Blue velvet and Becel.

In my early twenties I wore blue velvet for it's cachet.

Sometimes in black comedy movies, there will be a predictable scene where the heroine will be standing in a crowd and she'll throw back her head and scream up to the heavens in frustration while the camera spirals out to show she's just one fish in the sea. Cue laughter, segue into next frame.

I reached that point over the past few days.

I have a cheering section. They're wanting me to go and be happy. I'd like to go and be happy but HELLO, I have this cloud hanging over me that won't go away any time soon. I'm still using the new tub of margarine Jake opened before he died and I'm weirdly skimming the edges. There's a tower of margarine in the middle from where he stuck his knife right in, leaving whole wheat crumbs in it, buttering bread for Henry.

That's dumb. A monument that will soon be used up, though I'll probably just throw it away.

Sleeping in shirts owned by the dead. Living for nothing, blind to a future I can't conjure up in my head no matter how hard I try.

And this. This weird pressure that no one is going to be shocked or sad or disappointed if I step out of my mourning clothes and come back to life and it's a heavy burden. It's a leap I have no courage to make right now and they pat my head and tell me I should just do it anyway and one withdraws into himself and bites his tongue so as not to have an opinion at all even though I squeezed one out of him anyway and it wasn't so bad after all.

I went back to therapy this morning. I sat in the chair and drank their institutional-tasting coffee and we caught up, beginning with how the holidays went and I mostly talked about how leaving the house was better than staying in it and how much of my life is currently conducted around what people might think and why, at this point, I would even care.

I don't. Somehow in the past year I was conditioned to behave in the way a...a...a...minister's wife would behave. Proper. But I've always been proper, because of the way I wanted to be perceived. A cold and high-strung girl who made the right apologies and wrote thank you notes and helped out without being asked and inside was this completely depraved creature who wouldn't know proper if it throttled her breathless.

I managed to separate them even though they'd like to be together and finally when I couldn't name a single person or reason for not giving myself permission to have something I want I realized that maybe it's because I get to call the shots and I'm not ready to give that up quite yet. I was corrected quickly. The submissiveness remains. I pass the reins over without question, I mostly do what I'm told. Sweetly deferring. Always so sweetly so as not to hurt feelings.

Still.

And my mourning clothes are not black.

Instead I wear navy blue, a hue that sucks the sunlight right out of the sky. A hue that makes my eyes wash out and turns my hair to spun gold. A color I was assigned as a child when people died and my brown-haired sister wore black. Blondes had to wear dark blue, because black would wash me out. That was the way it was done.

I have a blue velvet hair ribbon that I tied around my ponytail hastily when Cole died, to cover a pink elastic. When I picked it up again when Jacob died it was still kinked in the middle. Not enough time. I didn't get enough time. I don't want the stupid ribbon.

I have work to do.

I cannot talk about it anymore.

Better than paying people to listen to me.

Yesterday I kept charge of two adults, an eight year old, a six year old, a fourteen-month old and a newborn, just this side of four weeks old. The adults were sent home early for infighting, because they kept raising their voices and I refused to let their quiet tension cut through a house full of happy children.

Gabe and Hope were special visitors, with me through the afternoon and into the evening while their parents all enjoyed a little adult visiting time and a dinner out on my urging. Plus it was the first time I've laid eyes on Hope and I wasn't about to let her go until I had sufficient chance to enjoy spending some time with her. She looks like Keira, save for one wild strawberry-blonde curl on top of her head. She mostly slept sweetly and I fed her one bottle and rocked her a bit but she was never awake for long. Gabe on the other hand is walking now, and wanted to run around the house chasing the cat, chasing Henry, touching the baby and anything else he could put his little hands on, and he was fast. I think it took me close to two hours to un-babyproof last night but it was worth it.

Keira and Loch are happy. It's so wonderful I can't even describe it.

I had so much fun. It was a nice break from the usual routine of Being a Widow. In which people come and go briefly but often, checking to see how I am, what I need, and then drifting away again while the darkness crowds back in close. This was like a break. A lungful of air.

When they came back I got a lovely dose of Lochlogic too, something he saves up and unleashes on his poor unsuspecting victims when he wants to make a point and drive it home.

More approval. More confirmations. Solid green lights at every intersection and the road ahead is straight and clear. I asked him why and he said the one person who grew up first, who went and straightened out his shit and came out okay first was Ben. That Ben saw through Jacob first and tried to tell me and I didn't listen and maybe he's less carefree and sees a lot more than people ever gave him credit for. Ben had repeatedly told me Jacob was a control freak, that he was pulling strings I didn't know I had but I was so blind to Jacob's flaws I pushed Ben out of my life but he wouldn't go. He self-destructed under the pressure instead but instead of running away he lingered around the edges while pulling himself back together again.

Looking back over the past week it makes perfect sense to me.

Before they left Loch had one final observation to make. He asked me to consider the idea that maybe my life isn't completely derailed. That maybe Jacob was a detour and it turned out to be a dead end. That maybe I wasn't on the path that was chosen for me and I could find my way back and get on it at any time. That my life was waiting for me as soon as I am willing to get back on the right road, if it isnt the road I started on, with Lochlan.

So far I hadn't considered that possibility at all. I didn't want to. I didn't want to trivialize or minimize Jacob's impact on me or his meaning to me. I won't reduce him.

Loch grimaced, and had one final wisdom that he tossed out and left hanging in front of me, so that I wouldn't forget it.

That's the problem, Bridget. You built him up so big that no one could ever compare to Jacob in life. And now you're doing it in death. He was just a man. He was flawed and he hurt you probably more than Cole ever could, in a way that will forever be harder to forget. Don't give him any more credit. Just don't.

It was something I needed to hear.

Babies to hold, lullabies to sing.

Posting resumes tomorrow. So many stories to tell but all of it will have to wait. I have Hope and Gabriel here right now and things are a little hectic. Happy New Year nonetheless.

One final bonus post to kiss this year goodbye.

I shall save you all the drama and just point out that after refusing multiple invitations I couldn't have accepted even if I wanted to, made by those who knew I couldn't accept them but still extended courtesies, we'll just say that Ben is here, he brought Thai food and cake and some sort of non-alcoholic sparkly drink that begins with a number and ends with optimism (that Ruth adores and is hardly ever allowed to have) and we're going to have movie night and then after the kids go to bed we'll break out the whores and liquor.

Of course I'm kidding. If I can't laugh at this point then there is no point.

Happy end of 2007. This might be the first year I don't cry.

Again, kidding.

Poor Ben. He obviously drew the short straw.

Nefarious Rex, Dinosaur Princess.

A year ago, I made a wish for a year that was pain-free, and I threw out a cheeky, offhand comment that in 365 days I would have my answer, if it did turn out to be that.

Today is the final day and I didn't get that wish. I didn't get it in spades, instead surviving the worst year of my life.

But I am still here. Blink twice, pinch yourself. Nope. STILL HERE.

Go, me. Go, Bridget.

The stands are empty today. Everyone's getting ready to celebrate. I have different plans for tonight.

I'm sitting on the floor with a pound of determination, an ounce of courage and a dribbly little thimble full of moxie and I'm gluing the pieces of me back together. It's painstaking work, my arms are aching and I've only just started. I see that a few pieces are missing, and the rest are scratched and chipped but when put together I know you won't be able to notice a thing.

I have until midnight.

Happy New Year to you and yours. May it be everything you wish for and more.

Snowblind.

Nolan had a black cowboy hat that one of his adult sons used to wear around the farm and he gave it to Ben to wear on the ride yesterday morning. Ben hasn't taken it off since.

Damn, I wish he would. I have a weakness for cowboy hats.

He looks good.

Maybe a little too good.

I am so confused. I've been doing a lot of ignoring, pushing away, avoiding and all kinds of other stupid things because I don't want him to wait for me. I'm not ready for anything. I don't think I'll ever be ready. I've been pawning myself off happily on Christian for affection and Christian is happy to oblige. Only Ben is not so happy with that, having come to sit with me last evening and when I got up to get Henry a drink I never came back.

Awkward. The whole thing is awkward and I don't know if I want him to be there waiting on the other side or not. I don't know what to do.

This morning? A little less awkward but not by much as he gave me a wicked grin and ordered me not to make plans after lunch, that he and I are going for a walk in the woods. To talk.

It'd be way easier without the damned hat.

Of course, I still have Jacob's hat, kept for Henry to wear so what do I know?

Horse latitudes.

We're at Nolan's in case you need us.

Nolan has a hobby farm outside the city, complete with horses, snowmobiles and enough peace and quiet to make me want to stay here forever. Ben has been tinkering with the motorcycles a bit since they are stored here in the winter now. I don't think I've seen Christian or Mark since we got here, they're off snowmobiling. Nolan is a widower. He's in his late sixties (?) and we seem to have a lot in common. He and Jacob met a few years ago when Nolan did some work for Jake as a contractor but I didn't meet him until this fall when Jacob told me the bikes would be stored here.

Nolan called before Christmas and said we should come out, that there was plenty to do and he would love a little holiday company. I doubt he expected four adults and two children so I called and he asked if I remembered the big house. He said it had six bedrooms so just bring everyone and we'd find places.

The kids and I have the coolest room ever. There are antlers on the wall. I don't know if they are real because oooog, I won't be touching them. There's a fireplace and a view of the land that doesn't contain a single power line or road. The guy's rooms are equally neat. The great room and the kitchen are the heart of this house, I could live here forever.

Except for one thing. I'm afraid of the horses. They're huge.

Which is going to make my day interesting. Since I'm leaving now to go riding.

I know. Me. On a horse. First time in ages. Hold your breath.

And try not to laugh.

Self. Destruct.

This subject is no longer off limits. Because he is continuing his madness, and because I no longer care who knows. I'm not the CFO with everything to lose, now, am I? The people who matter have forgiven me and I can't help the rest of you. Don't judge me until you've lost everything you ever wanted.

I'm taking Caleb's attempt at extortion (and slavery) and blowing it wide open. He's not aware of the depths to which my friendships run and how close we all are. And so I told them what happened. It softened them, because they know how destructive I can be when I hurt and they're just relieved I came out of it in one piece.

If you can call it that.

Caleb contacted me with his rare smug brand of formal condolences the day after I found out about Jacob. Caleb, as always, took that as an opportunity and created some business that he absolutely had to be in town for and showed up before sunrise on the red-eye. As soon as Joel took his eyes off me after breakfast I took off. I wanted to show everyone that I was in charge and I wasn't going to take orders from anyone. I had no confidence in what I was doing until I was standing in front of Caleb's hotel room door.

Well, well, if it isn't the princess. Where are all those knights who are supposed to protect you from me?

I just shook my head and stood my ground, tears spilling down my cheeks. He knew I was alone or I wouldn't be there. He clucked and said it was a shame. And then he asked what I expected from him.

Make the pain stop.

He smiled.

Oh, but princess, there's only a couple of ways I can get you to where it won't hurt anymore.

Please.

What do I get in return for making you feel better?

It was 48 hours later that Caleb called Ben and told him there was baggage to be picked up. As in, come and get her, I'm through. Flaunting his treasures to Ben who had so briefly looked up to Caleb.

Caleb had left instructions for Ben to be let in and went off to his meetings. Ben burst into the room and found me vaguely unresponsive, naked, bruised, covered with bite marks and dusted head to toe. Dipped in Caleb's toxic icing sugar. It coated my eyelashes, my fingertips. I had headphones on, the stereo turned up so loud, if my hearing wasn't already damaged it would have been. Ben tried to pick me up and was hit with everything at once. I wasn't dressed. A black satin ribbon was still knotted on one wrist. I wasn't coherent.

He found my clothes and gingerly dressed me as I half-slept in a stupor. He forced my lids open, didn't like what he saw and took me out of there, bundled in his jacket, not really walking, a foot off the floor. I don't remember any of it. He wanted me to talk to Jason (a police officer) formally at the very least and I refused.

I went to Caleb willingly looking for an escape from the pain I knew only he could provide. I let him put needles in me. Repeatedly. I let him do whatever he wanted to me. Every time it wore off and I would become afraid or start to cry, he would give me more. And after two days he got bored with the game.

After that arrangements were made to have me flown back to the same posh retreat I just came out of to detox and to be safe. I slept for the first four days and then didn't speak for the next three.

Joel arrived on day four and told me how the kids were and asked me if I was going to break my promises to them too, and that's when I spoke again. That's when I realized that it was time to stop expecting everyone to pick up the pieces for me. I had to gather them together myself, and hold them and when the time is right I will glue them back together.

Caleb came to see me while I was there, and told me what a great time he had with me.

He told me he had wanted to do that for a while now, since we cut off his access to me after Henry was born.

I swore at him but he just laughed and told me he was happy to give me a reminder of Cole and happy to help ease the pain. He told me he'd see me at Christmas and to pass his best wishes along to Ben.

He also gave me a DVD in case I had forgotten the good parts. That was a warning not to slander him, that copies could be sent to everyone I loved but really, I don't care and neither do they. He could put it on the six o'clock news, I wouldn't even flinch at this point.

The clearest thing I remember after he shot me up the fourth time in two days was that he told me I belonged to he and his brother again, and that that was good. That I belonged in the family. That he would look after me.

He said I would be his plaything, that when he comes to the city he'll expect me to be there for his enjoyment and otherwise my friends get my DVD. Best porn they'll ever see and then when I only have him left I'll see what an easy arrangement it would have been and so not to fuck with him.

He underestimated all of us. I told them all what really happened (the painful, unsanitized version) and they closed the circle because they love me more than they hate my mistakes. Caleb can never touch me again.

He arrives today.

I won't be here.

I'd like a way out now please. Oh, please. Just make this stop.

Draw.

I suppose some days I should just skip posting but people seem to want to know how I feel.

Fine. Here's the mess, YOU untangle it.

Today I feel hollow and cold and alone despite being surrounded and wounded and bitter and the anger leaves at a pace that agonizes and fights and claws my insides. Far too slowly it's being replaced with a despair I am loathe to acknowledge. At some point I'm going to be forced to move along now, nothing to see here.

I'm not ready.

I'm not ready for life. I'm not ready for the world to present itself to me, I'm not ready to let go of something I worked so damn hard for. It's as if since he wanted me to crash, he wanted to be everything and make me weaker so that he could be stronger and my life with him is to now be cast aside as a shameful secret to be swept quickly under a new rug that we'll just lay down on top of the dirty floor and pretend they don't see the dust, the years of life they are quick to condemn.

I'm angry at myself for not seeing more than I what I saw and yet how could I see past the man he presented to me? He was too busy finding my focus for me, making himself perfect so that I would never know. Why didn't I know? Why did I go against every last tiny piece of advice on not to take flight with a bird who had issues and was the last man on earth anyone expected me to be with?

What would have been so wrong with that life and why did he have to do this?

Hindsight is just another blindfold today. I don't know any more now than I did a month ago, let alone a year ago. I'm not wiser, tougher or better equipped. I'm not better off, by any means, and I'm not different in the ways I should have been different. I only feel as though I briefly stepped into a fairy tale, tasted happily ever after and then suddenly the chef decided it wouldn't be on the menu after all and ushered me out and slammed the door in my face.

The closed sign went up and when the shock wore off it's clear that I still haven't had a damned thing. I look up and down and everything is boarded up. A vacant ghost town stares back at me as if I am the one to rejuvenate it's once lively streets. I can't. I wouldn't know how to begin.

It won't be today.

You wanted a fucking barometer, there. Take it and be sorry you asked. Most days are not good. Most days just opening my damned eyes is hard. Most days I want to shoot myself in the head just for a different kind of pain than this one.

Most days, I don't have a gun. Some ghost town this is.