Angels losing sleep.

(Welcome to Bridget's brain 2.0. Now with footnotes! Because I love to spoil you.)

I am now the proud co-owner of a california king-sized bed. Possibly the Biggest Bed in the World.

Oh, the luxury. Say it with me folks, ooooooh.

Well, maybe save it until next week, when it's actually delivered and Jake takes his life into his hands trying to get that giant bed up the 100 year old staircase. If I knew when king sized beds were invented, well, the house was most likely built before then.

But it's wonderful to know most of our sleeping issues will soon be over.* We're not doing so hot in that department. The queen-sized bed is too small. It was okay for him by himself but not both of us. Everytime Jacob moves he wakes himself up and then I wake up and well, it takes hours to get back to sleep because sometimes when we wake up we're lucid enough to remember that we're together. In bed. The only clothing between us consisting of my pink camisole. Kids are asleep. And Christmas never ends in this house anymore. Or something.

He's a free climber in his sleep. I half expect him to show up to bedtime with his nalgene bottle and a chaulk bag. Spiderman. Tormented. Something. Not like I had a lot of experience in this area but do people really move around this much while they're asleep? I don't move at all. Well, sometimes I have one of those giant just-about-asleep twitches in which you feel like you're falling off something, but otherwise I don't move. Not an inch. A statue.

Jake? Never. stops. moving. He throws himself around like he's scaling rock faces. He takes me with him. I think God maybe put us together so we could touch each other all the time and leave everyone else the hell alone. Because when he moves, he moves me.

We start off with Jake flat on his back, his arms pulling me close. I usually lie on my side and attempt to put my head somewhere besides his armpit. He lies on the diagonal. I squish my arms in between us. Within about an hour he turns on his side to face me. An hour later he shoves me up toward the corner of the bed and kicks his legs out across the middle. Then he wakes up and kisses me like he hasn't seen me in weeks. Oh lord. Okay now skip forward an hour (shhhh) he still has his arms around me and he's got the entire bed to himself and I'm hanging off the edge, the only thing keeping me off the floor is his embrace and his hand is tangled in my hair and oh shit if I fall this is going to hurt like hell. Eventually I get pulled back in close and he does a timed choreography in which he shifts from breathing on my head to facing the other way to face down in the mattress with his legs splayed out scaling that imaginary building, me tucked under him in his arms like he's running away with the treasure of a lifetime.

I'm surprised we haven't had a horrific Bridget-squishing incident yet.

In his dreams he is taking me away from the monsters. God bless him. Jacob may be the most laid-back person you will ever meet but he is not relaxed, even in his sleep. He insists it's been going on for years and he does sleep through most of it, not a big deal.

Riiiight.

Wait a minute. In his dreams he's been saving me for years? Oh my dear god someone bronze this man.

The reality is that no one is sleeping. I wake up while he's in the middle of rearranging where I was sleeping just fine and it's very disconcerting.

I'm moving! Fuck! What the hell is going on?! And then I realize I'm in the bedroom and the quilt is the same and the clock says whatever time is more than an hour ago and I look and Co...I mean Jake, phew okay yes it's Jake and I can relax and I am safe and great now I feel weird and I need to snuggle in closer because his strong tanned arms represent my life and ahh now I can get back to sleep no wait he's awake and we're just going to reaffirm everything and taste possibly every happiness we can make right here in the dark long hours of this night. Every night.

So the plan is to hope and pray that the extra 48-square-inches of real estate on the new bed will fix all this. No, not the sex part you idiot. The being able to sleep at all.

*Now that I've written it out I have my doubts.

The crunchy ones, not the wet ones.

Henry came running this morning to tell me that there was a goldfish cracker fairy too. I would say he lives on goldfish crackers but he eats everything. Everything and asks for more. He outweighs Ruth by almost 10 pounds. And he loves to carry around a snack cup full of goldfish crackers that must be regularly refilled so that he can continue to play and snack his way through the day.

Goldfish crackers are the crack of the snack world. You're hooked from the first one. The other night we were watching music videos and I grabbed a handful of them, Henry had abandoned the bowl at last, and they were so yummy I went and got the box and ate the rest.

Oops.

Jake told Henry the fairy was yellow and she was tired from squeezing her big goldfish cracker-padded butt through the screen to get to more fishies.

Nice. He picked up more when he got the cake. Not sure if they're for me (oops I mean the goldfish cracker fairy) or for Henry. Since I do not have a big butt. I have no butt at all.

I'll be out of here around four, after I pick you up I want to stop in at the furniture store.

How come?

To look for a bed.

What's wrong with our bed?

It doesn't fit us.

It's your bed. What do you mean?

It's not long enough for both of us. I think we need a bigger mattress. Maybe one of the long kings.

For the long king? (snort)

Does everything have to be perverted, Bridge?

Yes, Jacob. It really does.

When you're happy and you know it.

The world's prettiest zombie. Night of the living Bridget. A pissed-off little baby bumblebee. A totally buzzing, vibrating, half-dead, almost perpetually asleep stinging ball of total mellow. Ahahaha. Mellow peeps. New for Easter. They only come in blonde.

These are all the descriptions of me that man is flinging across the room. I'm glad someone's laughing. I'm squinting one eye shut and just trying not to plant my face in the laptop while I write. At least he made some coffee. Maybe I'll actually be awake after I finish it. Oh and the cake. He went and got a black forest cake and warmed up a piece for me. Because cake for breakfast isn't just in the movies. It's for the liquid Bridget-type aliens who took over my house. I looked in the mirror this morning and I laughed. Like a fucking maniac. The very first side effect of all these pills is the deep dark circles under my eyes. So fucking beautiful now.

My god, he really should run far far away. And take the kids with him so they get half a chance. I'm kidding. They went off with their little lunchpacks to playgroup today like they do every Wednesday. Clean, neat, color-coordinated and fiercely loved by both of us. I've got my shit together enough so that I can parent well and just fall apart on the side. It's a gift.

I'm just rattling around the house today amazed that life goes on, as it always does while I bounce from one round of knockouts to the next. There are few sure things in this life and for me we've gone well past death and taxes. The things that keep cropping up to keep us going: cake, hugs, laughter, coffee, normalcy, oxygen, love that we live on. New memories. Blessed new ones. Quick, fill me up and then the old ones will fade away forever.

Memories like cake for breakfast. Cake for the bee. Peep peep.

This is your brain on drugs. I could get used to this. oh and get this: up to six WEEKS to build up a tolerance with this. Lord. And I'm going to just let it all out so be prepared to be entertained. Or something.

Bridget the wayback machine.

I was going to write another big post but I got a link instead and I can't tear myself away.

So this post is brought to you by Nik Kershaw. Apparently I liked guys with big hair when I was 12. What's your favorite?

    near a tree by a river
    there's a hole in the ground
    where an old man of aran
    goes around and around
    and his mind is a beacon
    in the veil of the night
    for a strange kind of fashion
    there's a wrong and a right

Here.

I'm back, we're back, with some partial updates. As much as I can recall, my head is so full I may just write all goddamned day. And the internet always seems so gleefully happy when I'm at my lowest.

He came back before midnight sometime on Sunday night. I had fallen asleep on the porch swing and I woke up and Jacob was there with his head on the swing, staring at me, sitting on the floor. Watching me sleep. Stroking my hair, whispering things I never heard, again. His solace.

We didn't even say anything out loud, just kissed a long kiss good night and went to bed. Blessed sweet relief. Jake was back, we were back. Spoons. Still together, still working on getting through each hour. No promises were broken that night. He let his frustration get the better of him. It's okay. I forget he is human because he's super-human to me. A lot of people have told me when I write about him it comes out that he sounds critical and impatient. He's not. He's so loving you wouldn't believe it. He's got a very dry delivery with his offhand comments that just doesn't translate to this page.

Yesterday morning I squeezed in an emergency session with Claus (doctor/therapist who looks like Santa, remember?). We're going to start the very scary immersion/exposure therapy methods. Not for the physical fears because those Cole mostly took with him when he died. This is for the brainwashing, because I'm still pushing Jake away when the doubts creep in, I have this bizarre allegiance to Cole that isn't going away. I'm not sure why one fear would go away without the other but Claus was quick to point out that a 5-minute uncharacteristic attack is far removed from years of subliminal or forced compliance. So, no, I don't love Cole anymore. That is proof enough to me that I'm not crazy. And it's proof to Jake that we're not fighting a losing battle and that we haven't gotten this far for naught. Proof that it's also not just about us and he has to have just a little, okay a lot more patience. Cole really fucked me up and I had no idea. I got another label too, to add to my bouquet: depression. Oh joy. I expected that one first.

The concessions come in here. The medications are upped again and this time I actually have to take them. Not once in a while but every day. Three times a day. No alcohol, None. No driving. No operating stoves and power tools.

I'm going back to zombie-world, my friends.

Claus insists that half my problem is that I'm completely unmedicated and using alcohol and the fear and the unreasonableness just take over. If I can quash it with meds eventually the good feelings will stay on top and that's when I make the most progress. Suppressing the demons will suffocate them while I get a whopping dose of constant overlapping psychotherapy. Unreal. I would like to resurrect Cole and kill him again. Oh good, Bridget, use your anger! Right now I've been mostly running around completely unsupported drug-wise because I never gave the pills a chance to build up and start working. I'm so sorry. Claus thinks it's remarkable that I haven't launched myself off a high bridge. Yeah, you're not alone there. But doesn't this mean I'm doing alright? No, he said.

I'm quashing the pregnancy rumors permanently here because birth control is an absolute must with this level of medication. Not to mention I have no business trying to have a baby right now because I can barely look after Ruth and Henry, I can't look after myself at all and life is on hold and no matter how hard I try I can't ignore the fact that this really is going to take a long time to undo and fix and strengthen. It's a long long road back to healthy, says Claus, and he is right.

This morning we had our first extended couples' therapy session since our big fight in the office late last week. Which mostly feeds off the individual sessions because we're trying to work on finding patience and acceptance in all this. Continuing to hold each other up, most importantly during the hard parts, when we need each other the most. Love seems to be the easiest part of this and we're going to lean heavily on it to help strengthen the rest-the other facets of a relationship people often forget or ignore. The foundation, goddamit.

So to summarize. Jacob is not going to push me and be impatient, if he can help it. I'm going to take my pills when I'm supposed to and give up the temporary sporadic euphoria for the permanent contentment, because I want it more. We're not going to fail each other. And no more bourbon-soaked sad love song fests for Bridget. I might really miss those.


   Tell me you're not alright
    And you needed to come home
    To tell me you're not okay
    And you needed me all along
    Since you've been gone
    I need to hear from you
    Since you've been gone

He took what was left.

I can't even believe this.

After about the fourth "Are you pregnant?" call I received Sunday afternoon I finally turned off the phone. I was content to play outside with the kids in the shade and not talk to anyone else. I get so tired of talking to everyone all the time, sometimes I just need a break.

Not a good excuse. Jake came home early. He was concerned because my phone was off. I explained that I needed a break and he pushed me. He said he was trying to make life easier and what did I need? I said I needed time. Because this was a rough trip to hell and back and I really need to catch my breath. I said I needed to figure out that Cole was dead in my heart, or I wouldn't get past this moment.

Oh, that was not the right thing to say.

Jake asked me what I meant, and where my confidence went. I spat back that maybe I still loved Cole, and life was vastly different than it ever was in April when I thought Cole and I had settled into an acceptable level of closeness. We were doing sort of almost okay. Not healthy by any means, but okay.I know it was my denial but it was livable. And Cole worked every day, all day, far into most nights, I had all the time in the world to charm Jacob and hang out and be the centre of attention, the life of the party. My ego was the size of Jacob's beautiful heart.

What the hell am I now, huh, Jake?

The preacher's girlfriend, the poor widow. She got her hand slapped hard. She sold her soul to the devil and paid a price so high she's still not fully one hundred percent sure she can cover that bill. There is no ego left to be had here. Sorry but once I finish reeling from the blows then maybe I can find the girl who used to live here. She's around here somewhere.

I got all this fucking baggage out there and I think he heard one thing.

I. still. love. Cole.

Oh, ouch. Jake slammed his fist down on the table and scowled. I jumped a thousand feet into the air and screamed at him to never do that again. He got up and came around the table and he put his hand down to my face and ran his fingers down my cheek and then he got on his knees and put his head in my lap. He held my knees and didn't move but I could feel him shaking so hard. Finally he looked up and his eyes were so red. He shook his head and told me I might be thinking this is all a big mistake or a dream or hell (he choked on that word, I think that's what he said) but for him it's worth every difficult moment and if we've gone through all this and we're not closer and I'm still clinging to the wrong guy then he doesn't know where to go from here.

Then he told me when I had an answer to let him know. And that he was going to step away now and let me stand on my own two feet so that I could make this decision on my own.

I shook my head. I think I was in a full-blown panic but all I remember is trying to keep a death grip on his hand so he wouldn't go. I remember yelling at him that he made me a promise and he couldn't walk out now. Oh, he did. He walked out backwards, tears and bitterness staining his face and he told me that his promise stands, and when I'm done loving the monster then maybe I would give the good guy a real chance at last.

He did it knowing full well I still had to get through the rest of the afternoon and evening alone with the kids. So even though I wanted to cave into newfound grief and fall apart I couldn't and he knew that and he used it.

I want to hate him and I can't.

Now it's 10 pm and I'm stubborn and so afraid all at the same time. He left 8 hours ago. I don't want to call him but I don't know where he is. What if his phone is off? What if he was just tired of all this and changed his mind? What if he doesn't come back?

What if I am pregnant?

No, I can't be, I felt so much better today. Well, I did. Now I just feel sick. And I'm stuck like this. I can't drink, I can't fall apart because there's no one here to take over. I don't want to call any friends after blowing most of them off today already. I'm humiliated and I'm scared and I'm sick to death with worry. There was one person in this entire world that I could open my soul to, tell every last secret to, and depend on to catch me when I fell, one person that I love without question or hesitation and I don't know what to do right this minute because I don't think I've ever been in this position before.

I don't want to be alone.

Heatstroke barbie, or, I was wrong.

Jacob read my post from last night and would prefer me to clarify his doll comment because he says it makes him look like a jerk. I thought it made him sound like a jerk at the time he said it last night, frankly, but my mood issues were explained later.

What he meant when he said I looked like a doll was that I looked perfect. I wasn't withered from the oppressive heat, like everyone else. He thought that was strange. I wasn't sweating. I was uncharacteristically cranky too.

I didn't sweat at all, well not enough to cool off. Which meant our evening out was cut short because he again noticed that my skin was far too cool for last night's heat and suggested we duck out for water. We went outside and I was so weak I couldn't open the cap on the water bottle so we quickly drove home.

Where I promptly threw up.

So much for that perfect doll image.

Dolls do not vomit. And they don't get heat exhaustion.

And no, for crying out loud I am not pregnant. Half the wedding guests think I could be. Isn't that fun? Yes, I think so too.

I'm sufficiently better this morning. Jacob wants me to stay home and rest instead of going with him to church but that will most likely just add fuel to the blazing rumors so I think I'm going to go. With lots of water to sip.

Then I will spend the rest of the day indoors. Where it's cool.

I really thought he didn't like my dress.

Wedding barbie.

Huh.

I'm killing time waiting for the kids to eat and for Jacob to get ready since we leave in an hour for a wedding. I curled my hair and pinned it back and used my new Maybelline XXL mascara (which is insane, I can't say enough) and my candy pink lipgloss, and I have a cute pink fluffy little dress on, and my pink fuck-me shoes (that would be the 4 inch stilettos), because otherwise Jake gets a crick in his neck if we dance at all.

I was feeling pretty cute until Jacob walked past me and did a double take and said Christ, Bridge, you look like a doll.

I briefly debated switching to black high heels and a black dress but then I figured he might tell me I looked like a whore.

Yeah, it's really hot tonight and we're getting along smashingly.

Sweet to taste.

So I don't forget it for Tuesday:

To our therapist, who thinks I shouldn't try to draw power from my sexuality: Say nothing until you have witnessed the most erotic lap dance/striptease ever performed. Because someone (name starts with J) left the Hysteria album on, and Pour Some Sugar on Me came on, and I couldn't resist. The only thing missing was strobe lights.

He remained inarticulate for the next few hours. It's okay though, we weren't doing much talking. And he has a new healthy respect for me. And my strange and wonderful talents. I burned the chicken but I give a nice lap dance. Hey, the perfect girlfriend.