and I'm about to stamp my feet in exasperation but I always try and play it cool with Batman so that he thinks I'm cool because he's one of those people that also holds their cards close and you can't be weird until they're weird first. 

 (It's just a rule, Jesus, no one can keep up anymore.)

If he tries to isolate you again you need sound the alarm. 

I roll my eyes. He isn't looking at me but of course he's psychic because why wouldn't he be?

Caleb is the alarm-

Stop it-

YOU STOP IT. 

Bridget, some day I'll be gone and then who's going to save you?

Who said I wanted to be saved?  

Woof.

The Devil turned off my internet for two weeks and just now let me know he had turned it back on. I don't look at it much anymore unless I'm going to write. PJ leaves his laptop around for Youtube and all the TVs have a big Netflix icon so I don't need much else. It's not like I want to be up on current events (because Jesus H. Fucking Christ) and it's not like I need to search for anything that doesn't begin with Hey Siri and end with a decidedly Lochanesque-type voice telling me in a clipped fashion Here's what I found and then reading me none of it.

I found sometimes I have zero anxiety at all, like today. Which is odd, it being Friday the thirteenth (again) and me being the most absolutely superstitious person you're ever going to me. That's my superhero name: Super Stitious. My powers include knocking the umbrella out of your hand as you go raise it over your head indoors and refusing to touch mirrors because I broke one once and things went really sideways really fast. 

For seven full years. I wrote about it. It's pretty much how this blog began. 

(The black cat thing was never a problem. I had a little black cat for fourteen years. Now all the cats are grey. Time marches on and I stay the same.

Knock on wood.)

But anyway, Caleb calls me the monster and then proceeds to be as monster-like as possible until I threatened to drown myself if only to get away from the endless fear. The self-harm (complete exaggerations, mind you) threats will usually prompt Lochlan to step in and figure out how Caleb is tormenting me and put a stop to whatever it is. Usually through threats of, well, harm. And any time Caleb decides to minimize or belittle Lochlan's mere presence in my life or in general Batman will be there to have Lochlan's back. 

And if you're wondering why I don't go straight to having Batman back me up in everything that has to do with Caleb, well, he's busy usually and also nobody wants that. That forces familiarity over formality and we just crawled out from under that, it seems. There's a hierarchy people. You don't start at the top of the power triangle.

On the upside I'm looking at today as an art-day, a home-day, a fun day. It's Friday. It's a full-moon charge-all-your-crystals day. It's a day that isn't full of random misplaced (or maybe completely justified) dread and it's a day when the world is at my fingertips, now scraped-raw, stretched-white, bitten-nailed claws from hanging on to the world so tightly as it tries to turn without me. 

Do I feel as if I'm keeping up? No. 

Does that matter? Also no. 

My own little world will do me just fine, as always. Now if you'll excuse me I have to put my attack dogs back in their cages (I mean accompany Batman to his house because I'm going to get a lecture now, I can feel it). 

Maybe I am.

 I took one step up the stairs to the front porch and I could already hear the music, pounding through the floorboards and right through my tiny little skull. 

All of my pain, that you put on my name
all of my doubt, and all of my shame

All of my guilt, my denial and fear
all of my hatred and all of my tears

All of the time that I couldn't go home
all of the times that I froze all alone

All of the sadness all of the lies
all of the shadows that blackened my eyes

All of the servants, who cheated, who stole
all of the colours from the depths of my soul

All of the wounded, that you left for dead
now creep in the corner, they're all in my head

All of the dreams that you made nightmares
all of the silence, deafening stares

All of the ships who can't carry loads
you wrecked in anger, along distant shores

All of this would have been
all of this could have been yours

All of this should have been
all of this could have been yours 

And there at the end a deafening smash of glass and I dropped everything in the rain and dragged myself up the rest of the steps and threw myself through the door, slamming it behind me, charging down the hall and up the stairs to Caleb's wing, fearing the worst and finding the best, as he's sitting in his favourite chair, slouched down, shoulders drawn, knees bent, legs splayed for days as if he's been there for hours if not years, taking up more space in the chair than I ever would, tears streaming down his face, in a sea of broken glass and whiskey, the song hissing and catching gently from the speaker in the corner, and a ruined photograph of me on the wall across from him, frame shattered, hanging by a thread.

The ballerina photograph, Cole's magnum opus, the copy that Caleb took back when he claimed his rooms in the house here on the point, chosen for the view of the exact spot where I stand at the edge of the cliff and talk to his nemesis and his brother at the same time, saying much of the same things in so many different ways. 

It's no wonder I'm crazy. 

GET OUT. He shouts it so I don't ignore it. I can't. I heard him loud and clear. 

Make me. I square off in the door. Let's do it. Let's fight to the death. Winner takes everything and keeps all the boys besides.

Radiohead starts playing and I waver. We share the same playlist. Street Spirit. Aw fuuuck.

Just go, Neamhchiontach. Please leave me to my misery. Everything's okay.  

There it is. The adult in the room, reassuring the child. And I lose it. 

Yeah. Heh. Looks okay from here, Diabhal. 

Go, Bridget. 

Oh,  fuck off. 

He gets up and all my courage tries to leave through goosebumps on my skin. What's left is a transparent shell over scratchy bird-bones that he could snap like matchsticks and that fear turns me to ice, leaving me indistinguishable from the broken glass that surrounds us. 

I step forward so he can't close the door in my face and instead he bends his head down so we are eye to eye and I have a fleeting memory of being held up by my throat while my heart thudded a beat to match a rhythm we had no business keeping and so while he wasn't looking I gave it away. 

LEAVE. 

NO! I stomp for good measure and he laughs incredulously, dragging his hands down his face. 

You're taking your life in your hands-

I am your life. I'm not worried.

He bounces a finger in the air, pointing and then second-guessing himself, laughing once more. 

Yeah, and that will be the death of me. 

Of everyone. 

Exactly. 

I miss life before, Bridget. I miss my brother. I miss it when we didn't play these games-

We've always played these games, Diabhal. 

How many times do you want me to say I'm sorry? How many times do you need me to say I love you? How many times do you think I've wished I was a better man, and had said and done everything different in order to make this all turn out the way it should have?

None. 

He pushes in closer, blotting out the light, filling up the space around my periphery with blackness and rage, growing so large he sucks all the air out of the room, out of my lungs. 

You're the monster, Bridget. Don't you ever forget that.  

Ash Wednesday (Day 12 of the Winter Olympics).

 7:13/5:34 (and it feels a little like winter is ending sooner than later).

I watched the Canadian Men's hockey win the quarterfinal in overtime instead of grocery shopping today. Only this house and the people in it would be okay with that, but also it won't hurt us to use up some of the things we have on hand in order to turn over supplies.  

There's an X made of ashes on my forehead. I asked the preacher who's ashes they actually were and he completely ignored me. Maybe he was forewarned. Maybe Jacob flew in and told him I would be later because the game was live and the coffee grew cold but the shots on net were relentless. 

What am I giving up? Going to try some self-emotional blackmail this time. Why not? Giving up chocolate doesn't seem to work so I'm trying different things now. 

I'm going to make spaghetti for dinner. I had waffles for breakfast so I'm good. Turns out I'm really not a pancake gal. Nor am I sad that I was able to finish off the last of the sweet potatoes for lunch. You throw them overhand into the microwave and then mash them in a bowl, skin and all with a sprinkly-shake of Everything but the bagel seasoning. Delicious and good for you. 

Going to eat three meals today. I'm trying to get into tip-top Olympic shape here, stop laughing. 

Judas hugs.

I did go out today to run some errands, picking up my seasonal pet supplies standard order and buying some minty-coloured nail polish because this time of year is all Robins-egg-blue all day every day. Like spring but just the harbinger, as I'm sure I saw it just on the fringe of a vision so peripheral it may have fallen off the cliff and into the winter sea. 

If spring drowns winter stays forever and that's unacceptable in the same way that blanks for quarters are. Sure they work in a rusted gumball machine outside a furniture store on the side of the highway but a steal's a steal, boys. 

I went out two days in a row and that's so significant because I'm a self-exiled hermit, an agoraphobic, a hider. I don't want to go out ever. I've been know to bribe people to go with me or take me or just drive me around. Going out alone is a fate I can't speak of, it's so horrific and so of course, yes, I'm doomed. 

In more ways than one because your favourite princess is not only agoraphobic and charmed by the palest of blues but she also is the most superstitious person on earth and tomorrow's Friday the thirteenth and just so everyone's clear, I won't be getting out of bed until it's over. 

Going for the cold.

 7:29/5:19 and I've been up virtually all night. Tossing and turning on the chaise with a blanket, outside on the covered part of our big balcony off the primary. It's amazing I made it to five this morning and no one came out and picked me up to cart me back inside where it was reasonable and safe. My blanket made the temperature reasonable and the railings are high, furniture bolted to the floor, ostensibly against the wind. 

I'm sure if he could Lochlan would bolt my feet to the floor to prevent any of the worry but then people would talk of sacrifice and crucifixion and there can't be any overlap between where the blonde ended and the redhead took over resumed. 

I do enjoy the sunset now while we're making dinner and the later-feeling mornings when the sun rises and I'm still drinking my coffee. I love that there's only a tiny bit of snow on the horizon (I thought we wouldn't have any this year and my cherry trees are starting to bloom already) in order to justify oatmeal and hot chocolate for breakfast for just a little longer and then it will be done for the winter. I love that Valentine's Day is coming and that I can think about what to give up for Lent this year (probably sugar and procrastination) and I think that this spring will be the best ever.  

Compression sickness.

This machine will, will not communicate
These thoughts and the strain I am under
Be a world child, form a circle
Before we all go under

And fade out again
And fade out again

 7:52/4:51

Somehow it feels less desperate, less sinister. I think I would be fine if not for the forced ending of my day with the sun. My eyes at night are about as useful as my ears in the day and therefore I rely on touch. My big headphones cram Radiohead into my brain while I study my waves as if the test is first thing. Teal. White. Medium-blue. Tiffany blue. Blackened teal once more. I know them better than I know the constellation freckles on the back of Lochlan's right hand. 

I know them almost as well as all of the lyrics that drown intrusive thoughts. Spirit Street turns into Daydreaming. Perfect. It's a vibe. It's a whole mood. It's going to bring Ben at a decent clip across the yard because I'm past his boundary and not even close to mine. Not sure I have any anyway. Did I ever? 

No, I didn't and that's how I came to be this way. Locked in my brain the way I'm locked in the house after dark because I can't navigate the blinding starburst of life without help. 

Someday they'll study it, this brain. They'll yank it out easily and begin to slice thin sheets and words and letters and melodies will begin to pile up all around it, falling to the floor, sprinkling down in slow motion like snow in a dream sequence and they will nod and point out how much was missing and everyone will be aghast save for me and those who know me best. 

Nothing was missing. I had everything I needed. 

Untethered.

 7:56/4:44

 We've reached a whole new level of stress over here and I don't want to talk about it. 

I want to look forward to the Olympics and spring.

I want to decorate for Easter maybe and host a dinner.  

I want to hang out with Ruth and hear all her tea.

I want Henry to travel and to be happy.

I want to just breathe. Not box breathing but regular. 

I want it to be March and not January. 

I want to be able to shove aside anxiety, which isn't even anxiety but straight up dread and panic. I'm in fight or flight all the time now and that's not healthy or normal. I want to be carefree and capable and not helpless or unsure. I want to be efficient and productive. 

I feel like I'm in quicksand and it's already up to my shoulders. Maybe my neck. 

The dark doesn't help. Maybe it doesn't hurt? Maybe I can hide my wide-eyed panic, cloak my tears, muffle my sobs in the night. Maybe I can pretend I'm tough all the while you're looking right through me. 

Five golden rings.

 8:01/4:34 but my God this RAIN. 

It just won't stop. 

 On the upside, I'm watching the Canadian National Figure Skating Championships. Starting with the best part, the free dance and I'll work my way backwards to the Men's program and then I'll be prepared for the! Olympics! Winter! Ones! Finally! Eeeeeeeeeeee! So excited even though the time zones will be a mess. CBC always has good programming and I got it all set up and bookmarked and have the app and I'm ready to cheer like I'm there. 

I'm still getting used to the change in allowing songs with LYRICS in the free dance program which still seems odd but also it works so well and I'm really excited to tune out current events for a bit, let me tell you. Sure it's a privilege to be able to do so but also it's a NECESSITY as I am fragile, don't you know?

Anyway these days I like every last sport in the winter, all of them. I can't wait. 

 

Flesh wounds.

Sunrise 8:03, Sunset 4:29 and just like that in less than a week we've gained almost ten whole minutes more of daylight. Wake me up when it's 6:00 and 8:30 if you please, I am hibernating with the winter animals, but not here because it's never cold enough, even though it was cold enough that with the frost this morning and the freezing rain last night I walked outside, gingerly made my way down the slippery back steps only to promptly wipe out at the bottom on the wooden deck, as if I have ventured into the new and surprisingly difficult career of slapstick comedy. 

I've done a little charming clowning in my day, let me tell you but I was never good enough, nor was Lochlan confident enough for me to engage in anything truly dangerous on my tightrope. We left that to the stronger older men with solid life insurance policies. What did we know? We were two broke kids on the run. 

I still value my bones, Lochlan still blamed himself for me falling (I shouldn't have let you come outside) and I still miss the complicated and absolutely simple life we had in the show. Times have changed. Now I yell at Google to do stupid shit like read me the weather or turn on various lights and music around the house, I miss my kids like a deep ache that's a whole different kind of grief (they're here, they're just grown up and I can't park them in front of a Pixar movie with grilled cheese sandwiches and just admire them anymore, well maybe I could- I'll have to ask) and the bills always grow. We are prudent with money, don't get me wrong. It's nice not to have to be so hungry that I resort to stealing but it would also be nice if utilities and phone bills and grocery costs stop rising for everyone, wouldn't it? 

In any case I've been ushered back inside with my wounded pride bruised and humiliated (the boys never fall, slip or are otherwise unsteady except for Ben and even he could manage the stupid icy patio) and am now safely in my brightly lit kitchen sipping hot chocolate and eating oatmeal with a sprinkle of cinnamon sugar on top. I think today will be even slower than usual and I say that as someone who woke up on Monday with the full-on flu, throwing up and chills and general pain that sent me back to bed. I never had a very strong constitution even though I'm sturdy and energetic. I get sick a lot.

I will be wearing masks for the remainder of my life again in public, mostly for germs but also conveniently so no one sees me fall and knows its me. The subsequent sympathy is exhausting. 

I'm fine.