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.