Rawer words.

I never was the sharpest tack on the board. So maybe locking myself upstairs after the kids went to bed to read through my journal and read some of Jacob's wasn't such a hot idea after all.

I miss him.

You will never understand how much I miss him.

You slid away from me.

After the kids went to school, Christian and I took Butterfield and a few tennis balls over to the river and Chris threw the balls and Butterfield gave chase while I hung on and slid for what seemed like miles. Squealing the whole way.

Christian says I am very easy to entertain.

He also was proud of me, I've been dealing with a lot (extra) lately and doing really well. I got a hug and then a dozen more, as we haven't spent a lot of time together lately. But really if I could stuff Chris in a jar and keep him on a shelf in my house I just might. He gives the best hugs in the world. Somehow he utilizes every muscle in both arms; instead of being encircled within a halo of elbows and hands, he simply squeezes the bejesus out of me.

So maybe I'll fill you in a bit more as we go along here. I've been a bit hesitant to talk about certain things because of the rampant armchair judgment and distance diagnosing going on. And because I was never really clear before on exactly how many people are standing by waiting for me to fuck up and how awful that feels when I'm just trying to do the best I can. It's one of the very few times I wished I had never shared my thoughts publicly and I just...I don't know, I just want you to come and read and feel and then write to me if you want to but not as my therapist or my conscience or my big sister or brother. Lord knows I have enough of those and they squeeze from all directions.

Thank goodness I love hugs. Even internet ones.

Touch and go.

I think I write this post in some variation at least once a year.

Let's see. Yes, but I'm not linking. They're such sweet moments, memories of Jacob and I can't read them right now. If you'd like to just type in 'cracked fingertips' in the search box top left. I can wait.

We've reached that magical time of year when my hands are so badly cracked and bleeding that I have taken to wearing bandages on the tips just to keep people from freaking out. My skin is like touching fine-grit sandpaper and I feel like a giant itch. It doesn't matter what I do, it just happens. I drink a ton of water, I wear rubber gloves when I wash dishes or clean, I wear gloves outside, I use a ton of moisturizer, even straight oil sometimes, hardcore stuff-shea butter, emu oil, you name it. Humidifers and I are close friends.

I think it's just the price for living here in this high-altitude low-humidity windblown wasteland of dryness. I'll live, two months and it will be a memory, I hope. It's a long two months when you're reminded of it every time you touch something, which is 37,000,000,000 times an hour.

Everyone is obsessed with my tiny little ruined hands and I spend all my time hiding them in my pockets or sitting on them, snatching them back from boys determined to inspect or soothe them, fielding questions about their condition and deflecting sympathetic expressions of concern, as if there is something worthy in the plight of this usual seasonal drama to discuss.

Fuck that.

It will pass. It always passes. Just like time and pain.

Though it would just be nice if it hurt a little less to type but instead every word is a testament to my dedication, a measure of pain meted out one sentence at a time as only a masochist can truly appreciate.

I suppose it would also be nice if I hadn't just written this entire entry to be nothing more than the continuation of the incredibly obvious information blackout on my life while I go and get some things sorted out but sometimes it's a necessary evil.

Much like having to touch stuff right now.

    I will not be made useless
    I won't be idled with despair
    I will gather myself around my faith
    for light does the darkness most fear
    My hands are small, I know,
    but they're not yours they are my own
    but they're not yours they are my own
    and I am never broken

Blackout.

(The old/new title wasn't meant to be cheeky, it's a nod to the trolls I feed).

I ran this morning. I picked the coldest day of the year and I ran and I sang to myself because my phone stopped working the moment I opened it and then my legs stopped working shortly after that and I only had one decent fall that will come back to haunt me tomorrow.

I need new gear, some of it is tight. Hauling an extra twenty pounds on my frame is exhausting and so I'm going to try to fix it. I'd like happy mediums instead of hard lows and epic highs. I'd like it to be warm. I'd like not to have to deal with the climbing gear I found in the attic and I'd like to know that I'm doing okay from someone that has no stake in my life, financially or emotionally. I'm tired of being the little bourgeoisie princess with too much money and too much heartbreak and I'd like to blend in.

Jacob promised to teach me how to stop thinking and just be, but we weren't finished and I can't remember the steps and ironically it is like filling a thimble from a bucket instead of the other way around.

I ran down to the bench today too. I wasn't going to even tell you that because the boys will probably be pissed because they can't figure me out and Cole is an appropriate listener and yet he didn't have any answers but Jacob is too far out of my reach to try to talk to right now and so I ran through the silent cold and just tried to stop thinking.

    this is the first day of my last days
    I built it up now I take it apart
    climbed up real high now fall down real far
    no need for me to stay the last thing left I just threw it away
    I put my faith in god and my trust in you
    now there's nothing more fucked up I could do
    wish there was something real wish there was something true
    wish there was something real in this world full of you
    I'm the one without a soul
    I'm the one with this big fucking hole

Razorburned.

There are moments in my life that I can peg as the exact moment in which I changed. The moment I grew, learned something or re-adapted to my environment to be able to move ahead to the next phase. These are the moments with which I mark time, the moments that are strung together to hold the lights shining for me.

I had one of those moments last night.

My cheek burned red and hot scraping across his. His fingers traced a line down my arm to my hand, leaving goosebumps, the hair raised up from my skin like it does when I'm feeling fear or anticipation.

He laughed softly, his eyes bending into crescents, breaking into silent mirth. He waited for the goosebumps to fade and then did it again, with the same result.

Incredible, he said.

I nodded. I didn't say anything. I just watched him while I waited for the color to leave my cheeks. I waited to see if my flesh would become accustomed to his touch. I noticed I was holding my breath and so I stopped and tried to breath deeply but I know the moment I stopped thinking about breathing that I would hold it again.

He was doing it too. Holding his breath. Rocked by his effect on me and stunned by a physical response so basic and visceral it warmed his heart to the very core.

He broke the spell and apologized for burning my skin. I shook my head, willing him back under the spell but it was shattered.

He kissed me. I returned it once and then deferred. I saw his eyebrows go down and then soften and I knew he was wanting to protest but not willing to risk an argument and I liked that so he got a second kiss. One that didn't end easily. The one that took the breath I was holding and used it all up.

Then he turned and looked out the window. It was late. It had started to snow, again. The dark skies were dotted with feathery snowflakes skimming on the wind, spiraling down, landing everywhere. Covering our mistakes with a fresh coat of pure.

He walked me back down the hall and when we got to the door I started to close it and his look changed.

Why are you closing it?

I don't trust myself.

Does it matter anymore?

I closed it on him in response and slid down one side while he slid down the other and his fingertips came under the door and I grabbed them and held on.

I'm just not ready for this.

I don't even know if he heard it when I whispered it. I just know that his hand was there until I woke up this morning and then I imagine it was gone because he had to go to work or maybe he went to bed or something way smarter than sleeping on the wood floor pressed up against the door like I did. I knew when I woke up I had made the wrong choice once again, picking misery over warmth, solitude over companionship and the dark over the welcoming light of his room.

And so I called him at work and I told him I fucked up. He said knowing I was asleep on the floor bothered him worse that the rejection and that we could talk tonight if I wanted to or just let it go and everything would be alright. It was then that I realized that I can mark the moments that others grow and change too, because that was so not the old Ben that I love last night. It was some new guy that I know by heart but hardly recognized.

Things in the mirror are sometimes not as dumb as they appear.

    Maybe there will come a day
    When those that you keep blind
    Will suddenly realize
    Maybe it's a part of me
    You took to a place
    I hoped it would never go
    And maybe that fucked me up
    Much more than you'll ever know

This morning was very incredibly satisfying.

I took Ben and Joel with me, and I marched into Caleb's hotel suite, walking straight to the desk where he sat and I tossed a nice fat manila envelope in front of him, papers flying everywhere while he regarded me with his usual smug amusement, asking me what it was.

I explained to him it was a copy of his ruin, that I had similar envelopes waiting to be sent to his firm, his family and to our mutual high-end friends, and that if he really wanted me that badly, the price had just gone up. He would lose everything and if there is one thing I could ever tell you about Caleb, it's that he has worked hard to be where he is, and he is defined by his position. He enjoys his position. He won't risk his position. And so rather than calling me on my own threat, he tapped out completely.

His smile turned bitter, sliding right off his face. He asked if that was all I required to be released from him. I confirmed that I meant leaving me, my children and my friends, most of all Ben, alone, that we can all exist peacefully and he can get updates from his parents if he wants to be an absent uncle but otherwise I'm not doing this anymore and I'm not living in fear anymore.

He said he liked me better when I was fragile because that was the only part of me that had held any value for him anyway and without it I am just like everyone else.

I smiled and walked out.

Maybe that's exactly what I want, to be like everyone else.

Movies.

Strangers in a darkened room. Who were holding hands and no one saw.

    Sometimes it's hard to love me,
    Sometimes it's hard to love you too.

And of course I went to see Cloverfield this weekend. We took the kids even. Which caused a little keffufle at the ticket counter as I was informed my children don't appear to be 14. I pointed out I'm well aware. The guys were adamant about how well-versed the kids were in scary monster movies and the theater people seemed to be just thrilled. I made no apologies and we took our seats. It's a guideline, not a law.

No one told me that before the movie started I'd be gifted a viewing of the new Jon Bon Jovi video. Or that it was possibly written with Ben and I in mind. Or that when it was done I would look around and find everyone staring at me with stupid grins plastered on, nodding.

Bunch of idiots. Ben was absorbed in his blackberry pretending to be invisible. Ruth was talking my ear off. Henry was busy eating his snack while the lights were still on.

The movie was awesome once you got past the car sickness aspect. The kids enjoyed the heck out of it, especially the Very Gross Part, and we all resolved to go see the sequel. If you last right through the end credits it will all become very clear.

The other interesting moment was when Ben asked me if I was hungry. I nodded and he walked away, over toward the concessions. PJ asked what his problem was, and I asked him what he meant. PJ pointed out that he didn't wait to see what I wanted. I started to say he probably knows and then it kind of hit me all at once.

It's kind of like falling very hard and watching yourself do it. But from outside of your body.

Mornings with Poe.

Up for the dawn with coffee in hand, and a blanket for two, for the sunrise this morning felt colder than most. And inspiration came to me in the form of a fragment of old poem that I know, succinctly, by heart.

    
    But Psyche, uplifting her finger
    Said Sadly this star I mistrust
    Her pallor I strangely mistrust
    Oh, hasten! Oh, let us not linger!
    Oh, fly, let us fly, for we must
    In terror she spoke letting sink her Wings
    until they trailed in the dust
    In agony sobbed, letting sink her
    Plumes till they trailed in the dust
    Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.

    I replied this is nothing but dreaming
    Let us on by this tremulous light
    Let us bathe in this crystalline light
    It's sybilic splendor is beaming
    With Hope and in Beauty tonight
    See it flickers up the sky through the night!
    Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming
    And be sure it will lead us aright
    We safely may trust to a gleaming
    That cannot but guide us aright
    Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night

You are the quintessential tornado, now, aren't you?

What do you want, Caleb?

I wanted to make sure you were alright after you concocted your brief little display of disinterest in our mutual friend.

I'm not interested in him and it has nothing to do with you.

Bridget, if you're trying to protect him by pretending not to be interested, you've already failed.

Why don't you just leave me alone?

Why don't you bring him along to our next meeting? Then you can show me how much you don't love him. Do you think I'm stupid? I know what you're doing.

You know nothing about me.

On the contrary, my dear princess. I know precisely the difference between giving you ecstasy and hastening your death. I try not to forget the numbers. Sometimes they get mixed up.

Did you just threaten me?

I have no reason to do that.

Sure you do.

What would that be?

Kicks. Your own amusement.

Yes, that's important, isn't it?

Not to me.

Well then let's try something different. You want to save your friend? Protect him any way you can. And be a little more subtle about it. Having him move in to soothe your fear of the dark won't save you any more that your lies will save Ben's life. Don't forget how suggestible he can be.

Leave him alone.

There's the princess we all know and love.

You don't love me.

Oh, but I do.

Prove it by leaving me alone.

That isn't as much fun, Bridget. So I'll be in town on Monday and I'll see you around nine. Yes?

Fine.

Pardon me? I couldn't hear you.

FINE.

I could hear you, I was just making sure you heard me. I'll make sure you're carried out with your hearing aids this time.

Fuck you.

I heard that too, Bridget.

Daylight to break.

This morning I pulled on fuzzy grey tights, a grey wool skirt and a warm nubby brown wool sweater that is long and warm with a turtleneck. I twisted my hair up into a messy bun with bits sticking out all over, stuck my reading glasses on top of my head and slid my watch on over my right hand. I slipped into my doc boots and went down to make some coffee.

No one else got up in time so I went into the den, closed the door to keep all the heat in the house from leaving and I opened the french doors all the way and I stood in the -45 degree morning and watched the sun rise between the pine trees in my backyard, the magenta glow highlighting the Victorian roof peaks of other houses in our neighborhood. The world was still and quiet. A time to reflect. A time to embrace myself as me, just plain old me, here to greet the day and consume my piece of the planet pie and leave my tiny mark which isn't really a mark so much as a chip on the rim of life's cup.

One that could cut you if you aren't careful but one that you ignore because the cup itself is so pretty and it's your favorite. So you carefully turn Bridget to the outside so that she won't cause any problems and you watch the sunset and sip from the smooth side, the unmarked side, the place that you will stake out to leave your own mark.

Soon the noises and smells of everyone up for breakfast came filtering down the hall and I reluctantly acknowledged the end of the dawn of the morning and went to join my children for waffles and fruit. Ben did not get up and join us because he's having a lazy day and will sleep for a while yet, I imagine but it's okay.

There will be another sunrise tomorrow.