What was once a comfort now seems a curse. Jacob would have hated this life for sure (and he did, hence the knees-bent and arms outstretched swan dive, or so I imagine whenever I close my eyes) and I'm not sure we like it any more than that. Days are spent in gratitude and deep conversational therapy. Ideas are deployed, tested and then evaluated for change or success. Every day ends in a post-mortem of discussing events or rough moments. I eat too much. I don't sleep enough. They let me drink, if I so choose. I want to finish a book, get lost in a movie, or begin a painting but I can't. It's far too cold to get messy with throwing on the wheel, as my clean-up routine involves the house by the garage and the gravel side parking in the driveway as I refuse to be the guy who fucks up the sink in my studio with clay.
So I am aimlessly wander, a tortured soul on earth mimicking the footsteps of my angel in heaven.
I asked nicely to be taken off these pills. It's been *almost* a year. The answer came back with a resounding denial. I researched stopping them myself and found out you can taper by opening them up and counting out the little balls. I opened one and found discs. Six of them. I took three and had a bad day. I won't do that again. Maybe they will decrease the dose when we hit one year. I've missed a lot of joy in that one year and a lot of writing and creativity too but I've also not had an anxiety shadow looming over me. I've had a bunch of panic attacks. I've had breakthrough fear but mostly I've just withstood and withdrawn, a capable tiny woman in a silent world who hasn't been a handful in a long time and now grows the risk of becoming an afterthought, a warm breeze through an open window, a less sparkling version of She who I once was, flaws and all. Is it better? No. It's like I am the best cup of coffee you've ever had and suddenly someone appears at your table and begins to pour an entire pitcher of milk into it, until it overflows the rim of the cup and begins to bloom across the tablecloth and drip onto the floor. Is it still coffee? Vaguely. Can you still drink it? I guess so.
Is it good?
No.
I tell this to Lochlan and he laughs and kisses my forehead.
Is it necessary? Yes, Peanut, it is. You're still here. I promise.
But we know about Lochlan's promises and his bold reassurances that he has no way to guarantee, let alone fulfill. We know he has the want to console the crying child but can he? I shake my head.
A facsimile.
I can barely tell.
A perfect clone.
Hardly, Bridge. The words come with a knife edge, suddenly as his patience is cut clean through and he changes the subject. Let's go see Ruth today.
Please.
And get some sleep tonight.
I shrug. I can guarantee one, just not the other. Sleep is for people at peace. Death is for people at war.
I know what you're thinki-
No, you don't.
We're not at war. It's peacetime.
If you say so.