1:11

I'm going to take a poll now.

Which would you take for a cold? Jack Daniel's or Nyquil?

I'm leaning towards Jack. Because I know how long I have before it wears off, I know what it will do (mainly dull the pain and help me sleep) and frankly medicine scares the heck out of me.

Remember who you're talking to before you vote.

And thanks. Either way it won't be taken until 8 pm or so.

You know you want the livesickdrunkblogging.

Bye, Summer.

Today was our annual farewell to summer event, complete with my seven present honorary big brothers (well six big brothers and one big husband now), all of whom spoil the kids madly. They came together and made up and let the water flow under the bridge despite a hell of a lot of upsets and tension over the summer. Jacob, Ben, Loch, Mark, Chris, PJ and Robin swallowed the issues they have with each other and planned a gorgeous day, starting with breakfast and church and then heading to the fair where we screamed our way through enough roller coasters, Ferris wheels and bumper cars to make even Henry declare that he had had enough and wanted to go home. The day was capped off with dinner out and then with cake and tea on my patio and then everyone mercifully bowed out and Jacob and I could get the kids into warm showers and fresh clean beds.

This is exactly the way you are supposed to feel at the end of a fun, hot summer day: dirty, filthy, sweaty, full and smiling from ear to ear, your voice hoarse from screaming "YES!" when the roller coaster operator asks you if you're ready to go around one more time. Because the louder you scream, the faster the coaster will go, or so it seems. A metaphor. If you surrender to your surroundings, you will ultimately enjoy yourself. So true.

We are slightly sunburned, thoroughly worn out and uncharacteristically content. The issues with Ben and Mark are resolved, for now. Cole's absence noted but unmentioned, as it always was because he was always working and rarely went. Another milestone of the 'special day' variety under our belts, emerging as new memories. The fear that next year Ruth and Henry might be too tall to ride some of their favorite little-kid rides.

Jacob and Loch getting checked out by the gay dads. Love it.

Bridget getting checked out by all the young dads, taking their life into their own hands as I walked, surrounded by my muscular pseudo-brothers, fighting for the blue cotton candy and trying to keep my hair from sticking to my lip gloss on the fastest rides.

At one point I stopped walking and tried to glue the memories into place so that they will be there when I go to find them later on. I really like these new ones.

Bridge! You coming?

Bridge!

Come on, sweetheart.

Princess! Let's go.

Come on Mommy!

I think I smiled so big some part of my old life broke off and drifted away.

Yeah guys, wait up. I'm coming.

I left my heart in Aspotogan.

The post from last night may be deleted. Much as I despise deleting my writing, that entry reaches a whole lower level of hell that I rarely visit anymore. I'm okay now. Believe it or not.

Instead, let me regale you on this beautiful Saturday morning- go google pictures of Aspotogan, where I really really wish I was right now, because it's so beautiful, peaceful and simply gorgeous. Wait until the leaves turn color.

Eggshells to walk on (unspoken history).

(I don't even know where this came from, so just don't read it. Bridget's meaningless words in an attempt to get through another day. I almost titled this post Suicide Bride, but I didn't want to scare anyone. I was flawed long before my (first, and wow does it feel weird to have to differentiate) husband kicked the crap out of me, just so you know. In case you just fell into my universe and thought I was having trouble letting go, or something.)

Jacob is holding his breath and not straying far out of reach lately. I noticed that.

He's worried and it's needless.

Sort of like my fragility now is essentially needless. Pills are not going to help what's wrong with me, I don't care what the doctors say. The fragility is...uninvited, to say the least.

And it never ventures far.

I hate myself.

There are things I don't write about that would leave you with a skewed impression of me. I'm not such a strong person. I can pretend until the cows come home, but it really isn't there. There's something wired into my brain that allows for little comfort. I'm sad alot. Despair rules my moods and I fight tooth and nail with it every single day. Depression. Chemical. Not so much psychological. Sometimes both. Sometimes so difficult I can't take it anymore. I operate with a coerced, superficial effervescence because I have no choice. It's the only way I can get through the day.

And Jacob is the only person who doesn't run screaming from me when I'm at my worst.

And when I found the bottom of my soul once, he was there. We don't talk about it. He pulled me out of a crimson bathtub and put his bare hands on my wrists to try and stop the bleeding. He called 911 and wrapped me in towels for dignity. He cried and he screamed at me to stay with him, not to die now, not today, not on this day.

I heard him. I heard his voice break and I have never heard him sound like that since.

He blamed Cole every step of the way and he sat by my side in the hospital every moment that he could be there. In those horrible moments he became everything I would ever see in front of me.

Surrounded by death indeed. It's an easy out for a tortured one. A way to escape the pain without wondering when it will return. A difficult acceptance for those who don't know what it's like and an incredible burden that I never asked Jacob to take on, but he did anyway.

Cole made fun of me. He cracked jokes and made ultimatums. He goaded me to try again, if I had the courage, he once dared. I demurred. Jacob was like a light. Only concern. Fear that eventually waned slightly, enough for him to relax a little but if you think the memories ever elude him then you are mistaken. He walks like a haunted man, old in a way beyond his thirty-five years that speaks of vitriolic reflections.

I did that to him and for that, I hate myself even more.

I have made him to feel like this and I'll probably do it again and I don't even know why.

Happiness isn't enough. It should be but I don't see that. God doesn't look after me the way he should. Jacob tries and he is so close and yet he's miles away from me. Probably the closest one though.

But not now. When? I don't know. When it gets too hard. When the kids won't be as touched from my absence, ever the logical girl I remain, yours truly. When I can't feel like there's ever going to be another bright flash. When there's no chance left to climb out of the hole I was born into. I really never expected to see myself make it to this age. Jacob is determined that I will live forever. I want to, I really do. Those are the moments I hold onto dearly, with both hands and my whole heart.

There's your mess. There is what's wrong with me. Clinically depressed. Wired incorrectly. A highly-functioning, albeit self-destructive permanent suicide risk because of something that I didn't cause. No answers and no help because this is how one lives under these circumstances.

It's just the way things are. It's why I stand in a mosaic of broken glass that everyone must cross to touch me, retreating quickly when it becomes excruciating. Watching from a safe distance.

It's why I answer the phone twenty five times a day and say I'm fine. It's why people stop in unannounced constantly and why when things are really bad I am never left alone, everyone swoops in to close ranks, why even when Jacob finds it all too much and takes off he's usually three blocks away or somewhere around the house, quietly trying to be here even when it's so hard.

It's why I won't wear hearing aids so that each day when I get tired of the attention I can tune out easily and blame something else.

I didn't hear that.

It's why Jacob took full responsibility for me a long time ago, stepping in and letting Cole off the hook for me. Why they were grudgingly close. Because Cole wasn't man enough to do what Jacob could, and Cole found that to be a gift because I am a burden. A few risky ventures along Jake's path to find his limits and finally coming to a place in which he chose not to be further than arms length, in case I needed him. I love him. I love him for loving me in spite of myself and choosing to wade further in instead of running away. I love him for saving me from myself and for protecting me from the monster that I am and the demons that chase me that no one else has ever seen. Some question that they exist at all. Those people aren't paying attention. I know.

Except for Jake. He has seen them and he no longer sleeps at night.

Why do I joke about it sometimes? It's all I've got. I can't lean on it as a label or I would no longer be here on earth. The blessings are abundant all around and yet the crushing sadness obliterates everything in it's path and I can't do anything about that. But you can bet when I speak of hanging off the gingerbread it's okay. It's when you're met with silence that you should address your concern. The worrisome times: when I stop writing, talking, listening at all.

It's why when I say I'm a mess it's because...well...I'm a mess. And I'll never know why. But as you can see I am doomed to fail. I don't know when or how, but I do know it's a sure bet. And no, I'm not making threats or promises or trying to predict the future, I'm simply explaining a little more about why certain things are the way they are. Why we struggle, why we hurry up and wait, why everything is a little more effortful or a little more obscure for us than for everyone else.

Bridget won't be around forever you know. I certainly hope I will be, but I stopped making promises like that a very long time ago.

Funny how I can write diversionary words to freak everyone out long enough to make the pills a less than big deal.

The purposeful mistake.

In an effort to fight for what's most important-creativity, emotional barometers and hell, just being able to feel something, anything, even if it makes my heart soar or it rips into me like a knife, I had to take drastic measures.

I flushed my medication. All of it. Refill included that I needed a chair to reach. Because not taking it wasn't enough to make them see.

It's all gone. A really smart move on the Friday of a long weekend and I feel like a criminal but I had to do it.

The shit should hit the fan shortly. But I'm ready. Because I really really hate the person those pills force me to be and I don't want to see her anymore.

Broken mirror.

This morning after dropping Jake off to have some tests the kids and I were driving home through downtime when out of nowhere a little red BMW with a license plate that read SEXY cut in front of me. A pretty girl with long blond hair was driving, she looked to be about 25.

I was instantly jealous.

And I'm no slouch, really. My hair is the same, I drive a sportscar, mine is black. People check me out on the road, too.

So the differences? Well, I don't drive like a maniac, right now I only drive when I absolutely must, thanks to the pills. She drove like she had a deathwish. The booster seats holding precious cargo in my backseat keep me grounded and obeying traffic signals and speed limits.

The differences were probably ones I couldn't even see, if you'll excuse the snap judgements. I bet she's six feet tall, carries a spendy handbag, shops often for the latest styles. She sleeps around a little, not a lot, and probably goes to parties every weekend. She has rich parents or a sugar daddy (probably the latter with that plate on the car) and doesn't have doubts about who she is, what she means to the rest of the world or where her place is in life.

Me? Eh, you know. Troll-size Bridget with her small but mighty rotating dress collection, loyal til the bitter end, hasn't been invited to a party in years, budgeting every last dollar and positively brimming with destructive thoughts twenty four seven.

Thinking back to when I was 25 it wasn't much different, except I had even less money and was still surprisingly short, though I did have a heck of a lot of fun every weekend.

There was one thing I did have over her, but she'll never know it.

I don't need to impress anyone.

Seriously. A licence plate that says SEXY? What are you trying to prove? And who really cares?

It's official. I really am 35 and showing every day of it.

Techie-free house.

I'm an idiot. All I saw was that eventually every blogger using this will be forced to swap out to the beta version so I jumped when I saw the invite.

Things are a little mucked up as a result.

I was never the techie in the house, Cole was a computer wizard. Bear with me, I don't think I've lost anything (yet). Maybe Lochlan will help.

I believe you can still comment even. Ben seems to have tested that. He didn't get an invite though and is still on the old blogger.

This is why people buy their own domains. Right?

Let me know if there are horrible problems I have missed. Same email as ever:

saltwater princess at gmail dot com.

Never again do I touch it if it seems to be working fine.

Damage/control.

(This is slightly explicit. I edited heavily. You should have seen it an hour ago. I practically needed a cigarette. I don't even smoke.)

Didn't I say before and repeat myself the other day about how Jacob can fix everything only to wreck it all over again, day after day? He has a bittersweet way in which he can build me up and tear me down in seconds and a dry delivery leaving you not one hundred percent sure whether he's kidding or not.

When he said I was a whore I know he was quoting..me. I've called myself one so many times I've lost count. I do it in life, I do it here, I pretty much label myself at every turn and he put it on the end of his point to illustrate what he meant and everything went horribly wrong in the instant between his depiction and when he realized that I thought he was calling me a whore.

Either way it still fucking hurt very very much.

I put the kids to bed, still alone, made tea and unlocked the front door to go out on the porch with my phone, hoping to reach Jake at some point and at least make sure he was okay.

He was. He was on the swing. Just sitting there. Thinking.

When I came out he jumped up and grabbed me into his arms and simply held on for dear life. I put my arms around his neck and we put our foreheads together as we do when we're having difficult conversations.

If I'm a whore then I'm going to be your whore, Jacob.

Don't talk like that, you're not a whore. I said that because I knew it would hurt you and that's what I wanted.

Do you still want to hurt me?

Never again. It hurt me as much to know I caused you pain.

What hurt wasn't the words, in the end. Just the fact that they came from you. I've been called worse. Worse has been done to me but it didn't matter because you never did it.

I'm sorry. Of all people I shouldn't have lost it like that.

I forgive you. And Jake, you don't have to be perfect all the time.

Oh I'm so far from it, Bridget.

Not in my eyes.

Thank God for that.

I'm sorry too. For yelling at you. For blaming you.

I forgive you back. And I love you.

I hope so. I love you. Geez. What a long fucking day, Jake.

Yeah, it was, wasn't it?
He smiled at me then, and held me for a while. Tight. Hard. He was breathing in my hair. It was the calm after the storm. We had expected it, in the building tension around the trip, and how the trip went and everything else going on here, there was bound to be some sort of blowup and I had set myself up for a bad day as it was.

We salvaged it with a lovely round of desperate, crazy, affirmative make-up sex.

Yeah, of course I'm going to go there. Do I ever not go there?

Last night Jake actually made an effort to expand his (ahem) horizons. To put it politely. I may be the freaky one and he's the straight arrow but there are times, well...my friends, there are times when he is completely relaxed and just in the right mood and likes to try to match my enthusiasm. Not that he isn't always totally enthusiastic, but he has drawn a box around the parts of the kama sutra that he's comfortable with, and he fucking burned the rest of the book. Sometimes he remembers what was on the pages that were destroyed, and it's like Christmas for Bridget. Somewhere around four a.m. I ruined it. I was straddling his lap holding on to him and even the headboard for dear life because otherwise I would have been flung across the bed and I told him all we needed now were those strobe lights and a slow-motion sequence and we'd have the most erotic movie ever filmed. He laughed and the spell was broken. Damn it.

That's okay though. We always finish. He put me down and then he made me scream. Face down into the pillow. Because of the kids. Geez, people.

Was that so bad, Reverend?

Oh no, that was very very good.

I'm not a monster, Jake.

No, you're totally a freak though.

You love it.

Yes, because you're my freak.

That's right. I am.

Emotional Prostitution.

Kind of like my journal, public so that I can trade my deepest feelings for just a little more attention.

Look out. I'm angry and sad and possibly fatally wounded, psychologically anyway.

He wants me to make myself vulnerable to him, to let him in, let him help and let him see what's in my head and my heart. I let it all out and then he becomes frustrated and shocked by what's there to sift through.

We've developed a dangerous pattern of trading angst for passion. I give him an open door and he claims ownership. I am his wife now and that's a confidence he wanted very badly.

I've been down this road before, but in reverse. And it ended badly and every night I curse myself for falling into traps like this. Tell that to Jacob and he'll rip your face off, because he's not that kind of guy. He's talked himself into an innocence where my feelings are concerned.

I feel like a dangerous game that people play if they're brave enough and only after they develop an alarming addiction to me do they realize they're in over their heads. Not even a fair comment, but we jumped on the train of thought today in therapy at lunchtime and discovered we're in more trouble as a couple than we realized.

I'm not the impatient one.

You probably guessed that.

Me? I thought I saw it but then I was assured that I must be mistaken. Only it turned out to be true and I am not the one sabotaging my efforts to heal. And yet Jacob refuses to see his role in this. In the urgency to put the past behind us.

I said I'd like to go off the meds. He instantly thought that was a great idea because he's hating the birth control and we'd be on our way to adding to our family and being happy, as if I am somehow holding us back on purpose. He tries so hard not to see what a mess I am. Bless his heart.

He'll say he's nothing, saw he's flawed, broken, and just a man and be humble until you call him on it. Then he's insulted and ired and not so content to sit back and take criticism. He wants to be the one to fix it and god forbid anyone else gets a credit or a chance. Or calls him out. Or tells him to slow down.

He refuses to see his own selfishness. In the interests of preventing my own nervous breakdown likelihood I was forced to point it out. His response was to lash out at me and tell me I had no idea what I wanted, that I enjoyed my power over men and I liked to have fun and I had no interest in creating a healthy stable life for myself with a real future and maybe I really was just a whore.

Way to impress your bride of less than one month, Jacob.

I had no words, I just stared at him, my eyes welled up and I shook my head, not even believing that with three little words at the end of his diatribe he could hurt me more than I had ever been hurt or humiliated before but he managed to pull it off in spades.

The minute it came out he tried to take it back but the damage was done. Claus ground the session to a halt right there. I left the room and asked his receptionist to call me a taxi. Both Jacob and Claus came out and I told them to keep talking, the session was paid for, but I had had enough and I was going home. I was so cold on the outside and I was holding my coat together so I didn't crack into little pieces. Fragile indeed. Who wouldn't be after that? From Jake of all people.

Jacob grabbed my hand. I wrenched it back. The look on his face would have crushed anyone with sadness but I had nothing left to feel for him right in that moment except the coldest, loneliest rage I have ever felt in my life. He has no illusions when it comes to me and I thought he saw nothing but good when he looked at me and instead he sees nothing but my flaws and mistakes and weaknesses. And that changes everything. All of it, a beautiful magical illusion and like all good things, temporary because Bridget doesn't deserve happiness.

Oh no.

I guess I don't. Whores are not worthy people, are they?

So do you think his love for me is real or did I simply trick him and draw him in with my charms, since it's what I do best? Now that he's fucked me a few hundred times and had his fill he's comfortable laying blame and pointing fingers and saying what's really on his mind.

Who knows? I'm not talking to him. I don't even know where he is. The expected panic is lightened by the shock of his outburst. Prostitute indeed.

Craving Jake.

Neurotica for a Wednesday morning. Hopefully a better post will emerge later and bury this unexplainable misery far down the page.

Here's a prime example of how my brain has functioned since Cole's attack in May. I sat down to write about how before Jacob left to go to work this morning, he came back upstairs and kissed the back of my thigh and then told me he wished he could stay home one more day. Which, damn, is awesome enough as a whole post by itself but then I came downstairs, poured some coffee and sat down to write after making the kids some breakfast and so much anxiety started pouring out around the edges of me that I went back for my robe and put it on, in hopes that it could somehow absorb the excess.

I'm about to have one of those days.

A mental list of things I can't write about, things I can't deal with and things I don't understand begins to wind itself around my thoughts, choking them off abruptly. A tangled mess woven into my psyche and no matter how long I sit on the floor unraveling and finding ends and trying to make some order of it all it's pointless. No headway at all.

This is why I'm still taking pills. Sporadically, begrudgingly. Soon to launch an all-out campaign to stop with the pharmaceutical therapy, for now I take them and scowl. Because, oh yes, they make the grinding pain of the anxiety bearable. Bearable is much preferred over completely uncontrollable. Notice I didn't say unbearable. As long as everyone including me (!) can control Bridget, if they know how to keep her calm, keep her down, keep her from losing it than the day can go on.

As you were, folks, as you were.

Otherwise I'm sure the men in the white coats are right around the corner with their stretcher with restraints and some needles of euphoria and sleep, ready to pounce. I've been told unequivocally that this is not how it is, but I'm not stupid.

Claus calls me the impatient patient.

Somehow while we were on the coast I held it together, in spite of my juvenile efforts to tear myself apart and sabotage myself it went smoothly. It was easy. Too easy. I was, no, okay, honestly Jacob was warned that it might all blow up in our faces once we arrived, or worse, once we came home. At least he's had some warning. I'm ticking. Like a fucking bomb.

The things I don't want to deal with remain. Those things I can't erase from the story of my life and they're all things I will have to examine in detail at some point. Like when I dropped the box, like the kids starting school which terrifies me to the point that I refuse to think about it. Like when the hell am I going to get better? When will I stop comparing?

When will life go on, because I thought when the box fell from my hands that everything was going to magically be better?

When will I smile without doing a systems check? When will benign greetings like "How are you?" stop being loaded questions, dreaded and anticipated and difficult to answer?

I was so so happy once. Okay, no I was miserable for so long and unhappy in my own skin and wanting everything I couldn't have, and it's become an all-encompassing expedition to finally move past all that and I can't. My life has become quicksand and everyone pulls until I'm halfway out and then they walk away and someone else comes along for a try.

I'm not blaming everyone.

When do I stop craving Jake? He's here, for god's sake. He's RIGHT HERE. I can still taste his kiss on my mouth. A coffee kiss. My bangs are still swept to the side from where he smoothed them away with his fingers when he looked into my eyes and told me he loved me and that he'd be home for lunch.

And the minute he leaves I feel like someone has taken the warmth of his presence and replaced it with jagged shards of pain, a dull ache that never goes away until he comes home. Stabbing pain radiating through the entire structure of my heart. No one gives you instructions for this and they should. So, tell me, is faith carrying me on these days or isn't it?

Some days faith isn't all it's built up to be, some days it just isn't there at all. God takes sick days too and when he does watch the fuck out. Jacob hates it when I talk like this but honestly smiling tightly through my teeth and repeating "I'm fine." doesn't get me anywhere at all. This, writing about it, well, this works somehow. Almost as good as a kiss on the back of the thigh from Jake.

Or maybe it's just that the vacation is now officially over and everything is the same as it was before and I was hoping for better. Or maybe not better, just different. Just not this. I only feel better when he's here. And that's not fair. To me or to him.