3 Gs: Just like astronauts feel heading into outer space.

(All I want for Christmas is this.)

Fall on your knees
Oh hear the angel voices

That seems to be the common theme for the point for 2016: Grief, greed and guilt. We are evenly split, divided into thirds, standing under our respective accusations as if they are our own personal planets and yet the moment we all stepped down off our pedestals and acknowledged our positions, we turned a corner so hard we drifted just a little bit and wound up in some new galaxy.

I squealed. It was cool.

We're going to call it The Future and as soon as we're settled and we don't feel these Gs anymore from rocketing around so much between the past, present and tomorrow we're going to be okay.

Hysterical deafness.

(This is probably disjointed. I have a stabbing headache from the cold.)

Lochlan is patient, accommodating and open. I wanted to go for a walk on the beach today before it gets covered with snow and I'm no longer allowed. The rocks get so slippery and you have to balance on them to get to the sand. Ironic since I used to walk the high-wire for a living. Ironic because when I was little he used to demand that I grow up and once I did that he regretted it profoundly and has wished ever since to send me back to childhood. But I got my walk and a long talk with him with no shouting or bickering, for once.

He's also talking to Sam because he thought maybe Sam was steering me straight into Caleb's arms but Sam is actually trying to teach me how to navigate by myself without plans or input from anyone. Besides, Sam and Caleb, as the living angel and the fallen angel in this story, don't exactly get along. Lochlan has some deep seated awful guilt that he carries with him as a huge chip on his shoulder and all of this has to be shifted or remolded into something we can all live with and something we can use productively, because we all have to live together. 

Or rather, we want to live together. All of us. But Caleb sometimes makes that very hard. 

One of the things Lochlan promises is that in the spring we'll cut a proper walking path to the beach so I can come down here on my own (never mind the steps I'm forbidden to use. Maybe he's putting in a giant escalator because we all know how much I love THOSE) which would be nice. 

In the meantime, he tells me to enjoy the view because we won't come back down until it warms up, that it's fucking cold and if I want to look at the waves I can use the binoculars and look out the window. 

(That wasn't a bicker, technically because I failed to reply, instead soaking up the sun and the salt as much as I can before we retreat indoors for we have become lightweights.)

Sam stopped short of telling me I should go to the beach alone if I want to after weighing the risks and benefits. Not as impartial as I thought. Caleb called and said if I wanted to go he can take me, not to worry. He works hard at finding their weak spots and punching right through, which I can appreciate but I see how it fractures the Collective as a whole. Maybe I always did but I chose to be blind. 

I hope he can unlock my hearing next. Maybe I just refuse to listen. Maybe it's a defense mechanism so I no longer have to hear the awful things I was told as a child, awful things that were done that left me at that age forever. As Sam likes to remind me, I have the grief under control lately. It's everything else I can't manage now but that doesn't mean I won't be able to in the future. 

A sea of bees.

Cause if this was our destiny I'd treasure the fact
And I'd give you whats left of me if I'd held back

But I don't need a soul
No I don't need a soul to hold
Without you I'm still whole
You and life remain beautiful

I haven't been avoiding Sam.

Sam and I take hours-long walks or spend time just about every day. We do role-playing, we ask questions and throw out ideas, we dig deep. He sets up scenarios and I navigate them. He gives me things to try and I work at it. I come home or come back downstairs exhausted and mostly in tears. Sam opens the door for me and then when the whole house descends on him in a rage he nods. He doesn't tell them what we've been doing, he works with me, not them. He doesn't feel the need to reassure them. That's my job. He's the clinician, the counselor right now. He isn't their friend right now. It's a dirty job but he said he'll be damned if he spends all this time here and doesn't overturn every last stone to help me.

This has been going on for months and it's made everyone a little crazy. They've accused Sam of things, they've barred him from me, they've asked him to fill them in and he mostly lets them think whatever they want. He is indeed lonely but that was also a cover. It's a long story but I've made a lot of progress, I've slid backwards a few times (okay, dozens of times) and I swore I would hate him forever but then I realize I've turned another corner.

Since nothing else works he's been teaching me how to live with my demons and also my ghosts, how to exist in a world where I'm half-woman, half-child, how to use the things I've learned in the past to navigate the present and hopefully the future, and how to live on my own terms instead of those of everyone else.

How to grow up when everyone else wants to keep me small.

How to speak up when I can't hear the sound of my own voice. How to ask for what I want, and get it without danger, without harm coming to me or to those I love.

How to move on. Evolve. Change. Mature.

It turns out he is definitely qualified and ridiculously observant and has a much thicker skin than I realized. I'm growing a similar one as we speak. It turns out the boys, on the whole, are rather reluctant to see any of this take place as it interferes with things always staying the same. They want what's best for me but at the same time they've done nothing but fight to keep the status quo. Sam has also taught me that this isn't something I should be angry about, as I knew it all along, but that I can change their minds, I can lead by example, I can show them that this is necessary. It's so long overdue I may have missed the boat but then Sam said if I look hard, there's always another one going by that will take me to the same place.

Just cross your fingers for me, would you? I might be finally doing okay here, and that's what I want, even if it means the end of being perpetually twelve years old.

Folkwar.

We did go to dinner last night, either as a coup or a mutiny or maybe just a moment where Caleb remembered he isn't Mr. Nice Guy after all and told Lochlan to shove it up his rabbit in the hat, that we were going to dinner, that he was welcome to come with, that sometimes Bridget needs someone around who doesn't cut her meat for her (WAIT. Is that a...euphemism?) and we'd be back by eight.

We went for Monte Cristos. Because I love them. Cake has been replaced, I think. All I want for Christmas is a fried sandwich and a pickle on the side (Oh, that's DEFINITELY a euphemism).

In fact, I think I might be the patron saint of that sandwich. That or the urban legend equivalent. Look into the mirror and say Monte Cristo three times and a Bridget will appear, scare you shitless and steal your sandwich.

Am I marginalizing myself?

*Shrug*

Just to be a dick, Caleb had us back at eight-fifteen and Lochlan did his patented predictable behavior where he comes down the walk hollering things I can't understand even if I could hear him over the purr of the R8. Caleb raises his voice slightly in a plea for peace (for my sake), points out my relative intactness (HAR HAR) and Lochlan shuffles me inside where he'll grill me for ten minutes about the day before deciding if he's sure that I still love him and haven't left him for the devil.

I can't say I'd be any different but I reminded him he was INVITED.

I even stomped my foot for good measure. For emphasis. For euphemisms.

How the flinch stole Christmas.

Caleb invited me over for some Christmas cheer and asked if I could help with his gifts, in exchange for Christmas music, mulled wine and maybe some dinner out this evening if I could. I don't know about dinner but the rest is a go and I brought some olives and cheese with me so we can at least have something to snack on while we do his cards. 

I don't mind-I love doing wrapping and addressing-and he pays very well. Plus Lochlan didn't hesitate when I asked him if he minded. I didn't ask him if I could go, just if he minded and then I would make a determination from there but he was gruff and dismissive about it so I took that as a 'don't bother me, I'm busy' mindset and I packed up the snacks and headed across the driveway in the...the....

The SNOW! 

(Which lasted all of fifteen or twenty minutes before it began to melt as it hit brick and swiftly turned to straight rain again. I got lots of chilly vitamin D yesterday and things aren't so bad weather-wise right now, I can handle a little more rain and I promise I won't complain about it.)

When I went over he had Christmas music cued up and wine that he was pouring into mugs. He looked up as I opened the door and held up my picnic basket. 

Hey! Somehow I didn't think you'd be coming. 

And yet you're pouring two mugs. 

Yes, well, my second choice was John, if you couldn't come over. 

He'll be flattered, no doubt. 

He's not as pretty though, so it's a distant second choice at that. 

Anyone watching Westworld? (No spoilers)

Okay, honestly? Westworld has so much potential, they just haven't figured it out yet. The sets and clothing are gorgeous, the acting unparalleled. The only problem is the story, sadly. The show's creators were so busy trying to be clever and mysterious that they forgot to care if we were invested in the characters or not.

We weren't. Maybe next season will be better? I hope so. 

It was sunny when I woke up, and yet too cold to go outside and linger in my pajamas and so after letting the dog out we (the dog and I) went back upstairs and jumped back into bed with Ben and Lochlan. I fell back asleep for an hour dreaming about maybe going for a walk in the sun later and when I went back downstairs it was raining and everything looked dark, dim and dreary. Same as always, same as ever.

So we went out for lunch at a greasy little diner and went Christmas-light shopping and came home again to hang up the lights. 2 more strands for the tree and the rest strung from the ceiling all over the place. Which is PERFECT and looks busy and festive. We put them high enough so that Ben won't garrote himself but you can still see them. I love the way it looks. They won't be coming down after Christmas either, like the ones outside.

Because I always wanted to go back and live on the Midway and now I get the best part but also it's safe and warm and we don't have to pack up every eight days and go on to the next town.

Sixty days of rain (like 30 Days of Night but with only one monster).

I should write a book.

How not to keep your sanity when it's been drowned in a puddle. 

It'll be a bestseller and everyone will call me 'refreshing' and 'honest' for my insistence that it's okay to be a goddamned mess. Aren't we all at this point? I can pick mushrooms off my shoulders and eat them. My hair never dries. I can't stand the darkness anymore and I want to scream.

I used to say this about snow and endless winter, endless cold. Then I moved to the rainforest where it hardly gets cold enough for a jacket but it also never. 

stops. 

fucking.

raining. 

CHRIST.

August is shopping for a SAD light for me. I've only been asking for one for seven or ten years now. I want to sleep all the time and I can't seem to accomplish much and then I have a manic/panic flurry and catch up in the bright artificially-lit room, like a moth, sticking my face right up to lightbulbs and frowning madly at the dark.

Flap flap flap. 

(goes the giant blonde moth)

Where is the perfect place for me? It isn't endless winter, or endless rain, it's a little bit of everything, tempered by the beach, which doesn't care what weather we're having as long as I'm there spending my time like a new-money millionaire in an exclusive strip club.

Except I don't want to make it rain anymore. I really don't.

Indulge her, oh she with the tiniest of rants.

I'm appalled that so many of the Christmas crackers you can buy now contain wine charms.

(I'm aware: first world problems)

Especially since in this day and age one should never leave their drink unattended. What am I saying, 'in this day and age'. The warnings to keep an eye on your drink/keep it with you have been going around since the mid-1990s and if you think you can wander back into a room, pick up a random glass and point to the charm on it and say, Yes, I was the umbrella! That's right, and go on as if nothing happened means...well, you're probably going to tamer parties that I ever have, that's for sure.

I gave up wine a long time ago anyway. Go hard or go home, says the Scotsman and I usually snort and give him a look that says I like it when he goes hard but he means hard alcohol. And no one's going to come out with whiskey charms, because fuck that, we're smart enough to hang on to our drinks and sip them slowly, you flighty, wine-y motherfuckers.

(But if we did have markers to delineate our drinks they would be made of bone and barbed wire and maybe bits of hair and teeth, because what doesn't kill you...certainly won't drive you to collect fucking wine charms.)

Yesterday, part two.

This is mine, because what's yours is mine. Mmmkay? And I picked up the champagne bottle and walked out Caleb's front door.

(Don't worry. He owes me. Everything. Anything I want. That's the deal.)

I brought the bottle back to the house and told PJ we were having a champagne lunch.

Sorry, Bridge, you're having coffee and maybe a sandwich. 

Well...what kind of sandwich? PJ's the best parent ever. Take the coveted item and replace it with delicious possibilities.

What kind would you like? 

Radish sprouts, pickles, ham and havarti. 

Jalapenos too?

Did I ever tell you I love you so much? 

Yes but sadly only when you're drunk. 

That's not true. You're my favorite metal God. Plus you use conditioner so you have great hair. It's so shiny.

Don't ever change, Bridget. 

Because you can totally fucking tell which bands don't use conditioner, right? I mean they could all have great hair but they just don't give a fuck. If you're going to make the effort to maintain it long you should nourish it, shouldn't you?

A sandwich is slid under my nose. And a coffee. Just like that. Magic.

And then actual magic walks through the door and I realize there's an extra plate.

Lochlan! Are you off early?

No, just home for lunch and to see my baby. 

Huh? Ruth's at school. It's Tuesday. Oh, wait. I get it.

Drunk Tuesday?

GOSH. How'd you know?

A little birdie told me. 

One with really shiny hair? 

That's the one. 

(I didn't realize until much later that it was August that called him. August also uses conditioner.)