Grief doesn't have an Instagram filter. Sorry.

This is what real life is like sometimes. Am I supposed to apologize for it? Move on if you don't like it.

I don't belong here
I gotta move on dear
Escape from this afterlife
'Cause this time I'm right
To move on and on
Far away from here

We got to church exceedingly early, me carpooling with Sam, his favourite assistant on a day that sees everyone else magically busy. It's cold inside and nothing is ready so he drops his coat on the pew, not even taking the time to open his office and rushes off to prepare. He tells me to stay put (wonder where he gets that from) and then I can't hear whatever else he says. I don't wear my hearing aids in the hole. It's easier to keep everything muted, underwater, unintelligible.

I take his coat and pull it over me like a blanket, lying down. I close my eyes and then I hear him yell my name, alarmed, clear as day. I bolt upright and his face relaxes instantly.

I thought you left.

No, just tired.

Here. Drink this. He puts a hot cup of coffee in my hands, wrapping them around the cup for warmth. The heat should spool up now. It'll be fine in a few minutes.

Got nothing against you
And surely I'll miss you

I can't turn my brain off and so I close my eyes and the cup wobbles dangerously. Sam stares at me, his concern boring right through my face, infiltrating my brain. I don't want him in there, it's not a day for this, I don't want the memory thief taking all that I have left.

Instead he just walks around, closing doors, opening the blinds to let in the sun while he gently speaks but a born orator, he can throw his voice so I hear him perfectly. As long as I concentrate.

His words are a life raft in a sea of unwelcome waves, safety in the face of danger, and I won't even tell you what they are. He moves his coat to wrap it around my shoulders and then sits down beside me. Then he jumps back up and walks out quickly but is back in an instant, his own cup of coffee in hand. He puts an arm around me and I rest my head on his shoulder.

Sometimes I really miss him, Sam. Tears squeeze out of my eyes, fall off my chin, landing in my cup.

Me, too. He wraps his arm around me tighter still, kissing the top of my head. I didn't think we'd be left here but here we are.

This place full of peace and light
And I'd hope you might
Take me back inside when the time is right

There you go. Everything's going great and then I fall into a hole and I can't get out of it. 

Sure you can. Just take my hand. Caleb's eyes glitter in the waning light and I pull my hands in against my chest instead, shaking my head. I think I'll stay where I am. 

Fine. But just remember, instead of helping you navigate life post-Preacher, August likes to keep you sick, Bridget. He's no different from the rest of us.

Hey, how long.

We've become disillusioned
So we run towards anything glimmering

Time to put the silicon obsession down
Take a look around, find a way in the silence
Lie supine away with your back to the ground
Dis- and re-connect to the resonance now
You were never an island

Working out the notes to Disillusioned as the house wakes up slowly, the sun winning the race along with me, the rest loathe to catch up. It's Friday, it's sunny and I just came home, choosing the ghosts, headphones never leaving my skull, feeding it words, any words as long as they don't have to be on my own. Flat on my back underneath history, measured breathing matching effort, hands all over, brain broken on purpose in order to block the thoughts as they barge in, unwelcome interlopers ruining everything. Unwilling to hear the accent, unwilling to look into the pale eyes, unwilling to reach out and touch the closest thing I can find to him, but needing him all the same. I want to show him this song. I want to show him this life. I want him to break up the acrimony, rip up the habits, hollow out the routines, keep the peace, find the souls and sort them back into their places instead of this. I want him to come back and hold me, come back and smile at me. I want to feel safe. I want to feel peace. I want things to change. But I don't want to be the person who says that out loud and so I just keep fucking it all up trying to kill time dead in case that's the only thing keeping him from coming back.

I'm a really good sugar baby, though.

Happy International Women's Day.

I live in a house full of men, there is zero equality here and I don't even get to stand up to pee so I'm not sure what I'm celebrating because I definitely get the short end of the st- er, dick, I guess.

(But really, no I don't.)

(Snort.)

Supposedly I am supposed to be celebrating my rights today. Let's break it down:

My right to work? Unofficially not allowed, actually (but they cover it nicely by fashioning me into a much in-demand executive assistant for both Caleb and Batman, on call twenty-four seven with lovely renumeration to boot.)

My autonomy? Ahahahaha. 

I can own property! This one works but is in direct contravention to my right to be free from sexual violence, which is...uh...how I keep the property.

My right to education: I am your friendly neighbourhood college dropout through circumstances far beyond my control (surprise!).

I have voted before though. Do I get flowers now?

Wednesday gold.

It's a crime you let it happen to me
Never mind, I'll let it happen to you
Out of mind, forget it, there's nothing to lose
But my mind and all the things I wanted

I'm singing at the top of my lungs, in a t-shirt that's slightly too small and my underwear while I stand on a chair putting longer screws into the curtain rod bracket because when I whipped the curtains open this morning the whole thing came crashing down on my head (hence the outfit). The drywall here is made of cotton candy. Put a nail in the wall and it will inch its way down in the space of a heartbeat. Put a screw in and a week later you can just pull it out with your fingers. Use a drywall anchor and that will pull out too. This house cost enough, things should stay where I put them.

Jesus have mercy. Ben says it with gusto. Think he likes the view. He could have done this without the chair but he's claiming it's for my own good, to be able to do basic repairs. It's a confidence prop, since I can already do a lot of home repair, roofing, tire and oil changes, plumbing, electrical and cosmetic, a little appliance work and anything else you can throw at me as long as it's not computer-related. I just despise it so I play the little-lady card every chance I get, stubborn and determined as I always am to be one of the boys.

It isn't working though and I put my screwdriver down. Be right back. I add pajama pants and head down and outside to the garage, back in minutes while Ben patiently waits. He's so amused. The pajama pants come off, back I go up on the chair to enact my brutal solution. Longer wood screws right into the stud that was blocking the larger anchors.

If these come out I'm giving up and taping tinfoil over the windows like Cole and I had in the bedroom of our first apartment. It faced east, which meant every morning the sun blazed into the room like a dragon breathing fire. Cole liked to sleep til noon. We had no money for curtains. God how the tides have turned.

Wouldn't toggle bolts have been better?

Do we have any left?

Good question.

Besides, the screws are covered by the brackets, hardware stays with the house if we ever sell so if you're worried about show ready condition I've still made the grade.

Can you just stay up there for a little while so I can look at you?

No. I'm done. Help me with the rod. I give a yank to the side of my underwear. The hips have rolled down and I'm dangerous close to nude home improvement here but honestly I'm more concerned that Ben will eat the screwdriver bits as a snack while he watches me.

Got it. He lifts it up over my head and sets it into the grooves on each bracket. My underwear slides down even further as I reach up to tighten the screw and Ben reaches over and pulls them down to my knees.

Now that's a look.

Boy, is it. Lochlan comes in with coffee, surprising me. I step back into thin air and drop into Ben's arms. He turns me upside down and whips the underwear up over my feet and off, holding me out to Lochlan.

First dibs? He wags me back and forth. I scream-laugh and Lochlan breaks out laughing too.

Put me down!

Okay. Ben starts to lower me to the floor headfirst. I scream again.

No! Jesus Ben, pull me up.

But he fancies himself an Olympic figure skater now and so he twirls in a circle first. The screams continue until my shirt falls, covering my face.

Great, I point out, my voice muffled.

Ben starts laughing and puts me gently down headfirst on the bed. I sit up and pull my shirt down and remind him I asked him to stop doing that. Why does he continue?

Because of him. The sound of you laughing and screaming with fun and excitement is something he's missed dearly your entire adult life.

And he points at Lochlan who is smiling with tears in his eyes.

Very cranky when I hurt.

A grade 1 abductor strain means my only chores are lots of time in the sauna and the hot tub this week. Except yeah. Not going out there, because Ransom is doing exterior carpentry (or I guess his team is, because honestly I don't believe he even knows which end of a hammer is the bonky part) and then when the weather warms a little they will begin inside.

Because I couldn't put it off forever. 

Or we could move. Gosh, I whine. I hate mess. 

Jesus, Bridge. You're going to love it. And he turns out to be the best choice for the job. Christian is here today filling in for Lochlan who. has. to. work.

There must be a thousand contractors here. The mainland is all new development. Can't we find someone-

Just keep away from him. 

I plan to. 

That lasted ten whole minutes, not even enough time for me to finish my coffee and Ransom is in my kitchen. Jesus. Can we just lock a door or something? 

Mrs. Macintosh, he smiles at me like he's waiting for me to offer him coffee. I do nothing of the kind. I don't like him at all. 

And you are? Apologies if we've met before. Watching his face fall as he realizes he's failed to charm me is better than any pain relief I've had thus far. Sometimes I get why people chose to be evil. It's weirdly utterly satisfying. 

Ransom _________. We met before Christmas? I'm overseeing the improvements to your beautiful property. 

Did we? Well it's lovely to see you again. I go back to Lochlan's ipad which he left on the counter and I don't look up again even though I know damn well PJ is biting his fist trying not to laugh, bending deep at the knees on the other side of the counter for the shit I just pulled, which is something I hardly ever do so that's when you know something isn't right.  I get up to leave, albeit slowly. If Ransom is here I don't plan to be.

Batman comes in and sees me moving gingerly. Bridge. What's up? 

Waiting on the meds to kick in. 

Are you sick? Ransom interjects. He needs to be whacked with the blunt end of a boundary here. Jesus. 

No, I've aggravated an old leg injury. I'll be fine. 

How did that happen?

Sex, obviously. Have a nice day. I turn and take the ipad and head up the steps. Fuck my life. There's nine people watching me limp slightly so I turn and glare back at them. At least Ben is upstairs sleeping still so I can curl up with him and lick my wounds. Later I'll call Caleb and ask if he can just fuck me like a normal man for once ever but he's going to laugh and tell me not in this lifetime. I know it. 

I hope Lochlan comes home soon so I don't have to burn this place down. 

Love, hate, love.

You told me I'm the only one
Sweet little angel you should have run

Some decidedly glarey, unceremonious cheese toast and the Devil has gone home at last. I think Lochlan took a day and a half to sober up and realized he had sold his soul and probably handed off mine on the weekend too and now he's done with all again, even though by early church time on Sunday morning they were shaking on their new grand plan to let the water flow under the Bridget, that what's yours is mine and mine is yours and time is too short not to love everyone the way everyone loves me.

I think Lochlan gave it a good try but if he has to be shitfaced to deal then he's going to go down a road I already went and dragged him back from once (or five times) and that's not going to happen again.

And Caleb is sober now so let's just say we'll have to live with him mean because he's on medications that shouldn't see him drinking because they react funny and he really went one for one with someone who can usually outdrink him and everyone else before and after him. That's a bad idea.

It was nice while it lasted though. I like it when they let their guards down. I like it when they're silly. When they get along. When things are good. But I'm a child waiting for approval, trying to fix things, trying to be the little peacemaker so no one is unhappy with me. I couldn't tell you no if I tried. Did I? Maybe I did. Maybe I just waited him out. Maybe I punished him. Maybe I tried to preserve myself.

Whatever way you spin it, things are different today. We left our March secrets in our quilts and our armour on the floor and we greet this new aftermath naked and brave.

A fondness, a hatred.

My soft spot is so squishy that if you touch it you'll poke a hole right through me, leaving a mark that won't heal. I'm swiss-cheese girl. The waffle. The sweetheart. The Fragile Little Miss Bee.

I'm also exhausted and was exempted from church by Jesus himself in the form of Sam, with his now-empty coffee cup, badly-knotted tie and barely combed curls who caught of glimpse of me this morning and swore, telling me to go back to bed.

That's the least restful place in this house, I told him and he frowned. He didn't even have to ask because he knows me well enough by now.

I'll do my penance another day.

Can't stay away from the Devil.

(Fuck Lent. Fuck everything.)

(Or maybe it's too late to say that.)

Caleb's issue is craving me. Mine is craving him right back.

The table reduced to three late last night, long after the words from their speeches had grown cold. Lochlan was scowling, one arm slung over the back of my chair, four whiskeys deep and up to his knees in no good. Caleb was already pie-lit by then too, I couldn't even keep track of his drinks.

Fucking yarling. She's beautiful but she's not all yours.

Happy Birthday, you bastard. Don't let your jealousy age you prematurely.

When their eyes shine and their hands are steady they connect again, best friends who remember how they started before I ruined everything. I just want to make up for that and so I brought Caleb upstairs with us and I didn't ask permission and I didn't offer apologies and Lochlan didn't need to stand before a promise he didn't even need to make in the first place.

He didn't. I should have, but I didn't either.

I was held against the door while Loch stared into the fire, hating me, hating Caleb, hating himself most of all. I pleaded with him not to (one not to put me up against the door, one not to hate everything) and they listened. Old habits die hard. Hard dyes old habits dark, staining them with the inky night and it took until the sun came up over the ocean to tame them both, to bring Lochlan back around to loving everyone, to make Caleb see that this is what he will forever have to beg me for.

Lá breithe sásta, Diabhal.

Oh, but I didn't beg, Neamhchiontach. You offered.

Stilettos all weekend. Kill me now.

Oh my God. It's almost two in the afternoon (maybe I just got up but last night was so late I contemplated staying up) and I'm hosting a birthday dinner in four hours with twenty guests. A home-cooked dinner, no less, including a birthday cake baked by me as is tradition. Caleb called me both capricious and interminable when I went over to tell him the times and I thanked him and rushed back out the door. Everyone is to arrive at six sharp for drinks and talk, dinner is at seven. It's not that difficult, actually. The cake itself will take more time to cool than to bake or decorate, and dinner is pasta with mussels and garlic, and cheese bread on the side. One of Caleb's favourite dishes that I learned to make a long time ago, requested for tonight much to my relief as I didn't want to make a big heavy pot roast (one of his other favourites).

First order is to dispatch PJ to our seafood guy and then John to the liquor store. I didn't leave it til the last minute but yesterday was uncharacteristically packed and today is almost slow-motion in comparison. And it won't be too late, usually birthday dinners wrap up in three hours or less from passing oven-warmed plates down the line at the table to the last speech (by the birthday person) and last bite of cake, then hugs all around.

In a way I'm looking forward to the dinner itself but maybe not the aftermath. It's difficult to celebrate such a sacred day when the only gift the person asked for isn't one you can freely give this time around.

Wish me luck.

On my way downtown for the evening, don't have time for this.

Questions I have right now:

1. Why do stilettos hurt so fucking much now?
2. Why does makeup feel weird these days? My face HURTS. OW. Get it off. 
3. Why do things start so late? 
4. Is there food?
5. Can I stay home?

I'm sort of kidding. I go through this in some form or another every time I leave my house.

But seriously. Half the time I want to leave and then when I have to leave I don't want to. Bridget, why are you like this?