Notes from a little loser on a rainy early Saturday morning.

Oh no, I see a spider web
And it's me in the middle
So I twist and turn
Here am I in my little bubble, singing out

I never meant to cause you trouble
And I never meant to do you wrong
And I, well, if I ever caused you trouble
Oh, no, I never meant to do you harm

They spun a web for me
They spun a web for me
They spun a web for me

I'll make him furnish his own transition, seeing me through the abrupt absence like a benevolent spirit watching over. Maybe beside Jake but unlike Jake I can't see through Joel. I have to look around him. I cut him off at the knees last night, dispatching him to care of my memory thief for the next two weeks because no one told me how bad off he is. Sam didn't admit a thing, preferring to watch the fallout over New-Jake from afar. Hands off. Uncharacteristically distant. It's like expecting a fireworks show and being handed a sparkler. It was muted, dulled by the rain and the time of year and the sheer weight of life bearing down on our collectively broad but frail shoulders.

So if something goes wrong with my brains or my unruly emotions because of Joel's absence he'll be here to fix it even as he has one foot out the door, bags packed and ready to leave the point finally. Ready to leave my life again, hopefully on better terms this time around. Batman made some calls and Joel won't be hurting for work and that makes me feel better.

I feel like once again the Devil comes in and razes everything we've just spent forever building and turns me around to look behind me at what once was everything and reminds me that it's familiar and habitual and that means safe even though it was never safe at all. I feel like he wins no matter what I do, where I go or who I align myself with. He's the puppetmaster still, always. He's the Coldplay fan, the hard runner, the financial wizard, the seasoned lawyer, the boogieman. My monster. If I look under the figurative bed, there he is, grinning back at me as I shriek in surprise.

Ruffles and Rages.

And don't deny me
No baby now, don't deny me
And darlin' don't be afraid

The dress was Alexander McQueen, a similar one to the one I adored in Nordstrom over the holidays. Something I can wear more often. I can't wear a Valentino to dinner, after all. It's a little over the top, even for me.

(Fun fact: I once showed up to dinner in a bright pink leotard and full face paint.

Actually I showed up like that every night that I didn't attend the meal in a black tutu and halter top, also with full face paint.

Welcome to the show. Dinner break was a seventeen-minute affair between the afternoon and evening shows. Once the regiment of the circus was over the freak show was a languid affair with dinner falling sometime between midnight and morning, after we had run out of whiskey, cigarettes and stories to tell. Out of drugs to do. Out of life to live.)

Except I probably wouldn't eat in this dress. It's too fancy. I would need a bib. A poncho. Maybe a full drop sheet. But it's beautiful nonetheless and it fits so perfectly it just confirms that he is the devil. He knows my body better than I do. I looked at the size and was surprised. This is my size? 

In McQueen it is, he says, though I've already had it altered for you for length.

Oh. Thank you. 

Just wear it until the spring and enjoy it. 

It's a rental?

No, then you get a different one. Then eventually you have enough nice things that you can rotate. 

I have nice things. 

Nicer things then. 

I dropped the subject. We had a toast to successful trips and he mentioned letting Joel go as his usefulness here has been exceeded. I asked if it was because Joel rarely agrees with Caleb. He smiled tightly and said maybe, or maybe Joel brings up more pain than I need anymore.

He's trying to fix me. 

Maybe he's simply making things worse for you. 

No pain, no gain. 

Bridget, sometimes it's good to bury the past. You did better when you did that. Bottom line. Watch your last game this weekend and throw a party, he'll be leaving next week. 

To do what?

That's up to him. He knew this would be month to month. 

Then I get two weeks more and then he can leave. 

Fine. But if you get worse I'm holding him responsible. 

Like he holds you responsible for the same thing?

He said nothing, taking a sip of his whiskey and looking out at the water. But I hit bone, I'm sure of it.

"Oh, and stop listening to Joel", he said to me. "If he knew what he was talking about, he'd still have his credentials."

Lost all innocence
Infected and arrogant
You burn all your life
(There's no telling you)
No deliverance
Consumed by the pestilence
Of hate, you're denied
Deep in your heart does it still remain?
Do you think you can bring it
Back to life again?
Is it still in your soul?
(No saving you)
Where's the deviant
The unholy remnant
That has made you this way?
Made you fall for this hate

Tell me now, who taught you how to hate?
Because it isn't in your blood
Not a part of what you're made
So let this be understood
Somebody taught you how to hate
When you live this way you become
Dead to everyone

Deep breath. Closed eyes. Take it easy. Don't panic, Bridget. Don't show him how scared you are. Just be normal.

Wait. What? I don't know how to be normal. I don't even know how to put on a poker-face. It's always inside out or blank or I find out there's a huge hole in it from where it caught on my teeth. Same pep talk since 1983 and it hasn't worked once and how does this self-confidence thing work again? I'm supposed to lie to myself and then I'm expected to be believed? That doesn't make any sense. Besides, if I don't even believe me then no one else is going to believe me either. May as well stick to brutal honesty.

I'm too short. I wear too much black. I don't pay attention to much except music and cheese and sex and I'm more than a little confused that I can be in love with someone who frightens me so much, though if you ask me outwardly I will say I hate his guts and I'm only kind and accommodating because we share a son. But you won't believe me because I'm lying. I don't even know how my brain turned abject terror into sexual tension. Joel said it was an unconscious coping mechanism. I think it was an escape route. Same thing, he says casually as if this happens every day but it doesn't. Everyone else has their poker faces on straight. I see them. No rips, holes or stains. No crooked seams. No abnormal thoughts. No fucked up love hexagons, because let's face it. Triangles were left back in high school.

I try to keep my eyes from welling up as I turn but they're going to defy me. I'm so scared. So scared. So afraid I start to shake as I turn around to face him, a formidable, handsome enemy also dressed completely in black, also as far from normal as you can get, and in no need of a poker face because his black magic never required one.

He's looking down at his hands, which are holding the most beautiful bouquet of black and white roses. White roses with their edges painted in silvery blue dyes for a special wow.

For a special girl, he tells me, reading my mind. She's not too short. I don't care what she wears, and I never wanted normal but I do want to address the events that took place while I was gone. 

I wonder if this is the part where he kills me.

There would be no fun in that, he tells me.

Stop reading my mind, I tell myself without speaking.

Sorry. He says it out loud but he's laughing.

I stick my tongue out at him and he laughs more.

Bridget, why couldn't you manage a few days?

Six. It was six. 

Well, I'm home now and I brought you a dress if you would like to come and see it. 

My eyebrows go up. The poker face is shredded anyhow. You could see me right through it all along. I cut him off completely. He gives me my children. I sleep with one of his targets, he buys me a designer dress. Joel said this is how monsters work. They hurt you and then they tell you you're beautiful. They damage and change you and then buy you presents. They don't let you out of their sight for very long and then they come back and take over your space. They invade your brain, control your every move and rip your poker face right off your head so your hair gets static cling and you get a scratch from a rough seam along the bottom edge of your jaw.

You can wear it tonight. The reaffirmation of his own monster-status alleviates my panic completely. As long as he's mean I'm comfortable. I know what to expect. I know how to behave. Not like it matters. Just listen and then comply. Shut out everything good so the inside is as black as the outside. Ball it all up so that you are smaller than ever. But don't forget to breathe.

Wait, wear what? The poker face or the dress?

Both.

3-2.

I lost another two hundred dollars to Joel tonight when the Leafs lost to Columbus.

And Caleb is still in New York. He was supposed to be home yesterday and didn't show. And didn't call. And didn't message me. He messaged Henry so I know he's not in trouble. He's just extended his trip a bit. Or so he said.

(The cold reality of what we're thinking.)

Stop, look and listen
Maybe that's the way we'll know

Running this morning with PJ and Joel. I'm mostly trying to ignore them, listening to my headphones. Army of Anyone today and hey, I have a thought. If Richard Patrick isn't doing anything, since it's been a couple of years since the last Filter album, and I know Robert and Dean DeLeo aren't busy because Scott's dead and Chester left, and they can probably convince Ray Luzier that any supergroup is better than Korn and get back together and make their second album. Would you guys, pleeeeeeaaaaaase?

We've got a long way to go

Joel is adamant that I face my fears of being labelled and stop taking the label of monster or slut over victim. Fuck victim. I'm no one's victim. Payback is well underway to the perpetrator and it's been thirty years in the making. Joel says my behavior has also been thirty years in the making because of him and blaming myself and allowing others to blame me is just as dangerous and dysfunctional as seeking out a friend who lives three houses over and sleeping with him out of the blue.

Is it though? I like to think that I'm a cold, calculating seductress and I went and got what I wanted. When I tell Joel that he doubles over laughing, out of breath and patience.

Bridget, as soon as you admit the truth and stop sugarcoating everything in your life you'll be on your way. 

Sugar lubes everything I want to fuck. I'm already on my way, babe. 

I tell him this in my Gemma Teller voice and he just keeps laughing before PJ's face makes us stop fooling around and get serious with What To Do About Bridget This Time.

You gave everyone the Sparks notes on what happened. It's time they read the novel. 

I didn't write the novel. 

Bridget, stop twisting all the words and listen to me. Okay? 

He's right, Bridge. 

(PJ knows everything. I didn't sugarcoat it for him. That's why he made no moves when I showed up in his bed that night. He tried to save face and be all manly about it but really he saves my life on a regular basis.)

FINE. What should I do, master? Oh, and the worst idea of all is letting you run my show again.

Start by making sure Caleb is very clear on his role in this and how it has defined you. 

He doesn't define me. 

Bridget-

Fuck this. I pick up speed, jam the headphones back in and run far ahead of them. It's not slippery this morning so I can go as fast as I want. Of course the minute I do, my knees and ears begin to ache from the cold. I slow back down and the boys catch up, one on either side. PJ is content to let my brain outrun my legs but Joel is back with a fire I haven't seen from him in a while.

I'm going to talk to Caleb. And then I'm going to talk to everyone else in your life, Bridget. They'd rather help you than take advantage of you but you don't give them a choice. And yes, I know that from experience and I'd like to finally make things up to you for good. I can't stay here and babysit you forever. It's time to grow up now.

'Your history isn't so horrible' says the internet.

You can say that because as I remarked in my title from today,  I haven't told it to you. Idiots.

Neamhchiontach/Stories I won't tell on the internet.

Can you imagine a piece of the universe
More fit for princes and kings?
I'll trade you ten of your cities
For Marion Bridge and the pleasure it brings

Out on the Mira the people are kind
They'll treat you to home-brew and help you unwind
And if you come broken you'll see that you mend
I wish I was with them again

Batman returned this morning. He let Jasper go, he asked why I didn't go to someone (I was too far gone and wait, I did go to someone. It just wasn't someone I've gone to before) and he said that Joel had already talked to New-Jake, Ben, Loch and everyone else involved and if anyone got angry with me I was to let him know.

What are you going to do, fire them?

No, I'm going to educate them. They sometimes only see Functional-Bridget. I think sometimes they forget. Especially Caleb, who would love to forget except I don't plan to let him. 

I nod. He was always particularly horrified by my history. He's even more horrified at my behavior since. How much I love the wrong people. How easy it is to step to the side of what is supposed to be clearly defined boundaries and do whatever I want. How scarily aloof I become afterward, as if it isn't me and I don't know what you're talking about. Are you mad at me? You're not leaving, are you? 

And on and on, ad nauseum.

Joel and August once again explained it in detail, eliciting sympathy instead of rage for me, reminding everyone why I'm the way I am, how things manifest, how I cope, factors that hurt, factors that help. How I am brave in that I refuse to excuse myself and instead face it full-on, opting for honesty instead of appearances, grace in the presence of horror.

I smile weakly. This isn't graceful or honest or excusable. I see Lochlan's eyes and I know how awful all of it is and yet he is strong enough to stay. Strong enough to push it all aside and try that much harder. Almost as strong as me.

Needed proof.

(In the dark he looked a little like Jeff Buckley.)

Maybe there's a God above
But all I've ever learned from love
Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew you
And it's not a cry that you hear at night
It's not somebody who's seen the light
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah

I woke up at seven in New-Jake's bed. Jasper was standing at the foot of the bed scowling beautifully at us, the cat that eats the canary, swallowing her bones whole while she screams. He asked if I wanted to eat some too, with a crowd to watch or if I preferred to buy his cooperation. He's an industrialist, he's a walking opportunity. He's a tight, burning asshole to me twenty-four seven and he figures he's finally hit the jackpot.

Batman is away so I went to check on New-Jake at four this morning (Because I'm up. Because I wander. Because I said I would try to stop it but I can't). I never came back. He was alone. He was lonely. Because I'm a sucker for a beautiful man and a magnet to a man with flaws, be they obvious or hidden, I stayed and we talked for a bit except Jake doesn't really talk, he smiles slowly and he watches and he listens well and he removes clothes with a finesse I would never have expected from a man who lives alone. He told me he doesn't like girls or boys better, he just likes certain things about certain people and he told me not to expect this to become anything more than a single dark rainy Monday in January but it was already too late. I fall in love so easily. I fall asleep more easily still. I let him touch me and I touched him back and then I curled up and wrapped him around me and the best part, the part Jasper will never get through his shriveled-up burnt little vainglorious brain is that I'm allowed to do what I want. As long as I initiate I don't need to apologize. I can take the advantage but no one is allowed to take it of me. The rules are easy. As long as I don't choose dangerously I don't need to come clean. I can come dirty, downcast my lashes, bite my lip and ride out any mild malcontention with eventual understanding.

Usually I don't capitalize on this because it's disrespectful, unfair and sometimes downright cruel. Sometimes it's payback. Sometimes I'm helpless. Sometimes I'm helpful, if someone needs to hurt out loud. Sometimes I can soothe without familiarity. Sometimes I have to pick the least of all the evils. Batman will be unimpressed with me for sure, but with Jasper he's going to be downright furious.

LEAFS.

What the hell??

Deep-fried, medium-hot with blue cheese on the side.

The relief in the end of this week is tangible, palpable and there's nary a hint of suspicion or alterior motives or even future-grief. We slept so hard last night Lochlan had to pull me out of my dreams by my fingertips, a tenuous grip on an imaginary girl. Reality-Bridget isn't me, I am fantastical-Bridget in the burgeoning light.

He kisses up my throat, arching my back up off the warm bed, into his arms. His fingers are in places I don't discuss and when I cry out, Ben lands a hard, lingering kiss on my forehead before leaving. I reach out for him to stay but he won't, though he won't be far.

He said one night in passing that trying to share me at once was akin to trying to eat the same chicken wing. Lochlan laughed out loud forever when he said that and now every time someone suggests we go for wings they elbow each other and laugh again.

Sigh.

(Fun fact: up until a couple of years ago the boys would remove the bones from chicken wings for me because I don't like meat with bones still attached. Thankfully I've become a savage since then.)

I truly wonder if I were six feet tall if things would be easier for them. But I'm not, I'm five feet tall and they get what they get and it's kind of funny that I'm game now and they're not, when it used to be the other way around.

And just like that Ben is gone and my focus shifts back to the red curls as Lochlan hooks his chin against my shoulder and takes me into his arms. I forget everything. My name. That I was cold a moment ago. That there ever was a life in between the Midway and now. I hope there wasn't. I hope it was just a dream and this is the reality I will fall back into, a whole-life fantasy hinging on a magician with a wide-open heart and a penchant for telling me to eat my chicken because I'll need the energy to stay up all night with him and make so much love we won't know what to do with it all.

Yeah we did. We gave the rest to Ben. He comes back and I am given to him like an offering and he takes me whole. When he eats a chicken wing he eats it bones and all. I never expect to come out of this bed in one piece but that is maybe why the magician sticks around. It's a trick. It's an illusion.

It's exactly where I want to be on a Saturday morning. This place between dreams and real.