Lady luck.

It's cold, dark and raining on this atypical Monday and I have a house full of men in flannel shirts and jeans, all of which seem to be perpetually with coffee cup and phone in hand. It's so loud outside I turned off the music as it was just noise competing for my attention and it's kind of nice to listen to. I think I will miss it whenever or if ever I leave here. 

We had some really exciting news in amongst the screen door wars and I am so looking forward to the spring suddenly.

Your thoughtless words are breaking my heart.

Jacob is on the wall in the rain with his guitar. I can see him from here but it's pouring in sheets, turning the grass to mud and the skies to graphite and if I open that glass door the chimes will sound and they'll come running so I am content to sit in the big easy chair and watch him from the great room. From this chair I have a wider view of the backyard, and can just see the lower portion of the rock wall. He's just up from the platform where we set up the telescope on clear evenings in the summer, and I'm guessing his guitar is probably so far out of tune it's not in the genre he's playing any more which would be something by Stone Temple Pilots, Billy Joel or maybe Joe Jackson. Maybe a love song I no longer listen to, maybe a Beatles arrangement. Maybe some unconnected notes, like the song between us now that has been forgotten, no longer played on the record player or radio, no longer in the back of my mind, a soundtrack for a film that's over and been remade already. 

Or, 'reimagined', as it were. 

I look over at PJ on the big couch. He is nodding along to whatever's in his headphones and reading, swiping down the screen of his phone, content, coffee cup in his left hand, feet up on the tabletop, warm by the fire. He looks up, feeling my gaze and I look away. He is in charge this morning while everyone else sleeps away the rain after such a busy day yesterday. He didn't come out with the group and yet he's thrilled the rickety, warped screen doors are soon to be history. We also cleared out an extraordinary amount of things over the past several months from previous lives, a cobbled collective history of belongings that were redundant and copious. It's a spring-clean for our souls, and he is a big part of what keeps us organized and productive, though he is always perpetually worried that I might find things move too fast and regress, or worse. 

I'm doing okay. Things are good. He is cautiously optimistic for that, that the darker period now ebbs once more and we come out into the light. I take a deep breath through my nose, exhaling through my mouth. I take a sip of my ever-present water bottle and meet his gaze again with my reassuring smile, but only with my eyes. He winks and goes back to his reading. It's a content Sunday so I don't know why they let Jake sit there and play. They were supposed to banish him from my existence. That was the plan, I know now.

Shim it and skim it.

Replacing my beautiful wooden screen doors today with actual storm doors. Metal ones with slide-open windows and locking latches and far more quality than my country-farmhouse shabby chic painted doors that never matched the house style at all. It's too modern and austere and I was still in my Prairie Victorian stage, I guess. 

Next week will be twelve years here in the Pacific Northwest. Twelve years on the wrong coast, but here we are. 

But storm doors meant two trips to the hardware store, replacing all of the brick moulding around the doors too (all of them, not a one was exempt) and also a weird discussion, complete with procreate for visual charts, in the aisle of a Home Depot while we tried to figure out how to make it work. Oh, and latches for each door that are patent-pending that added almost a hundred bucks to each door, which was funny but also not. 

And we got all the stuff but now it's dark and it's raining and we've missed our chance to actually do the work. 

This is good, this is normal. This is how we roll.

Today is the first day of the- yeah, yeah.

Doing okay today. The early relief that comes with promises of change or help or sympathy or whatever this is. The hope of a reprieve from the monster that is my mind. My corrupted soul trying to change my body and heart in place while I fight without a rest. I don't know what this is, I only know it isn't normal and I know that he rewired my brain in the worst way possible and then before he had time to teach me how to use it, he was gone again. And now he's back and he gets a front row seat to his destruction every day of his life and somehow I hope the guilt eats him alive. 

But it won't. 

In the meantime, Caleb's been hovering. He hates new doctors, hates not having control or at least input, as it were, hates being told what will happen and when. 

It'll be weeks before I see improvement. You can go rest, Diabhal. 

Not on your life, Neamhchiontach. I'll take care of you. 

Stop, I whisper but he can't hear it. 

Yes I can, and no, I won't, he says in return.

Maybe the guilt will eat him alive. I want to be here to see it. Every moment of it.

I will wait for my Rice Krispies on the moon.

NICE. If someone had told me I wouldn't be able to buy Rice Krispies for six fucking months I would have stocked up, the way I did on Goldfish crackers, toilet paper, cold hard cash and now Doritos, because my province is literally in hell lately. 

On the upside? They have rapid tests at the pharmacy now but I didn't get any because I forgot as I listened and fidgeted through the pharmacist's list of cautions and side effects for my spanking brand new pills and then for good measure I was handed a seven-page printout of information. I think they have to, though this has nothing to do with signing legal contracts and just about everything to do with me falling asleep in a bowl of Honeycombs this afternoon. All of this above-board now, as it seems to keep the wolves in check.

All the boomers back home have covid. The rest of us only go outside when we have to. I woke up Ben and dragged him to the grocery store at seven this morning and he dragged me to the doctor at ten. It was a cold call, just to see what transpires and she passed all the tests and after a lengthy discussion it's clear Bridget's anxiety is absolutely off the charts at this point and something has to be done. 

Also more therapy (yeah, no) and no alcohol and mindfulness off of youtube. 

Or something. 

But let's start with drugs. Half dose to begin and then next week I'll be asleep before I can even pour a bowl of cereal and still make it to the big table. I hate side effects. She said to give it five weeks and then come back and we'll shoot for the moon but hell, I think I'm already there.

Yeah, yeah.

Flooding into my brain. Jacob's voice at a time when I don't have the alertness to protect myself nor the want. I loved the sound of his voice. A soft rumble. Easy enough to understand but strikingly deep. He went up an octave if he was very passionate or singing but otherwise it was like riding a wave of warm molasses. The closest deep voice in the house now is Henry, followed by Caleb.

Princess, you need to wake up. You need to get up and do things. You can't hide under the blankets all day. 

I don't know if it's in the present or if I'm reliving a memory. All I remember is that I was stubborn and he knew how to goad me into doing things. He would state a fact (usually untrue) and I would leap to prove him wrong. Lochlan always said that was an unhealthy way of forcing someone to comply but if anyone was a professional insubordinate, it would be Loch. 

I roll over and off the bed. I don't know where Ben is but I hear the shower. When Ben doesn't have meetings or medical appointments he sleeps halfway into the morning now, since mid-January or so but I like to think he actually does it to keep me company because this is a place I rarely leave now. I cheek my pills, they're in an old pill bottle under the top of the headboard. I don't sleep, contrary to Jacob's (and Ben's) observations. I do sometimes put on a face and go and hang out, like with Daniel a couple of days ago, but otherwise I live in pajamas, I watch Netflix and I swallow back as much panic as I can overnight only to drown the moment I'm distracted. I know the big meds are coming. I can see them from here. I hear the train and see the smoke on the horizon. Lochlan only lets time go to a certain point before he calls in the seriousness because he doesn't enjoy peering into the darkest holes to look for me and he certainly can't be content to look the other way. That isn't in his DNA any more than listening to orders is. 

Is that healthy? I don't know.  I see no irony. He tries. I fail. He is ultimately responsible because I'm not even allowed to start an online candy subscription, as it is technically a legal contract and guess who is not a legal adult? 

The story of my life. 

*sad laughter*

But I'm up and I'm clean and in jeans and Cole's sweater and somehow if this is better than bed then I wait patiently for Jacob/Lochlan's argument on precisely why.

The faceless princess.

Booked a vet appointment, an appointment to get my Driving license renewed and then I went to see how far they were booking in advance for the full Class 5 license for Henry and discovered he has to wait another year to take it, as it's a full two years between the Novice license he got last spring (one step up from a learners, he can drive alone with a big green N on the back of the vehicle and there are restrictions on the numbers of passengers, and the Class 5 which is full and unrestricted and best yet, no magnets to lose/forget about/scratch the paint/be stolen. Also it's a damn prize for him at this point as none of his friends have more than a learners, save for one, and right now that friend does all the driving mostly because Henry doesn't love to drive but he loves to ride along. 

Then too soon I looked for T4s and T4As and T2022s and whatever the hell else I need but as I said everyone has til the end of this month to get their things to me and then I will do my best. Until then I guess I am off the hook for taxes, which is sort of nice as a reprieve, though I also like to have it all over with. 

The windchill has it at minus eight right now but the sun is shining so, so bright.  I head next door where Daniel is anxious to give me a winter weather pampering skincare treatment. Or something. I don't know but I love spending time with him so off I go.

***

Daniel is reading out instructions and outcomes and I sit in the makeup chair in their gorgeous big bathroom while he puts scary things on my face and laments the hilarity that I've never had girlfriends and Bailey (my older sister) is very out of touch and so I ignore basic beauty standards most of the time and revert to whatever the boys do because they are all very fastidious about hygiene and appearances, truth be told. 

Albeit in a super-contrived, totally casual way. 

(snort)

He's doing a glycolic acid peel and tells me that in a couple of days my skin will start peeling but just to do a little moisturizer over it and not pick at it. 

Um. WHAT? Why would you put acid on my face?

It's not that kind of acid. 

You just said after forty-eight hours my face will melt off. Jesus Christ, Dan. 

No I did not and this is a basic exfoliation that everyone uses once a month. 

What's wrong with my facecloth? 

It can't get deep down into your pores. 

What's wrong with my pores?

They get dirty. 

No, they don't. I wash my face. 

With what? 

Soap. Duh. 

He actually screams in falsetto gay. I love it so much. Never use soap on your face! 

What do I use then? 

Cleanser. 

Like....soap.

Didn't you used to buy skincare from Sephora? 

It was all greasy or creamy and I never felt clean so back to soap. I tried though.

What do you use? 

Rosewater spray and garnier eye bag cooling gel stuff. Lip stain. 

That's it? 

That's my whole routine. OH and I use hairdressing oil when I get flyaways or static.

Right. Can't forget that. Well. Should we go shopping or go to a spa? 

No. 

Whyyyyyyyy Bridget. 

I hate being touched. 

He bursts out laughing and winks at me. Such tiny lies. 

No. Like massage or pedicures or haircuts. Don't touch me. You guys are fine though. 

Then I have to be your esthetician. 

I'm never putting acid on my face again. The only thing I have going for me is my face and now it's going to slide off in the sun on Thursday. What will I do now? 

I told you the steps. 

Right. Moisturize! That will fix everything. 

It will though! You'll see!

Evil definitely didn't die tonight and probably won't any time soon.

Yesterday was crystal shopping and Newfoundland fried chicken and a run to donate some stuff that was languishing unused, like redundant snowboarding gear and jackets. So many jackets, some brand new. Also winemaking supplies as we just do small gallon batches now as it's a smaller footprint that way and easier to control quality outcomes. 

Productive for a long week. 

And last night was my movie choice so of course I picked Halloween Kills. 

Save for any of the scenes inside the hospital and that fucking Tommy (who still can't act, after watching Anthony Michael Hall in thirty years worth of movies) it was perfect, though the back and forth between James Jude Courtney and Nick Castle playing Michael left me clearly understanding who was who by the way they walk. Nick is larger and walks with purpose in a menacing way. Jude looks like he's finessing every move, a serial killer Sinatra and it's distracting and almost amusing save for the fact that everyone's screaming. 

A solid 9/10. Poor Haddonfield. They never can catch a break.

Duncan fell asleep during the absolute loudest of the screaming, his head in my lap and Ben followed shortly thereafter against Lochlan's shoulder just as the plot was going into overdrive. I didn't even feel tired once.

Nothing to report.

My phone woke me up to let me know the Queen has Covid. But of course she's going to keep working because God forbid she take a damn day off. At 95. After 70 years ruling over the monarchy. 

I wonder if that's how I know I'm royal. Because I think I got Covid over Christmas and still hosted a big holiday. Don't worry. I was the last to get it, as everyone else was sick first even as I tried my best to stay safe and make people isolate and stay away (MY KINGDOM MY RULES) and still it didn't work and it's not like we can get tested or could have been tested because my province said no tests for the public to use at home and if you've been fully vaccinated just stay home and get better. So we'll never know and sometimes Schrodinger's plague is nice because we can just weaponize denial, as always.

It's Sunday but Jesus didn't come. He probably has Covid too and that's fine. We weren't going to visit him today because Sam is still off and we go to support Sam moreso than anything else and Sam ministers to the point so thoroughly that no one feels the need to worship offsite. Also the sun is shining but it's supposed to rain so I had hopes of that cozy weekend continuing ad infinitum. It would have been so lovely. According to the weather it still is supposed to be awful overnight and that pleases me as when everyone is off and home and tucked away it's when I am at my happiest. 

I had a wonderful day yesterday. Tattoos and burgers and random dance parties. The tiniest of walks with the dog, who can't go very far and I slept in an extra couple of hours and today I feel a little more in control. 

That's so nice. Sounds dumb but if you only knew me.

Okay but-

(This is your Bridget on four hours of sleep. Thanks, August. Well, I mean hell yes, thank you, August.)

What are you doing? 

Researching brain tumors. 

Why? 

The headaches, Locket. And now my eyes are super-sensitive to light suddenly and they burn by the end of the day and I'm waking up every morning with headaches again. 

It's stress. 

It never stops though. And I look up 'eyes sensitive' and I have like every symptom on this list. I'm dizzy all the time, my hearing is gone. My eyes hurt. My head hurts. My eyes have gotten much worse over the past few years. My whole mood has gone to shit. Look at this-

I'm not going to dignify your whim this morning, Peanut. You're fine. You've been saying this for decades and we've just had a long bout of stress-

Some of the tumors are slow-growing, you know. Someday you're going to find out I was right. 

So what should we do? 

I need a head transplant. Clearly it's the safest option. 

Where do we find another Bridget-head? 

At the cheese farm. 

What? 

Long story I told Dalton about a cheese farm and how it was the best place to raise herds of cheese free-range. But now I have to add a patch of back-up heads. I wonder if they need full sun-

Oh my god. Tell me all about it. 

Over dinner. It's a very long tale. 

But if you can remember it it means no tumor. 

Hope you're right. 

5 4 3 2 1.

Where is he right now for you? 

I don't know. Maybe a little snappish. I lick sugar off my fingers and turn the page of my book as he gets up to go make us coffee and croissants. I brought over a whole tray of chocolate ones. If I leave them at home PJ will just eat them and then lament the comfort level of his jeans waistband. The bed sways gently on the ropes. The big gooseneck lamp on this side is casting a warm light on such a dim rainy day and I've been here since fiveish. I couldn't stay home. Couldn't be outside. Didn't dare duck into Caleb's wing or anyone else's for that matter and I couldn't get Lochlan to wake up enough to understand the gravity of my panic in a meaningful way. He spends his life sleeping with one eye open and after a fashion he will eventually crash. Don't we all. I can't fault him for that. I have a whole team here and I need to be more proactive in utilizing it. 

August comes back with a coffee cup and saucer, placing it on the night table. He doesn't bring me a second croissant. One is lots. I'm getting spoiled and I'm getting the third degree too. He's got a gift for being charming and stern at the same time but in a totally different way from Caleb. 

Thank you. 

Chocolate in the sheets. 

I'll strip the bed before I go. 

Leave it. I like your perfume. 

I'm not wearing..oh. I get it. He is snappish too but out of loneliness, not from a lack of privacy or understanding. 

He's in here. I tap my head. It's dark and I locked the door. So you can sound the alarm, I guess. 

I'm not going to do that. 

How come?

He's under control. 

For the moment. 

Sometimes it's by the moment that you live. By the day. Like the program. 

They should have one for this. 

They do. 

It doesn't work for everyone. 

No, some people just don't have the luck with it. 

That's me. No-luck Bridget. 

You can have some of mine, then, to see you through. 

You have some luck today?

You're here, so yes, I definitely do.

1,2,3, let's burn.

What a week. I did nothing except let my anxiety run free, unchecked. Now I know what Lochlan would go through when he would give me free reign to run the fields between shows or walk the beach for hours in the moonlight, something I miss dearly but we can't really do it here. The breakneck staircase sees to that. Caleb wanted to build something safer. An elevator. Or carve out some of the backyard, losing real estate to make for a more gradual decline but we decided that was too super-villainy (even for him) so we did not. 

I opted not to do a lot of things. We didn't grocery shop. We could live for months on what's in the house and the deep freezers and sometimes it's good to just not. I opted not to worry about paperwork. I actually did some taxes, today in fact. I put on Ateez really loud (this week I like Answer best) and organized all my paperwork. I made a huge sloppy martini with three olives and then I made no apologies to go along with it. I swore at Lochlan and he laughed in my face, lovingly. 

You're too sweet for me. I put my hands against his cheeks.

I think you've got that backwards. I get a kiss on the nose for my trouble. Couldn't get rid of him if I tried. I stopped trying years ago. 

But it did end okay. Caleb did the fending off. The attack. The guarding. The vicious showing of the teeth to the world and I came in at the back, holding up the lantern, showing it was only me and people would do whatever I needed. It was a long week but I asked for help and I got it. I loathe doing it and I did it because Lochlan asked me too. Hoping this coming week will be better. Have to burn those pajamas first.

I couldn't do today so I put on fresh Hello Kitty pajamas, poured a hot cup of coffee, brushed my teeth and left my phone on DND. I sent Caleb out in front of everyone who came at me, aggressively or otherwise and I hid like a small child in a basket of clean laundry while the wolf did my bidding against the dark. Sometimes you need a wolf instead of a magician. Illusions are better than everything else but trust me, results are good too. He is a Devil in the streets too, you know and so who better than to fix everything I broke while in my panic of getting used to living differently. A new hole opened and we have to remember to go around this one too and some days..

You just forget.

Too today. May it be short and sweet.

Can you imagine. It's 2022 and some poor public health officials had to announce they were banning DANCING. I mean, what in the Footloose-bullshit small-town decision is that? But at the same time I don't go clubbing but when I did, let me tell you. 

I might have died for not being able to dance. 

Dramatic but true. And now I have to go watch Footloose again but honestly I am completely caught up in Hometown Cha Cha Cha now and so it's going to have to go to the back of my list.

(I'm for mandates if it keeps people out of the hospital. All for them.)

Also I called the shop and the parts are in and they are working on my Jeep now. Do I believe them? I want to. Hopefully my luck is now turning a tight circle. I hate not being in control. Maybe it'll be ready before the end of the week. I lament how lucky I am, as someone told me a story last week that they read about someone who worked in a forge and if you fall into the molten metal crucible they actually have a pole and will push you under, out of kindness/mercy since if you survive there will be little left. 

That horrified me and it stuck with me and I felt selfish and bougie for complaining about one of my cars being in the shop too long. 

Henry pointed out that I'm allowed to have problems, I'm allowed to vent or be stressed. Since I am mindful of others' hardships it's not vacuous tone-deaf complaining. He's smarter than I will ever be, that's for sure and that's all the gratitude I need for today. 

At least I can dance. It's like a Wednesday without the hump as we are over it.

Shhh. I think they forgot.

 Do you want oatmeal or a bagel for breakfast? It's not lost on me that PJ is doing that thing where you give your toddler the choice between two things and then they feel like they're calling the shots because otherwise they would just say they don't want anything or they want something that isn't available. 

Oatmeal, I guess. 

Big coffee?

Biggest you can find. Please.

He puts back the mug he had pulled out and finds the big BB8 two-hander for me. It's pouring rain. I did not want to leave Ben and Lochlan snoozing with the fire burning out and the sound of the heavy downpour against the windows but PJ and I have a longstanding coffee date in the kitchen every Monday at six-thirty where we go over my planner and sort out the week. This week maybe groceries but probably not. Hopefully my Jeep will be back (LONG STORY). Maybe someone will buy me dinner tonight. Maybe the rain will stop in time for a long walk and hopefully the house will magically clean itself but I drew the short straw for the week so the floors are mine to do. Maybe it won't be so bad. I want to glaze some pieces too to fire next week when the weather is better. I found the actual Olympics app where I can watch skating while I paint and I want to see Ruth on her day off as well. 

Also I need to make a big beef stew for tonight because it's also my night to do dinner but here is my ever-present keeper right-hand man, my unintentional but fiercely loyal ride-or-die fake husband/nanny to help like he never stops doing. He even managed to get rid of Caleb last evening with some completely intentional ego-blows that sent Caleb off to his wing because he had some paperwork he wanted to look over. 

Tax time hasn't even hit yet. Suddenly no one's dispersing forms until Feb. 28 and filing isn't open until the 22nd, I think and I'm not in any rush for once. 

That's where we are on a Monday, anyway. 

Barefoot in the yard.

On the slack line since it's still daylight after supper and it's nice out, two things that haven't happened simultaneously in MONTHS and I'm not letting the chance slip by, like my skills have since I'm not permitted to set this up near the pool or the garage. Ours is on a stand, about five feet off the ground and it's not like I could put it up anywhere else as the stands are well-anchored and the grass is soft when I fuck up. My focus is completely absent, my centre of gravity is missing after having children, I think and my drive outweighs my desire in spades as I want to retain the talents without doing the training. I need the training so here I am, daily when I can. My strength is waning horribly. Lochlan keeps his up. I get tired walking up a second flight of steps lately, further possible confirmation that I did get the virus before Christmas and have simply managed to white-knuckle through it the way I do through everything else. 

Neamhchiontach.

Ah. Distractions. 

What? I yell, thrusting my arms out to the sides. I can pretend I've got this, but only if I don't fall off. 

You're supposed to have a spotter so you don't breaking your little fucking neck out here. 

Lochlan knows where I am. 

The hell he does or he would be here or have sent me out with you. 

If you stand that close to me I can't do anything-

If you fall and land on your head you'll be doing even less. 

Nice. 

He's got his arms out like I am a cat in a tree, ready to jump. I ignore him and try to concentrate but it's pointless so instead I tuck my arms in and do a dramatic swoon, falling right where he was hoping I would. 

Oh. He smells like cedar, coffee and cilantro. Nice. He puts me upright, on my feet. 

See? Safe. 

With the devil? I highly doubt it.

If I could go back and change one thing it would be anyone stalling on a Netflix series before it's finished. Making me start it and wait months to finish.

What would you like to do today?

Dream-plans or actual plans?

Start with dream plans, then and we'll go from there. 

I want to buy those huge shearling couches and put them in place of all of our couches and beds. Every room. 

Okay, actual plans. Caleb laughs his rakish chuckle upon seeing my dream plans turned out to be fairly harmless but not achievable because shearling is too hard to clean so I would never actually do it. Not with a black cat in the house, anyway. 

Besides, our couches are all comfy and old and broken in hard. Whenever I sit on a brand-new couch anywhere I am stricken by how terrible uncomfortable it is. 

Maybe velvet, then. Velvet is never a bad choice for anything.

I can get behind that. 

Perfect. I'll make a list. 

Honestly if this were winter anywhere else a long drive down the seashore then back through the countryside/woods and then a hot dinner and a glass of wine and a movie but this is the west coast and it's going to be sunny and upwards of ten degrees and so it's all seashore all the time and then probably steaks on the barbecue for dinner and then we'll wrap up Lost in Space (hate it) and Lucifer (love it so much) and then finish getting hooked on Hometown Cha-cha-cha. We haven't even started the new season of Ozark yet but apparently we need to finish the rest first. I already bailed on Arcane. I just wasn't in the mood but at the same time it was interesting. I don't think we watch enough television and then I lose momentum. 

I relay all of this to Caleb and he points out I can always spend the weekend with him and it would be more to my liking. 

Oh I bet it would. More to his, I think he means.

Barometers.

Struggling with big pictures, small victories, optimism, faith and delibilitating self-doubt today. 

Yep, sounds like a Friday to me. Many good things, many bad things, many normal everyday things that are like mountains in the way of my path moving forward and all of it is just average to everyone but still a mountain to me. I understand perspective and I understand stress. I understand my anxiety and how it manifests as fear and I understand the sun on my face will fix fully half of it and a good nights' sleep the other. Hopefully I can pull off one or the other, if not both. The sun and sleep, I mean. I can't pull my face off. Well I could and underneath is a tiny shrieking mouse with nowhere left to hide. 

On the upside we have nachos. There's a new season of the English speaking Love Is Blind (as much as I loved the colombia version it was also a culture shock I never made it past and found it so distracting. Not even in a bad way, I just felt like they were all bad actors in the end) and Daniel and I have a sound plan to get hooked on Netflix K-Dramas this weekend if it kills us. 

So see? My mind is a rollercoaster and I'm not taller enough to qualify to ride the fucking thing.

The ghosts are all home. I gathered them up into a squad. I keep my eye on them. I childproofed my brain so they can't get into any trouble and within the chorus of laughter I learned it wouldn't work.

It's from Etsy. That's all I know.

I just noticed that Lochlan spent all of yesterday walking around with my big soft yellow scrunchie around his wrist. I look terrible in yellow, but I can't be deterred because it makes me think of spring and so every year or six I buy a soft yellow sweater and this year I knew better but PJ got me a huge pack of velvet scrunchies when I said I was never cutting my hair again and I constantly have it tied up in a knot or a big messy bun on the nape of my neck and the yellow one turned out to be that perfect shade of Easter-pale yellow I adore. 

Don't picture it with grey/white/blonde hair though. So awful. And don't picture it with red either. Even worse. But I took it off yesterday when we went to unplug the kiln (EVERYTHING WORKED) and it caught on my sleeve and flew to the floor and Lochlan bent to pick it up, and knowing I didn't want to put it on right that moment as my head was cold, the sun had already set and I put on my beanie to go across to the studio and so he put the scrunchie on his wrist and it remained there until the morning when he took it off and left it on the bathroom counter. I have a huge basket of scrunchies there. Every color and pattern you can imagine but mostly velvet or corduroy. Satin falls right off. I hate scratchy fabrics and twill for scrunchies. They have to be soft. I chucked all my hair sticks and claws and forks and combs and clips. All that's left is a small tin of bobby pins and this huge basket. 

Not that you asked, but those gestures of his are the ones that give me oxygen when I feel like I can't breathe at all.

Production princess.

I lay in bed with the pillows over my head while Lochlan performed the mother of all pep-talks this morning. He was determined to make sure that I got up today since I didn't really on Monday or Tuesday for that matter. Well, I went and had my shot on Monday morning but since then it's been a fog, a benign February malaise and a struggle to get moving. 

But I can't resist a reaction to his performance any more than he can ever resist giving one and so, lured by the promise of good coffee and some hot eggs and toast, I went and took a long shower. The rash is mostly gone. My arm is itchy. It's still sore and I have a headache stupidly swollen lymph nodes but I'm up now, with clean hair, dressed in warm leggings and a hoodie and a knitted hat, because my ears are cold and I can't make it stop. 

I went out with him and loaded up the kiln. First glaze firing at home. I'm so excited. He hates the setup and wants to see and easier, more permanent setup than wheeling it out of the studio, but for now it still works and on rainy days I will build while on sunny days I will fire. The worst weather will see me rest and while all of this goes down my mind floats a mutiny through to the open sea, easily passing through the rapids to where the fresh water meets the salt and wind, sails tattered, boards battered, nerves shot to hell. 

You made it! He exclaims triumphantly when I return to the house after heading back to the studio solo,  checking to make sure the cycle is complete and the kiln is now beginning the long impatient cooldown cycle before I can open it. The rule is a hundred and fifty degrees, no sooner. A rule I agree to because it's a time saver in the long run, and because any hotter and you risk ruining the whole load. 

I did. I get a kiss on the hat (forehead-adjacent) and a huge smile from him. First one all week.

Today the arm is more sore and now decorated with a pinprick rash, and my throat and head hurt so bad I've drunk a whole container of grapefruit juice in a day. Ben is telling me to sleep, Lochlan wants me to stay awake, Caleb just wants to see the meds keep coming so I don't bolt or hide or turn myself inside out. I wanted to sew some things and I wanted to watch a movie but I don't have the energy for either. I feel like I've lost control of my life and the only way to quell the panic comes in the form of a fistful of pills from Lochlan (or PJ or Caleb) every eight to twelve hours and then I have a little respite.

Or I'm allergic and the rash is from that and not the booster shot and I feel kind of dumb, as we seem to be a few short weeks away from dropping all the mandates, all the passports, all the requirements and I still think I want to be a recluse but then I also want to go to a concert or hell, eat a Monte Cristo in the booth at my favourite spot that makes them, since they add turkey and it's real turkey, not lunchmeat-turkey but I also liked grocery shopping at seven in the morning and I liked the excuse of just staying in. 

Maybe I should live in my bed. The hermit-starlet. The reckless recluse. The grieving little monster, always. 

Someone asked where I was and I suppose I should answer but I wasn't sure if they meant physically, emotionally or spiritually so maybe I shouldn't answer at all? 

Physically I'm lying in bed watching Vogue's 73 questions (every now and then I catch up) and the Olympic figure skating and playing Christmas Mansion 3, still hoping that by next Christmas my village is ready at long last. I should have started this game last April instead of after Halloween but I persevere. 

I'm so jacked out on pills I can't feel a thing. It's good, this. The alternative is feeling too much, too deep, too hard and I can't. Not strong enough. Will never be strong enough and I hate that things change. Just when you get comfortable. Just when you think you can take a breath some part of your life, your comfort-mechanism gets yanked out of your heart and there's a huge hole. A huge one, so big you fall in every time you take a step forward and you climb out and try again and the sunsets hurt and the sunrise is so hopeful until you remember and death is a horrible thing but it's the only certainty, ever and here it is again because I got too comfortable, I guess. 

I'll be okay, I just might not post or I might post all the time. The only promises I make are to those around me, as always. I was already in a hole of sorts. This fashioned a lid for the hole and I was already inside and it took days to crawl out. I pulled my sweater around me and went for my booster shot and they played Lady and The Tramp in the waiting room for fifteen minutes afterward but I couldn't think about it. They gave me another sticker and now my arm is sore. I've lost five pounds from ignoring everything Lochlan tries to get me to eat and I just want to know when this won't feel so awful. 

Don't worry. It wasn't one of my precious boys.

They said it was a phase.

(I used to call him Trey but that seems too familiar any more.)

Cole and I are lying on our backs in the gazebo, watching the clouds rolls in, bringing the wind and the rain post haste. My coffee cup is near my left hand, forgotten and cold. Bitter, like me. Bitter, like my bones pressed against the damp boards in an ache of February the likes of which I've never seen. 

Cole is quiet. I took away his mouth. Left some of the good parts so I could still see that his face was trying to break into a smile when he read my shirt this morning. 

It's pink with holographic pastel rainbow balloon letters. It says I LICKED IT SO IT'S MINE. I only wear it as a pajama shirt thanks to my hard rebound back to black and so it's paired with navy fleece joggers from Gap that shrunk somehow so Dalton gave them to me to wear and they fit perfectly.

Cole reaches over to me and touches my face as I close my eyes against the brightening sky. I don't flinch anymore when he does that. Right now I think if I could go back I would have met him eye to eye, hurt him right back, made sure he knew how it felt to be treated the way he treated me and taught me that was love. The way he let his brother continue to terrorize me even as I asked him if we could move away, if we could start over, if we could somehow get away from him and yet he followed and then they all did too, just to keep an eye. New cities every ten years, new streets to remember, new lives to fill and here he is, lying next to me on a cold hard floor touching me while I fight to make something hurt so I don't cave in. 

Bridge!

A voice from the right and I lift my head, looking through Cole to see Lochlan on the patio. His face. Can he see him too? Do I have to explain why Cole doesn't have a mouth? 

Come inside. No one's with you? Fucking hell. Come now. 

(Like a dog. Here, Bridget. Good girl.)

Cole laughs silently (I can tell by his eyes) and I push him off the cliff. He leaves the grey sweater behind and I stand up, pulling it up around me in the sudden chill, hit the button on the heater that still doesn't work to turn it off and obediently go inside, making sure that the rain soaks up my pants from the grass. Hitting every puddle, taking my sweet time, making him wait while I try to remember what I did with Jake. I think he's in the freezer. That or in the loft above the garage.

 Here, typing my little worn, split fingers around the edge of a gaping black hole, and trying not to fall in.

Bad men.

I still don't know what PJ's retaliation was because Batman decided to kidnap me and is pacing and texting Caleb nonstop all afternoon so that I cannot overhear (ha) his threats or maybe they're promises, I don't know. Batman is prone to some scary, violent tendencies in a way that never really touches me, and every now and then he'll stare lovingly at me or pull my hair back and look at my ear. Sometimes he squeezes my hand. Sometimes my shoulder. Other times he quickly walks out of the room. In any case, he's going for a world record, as Caleb will put his phone down and pretend he doesn't see messages when pressed, so the threats must be right frightening at this point. They've been typing furiously for hours. 

New Jake thinks it's amusing. He thinks I play them. He thinks this is the long con and I already told him he was right, though I have no need to con Batman. Batman is just lonely. Well, I mean they all are, but I have no reason to con Batman. He's been nothing but wonderful to me my whole life and while he tries to be hands off, he knows I have a ridiculous penchant, no, rather, a kink maybe, for downright intense men and that I don't always understand my own boundaries and I have a terrible understanding of love and affection and a horrible addiction besides the axe to grind that I drag behind me because it's so heavy. 

Finally he hangs it up.

What would it take, Bridget? He says it softly. I think I misheard. 

I think you all have scolded him lots, I return. 

What if I took over the finances for you and you banish him?

I'm not going to do that. It's a whisper directly into his face and I flinch when his expression shifts so fast from kindness to rage and he turns and fires his phone into the french doors and yells, at last. 

Why the hell not?! Does he have something over you? Now is the time to tell me. Something has to be done. 

Leave him alone. Please. For me. 

Reaching a point where that's not going to be an option for much longer, Princess. He invokes the P-word and I shut down. They've weaponized the most treasured term of endearment I have ever had, twisting my fairy tale into the dark legend it's now become. 

He hurts people, Bridget. He hurt you. Multiple times. Thousands of times, probably. He hurt Ben. He's hurt all of us by what he's done and the only reason he exists is because you've built him a guilded candy cage in your mind and we can't break through it. 

Right so mind your own. 

That's it. You just going to let him chip away. A little piece of Bridge every time until there's nothing left. 

What a way to go. I head to the door, stop to pick up his phone which I bring back to him, and then pause with my hand on the knob. I'm going home. Touch him and I banish all of you, instead. 

This isn't going to be up to you, honey. 

Yes, it is.