Self-awareness? Check, for once.

The sound of the rain tells me our sins are being washed away even as I sleep, heavy in dreams and drugs, content to waste the precious minutes of the day which stretch into hours, unchecked by sunlight or consistency. Lochlan left others in charge and they pawned off the chore and split it into thirds and that left the little monster to her own devices and her own charms. Give me the responsibility for myself and I do marginally better than if I have no input. Take it all away and see the fireworks.

For the eighth time in as many years Lochlan gave the entire point a lecture, a comeuppance and a dressing-down that would make a grown man cry (and has) and stepped back up as a full-time caretaker for someone who should be perfectly capable of looking after herself (but isn't) and the leader of a pack who should know how to work together by now (but don't).

(Caleb already got the most incredible rebuke, a reprimand that apparently was felt around the globe, as Lochlan has decided he is finished being Mr. Nice Guy.)

But YAY!  Loch's off until Christmas. A full six month plus leave which is all I ever want in a day as it is, and now it's here and I don't know what to do first.

Except he's incredibly angry and unbelievably pissed off that I'm looking at it like he got a long-awaited vacation.

Well, you did.

You're more work than work.

Well I know other people who would gladly take this on if you don't want the stress. We are bickering. Off to a great start.

The first thing we're going to do is have Joel come over and then you're going to get all of this stuff out of your system.

Hey, you're the one who gave me the drugs.

To sleep. You needed sleep. Instead you went and got more drugs from Caleb and then had a few drinks and Peanut, you're a mean drunk. Now I'm going to go make you some breakfast, and today we're going to hydrate, rest and talk with Joel and then after you've apologized to me and to PJ who tried to head you off early into your fucking destruction yesterday, we'll plan out a fun summer. But it's going to be dry and it's going to be ghost-free, so help me God.

What do we have to talk to Joel about then?

We need to do this without drugs, Bridgie. It's a shortcut and it's too dangerous.

Drugs are always the last resort though.

What if they aren't?

I stare at him. He doesn't get it. Doesn't seem to understand if you can't turn my brain off it will burn itself right out. It will plow right through the memory thief, through the walls, through the concrete tunnels and probably straight into the ground. It'll keep going until it finds a way to shut itself down forever and Joel knows this, at least, so maybe he is a good idea after all.

Can you have him here for eleven then? I need to get ready for the day. I smile weakly at Lochlan, who kisses my forehead, so content in his pragmatic, seemingly-logical solutions, treading water in a bottomless sea. He's so hopeful sometimes I wish I had never married him so that I could cut him loose and he could find happiness instead of this.

Hit a wall, here's a song. Sorry, maybe tomorrow.

Well I go to water to find innocence
Breathe deep the air to fill my lungs
And beauty sings his songs to me
Every note I follow to find out where
The voice is coming from

All that I know
Al that I see
All that I feel
Inside of me
All that I've done
All that I've tried
There must be more
To this beautiful life

Ethanol Jesus.

Church has reconvened and I'm...HA, I'm home getting drunk because Sam isn't watching right now and it's Sunday and for once I don't have to bow to anyone's schedule but my own. I've been dragging my iPad around the point all morning trying to find a good place to chill and it's probably going to be the stables for the duration because at least my studio has a fridge and in that fridge is a 24-case of hard lemonade because it's nice to have cold beverages when you're doing heavy yard work and there was no room in the house fridge and you can't put cans in the freezer so that rules out leaving them in the garage.

It's not a big fridge, it's one of the little retro Magic Chef ones but it's green. Also this is the place where the kids can have sleepovers or movie night. There's a back projection wall painted with silver screen paint, a couch and that fridge, since all of my art supplies and my easel pack up neatly and stow away. The children get privacy here, too. But they're only allowed one can of hard lemonade each and not if they're driving and their friends aren't if they're driving either and I check, because it's important.

So today I am sacked out in my studio day-drinking and drawing and listening to Oceans of Slumber and enjoying a whole two hour stretch with nothing to account to. My stomach growls. It doesn't want alcohol this early, it wants another cup of coffee, maybe a blueberry muffin and a long slow-painful stretch in the sun beside Lochlan.

But Lochlan is sleeping, it's about to rain, I don't want to go all the way back to the main house for coffee (on the other side of the driveway and down the hill) and besides, PJ ate the last of the blueberry muffins last night.

Why am I not in church? Lochlan is sleeping, I said. He woke up long enough to tell me he didn't want me to go at all and to wait another week or two and as much as I didn't want to miss Sam's in-person announcements about his and Matt's wedding, Lochlan is right and sitting in a room with a bunch of other people, even if it's far apart, even if it's a shortened service is kind of the last thing I want to do.

And for the first time in a long while my knee-jerk impulse isn't to throw myself from the cliff into a fire until you can't tell I was ever there, it's extreme self-preservation. This is probably the 'perspective' everyone is always talking about, or the Xanax is giving me tons of unusual clarity instead of the usual opposite.

Either way, I'm sure Jesus misses me. He told me this morning when he waved from the orchard as I was on my way up the hill. He called out something about not mixing alcohol and pills but I couldn't really hear him. I think he forgets I'm deaf. Everyone does.

Life in Larghissimo, as always.

If there is one thing I have learned in my life (besides don't use bleach regularly on things with gaskets), it's that funnel cakes and Xanax letdowns cause nightmares. Oh, and that Lochlan will tell me anything in the dark, anything to make a nightmare go away, anything just to make it so I stop shaking and go back to sleep.

Jacob rang the doorbell last night. He rang it and he waited on the front porch for someone to answer, sleeves rolled up, hair in his eyes, full beard and no shoes. He was a dream, a mirage but he was as real as I've ever seen him. I haven't forgotten a line on his face, the white of his teeth or the way the part in his hair always gave up early on, leaving a zig-zag of straight waves that was hard to control. Henry has the same hair. Same beard. But not the same fake charm.

Blind, like a fool, I went to answer the door when no one else did. Someone probably buzzed the mail truck in through the gate and then promptly forgot to go to the door.. Someone really needs something and doesn't have clean hands or shoes. One of the children forgot their key.

I open the door and he's there.

And I woke up screaming. Not because I miss him so much (I do. Jesus, I do) but because it's a better place if I hate him instead of love him. It's a better place if I condemn his memory to ashes instead of missing him. It's a better place if I spent all my time thinking about him calling him soft-hard names and listings his shortcomings and flaws as a human being instead of acknowledging that when he flew, my heart was with him and it shattered all over the pavement and it was never right again, much as I lie and say it's fixed.

Lochlan gets an earful between the screams and the justifications. And then he does what he always does except last night I was more awake than usual.

I told him to come back tomorrow and we'll talk, Lochlan mumbles. It's a panacea. It's a verbal benzodiazepine. It's an unhealthy crutch and a shortcut and a curse. It's dangerous, is what it is, but it works really well and we're all about getting it done here on Perdition point.

I lay there silently exploring the dark after that. Eyes open, pupils wide. Waiting. Waiting for Jacob. Waiting for light so I could get up. Waiting for the sugar in my blood to burn off and be replaced by exhilaration. Waiting for something that would never come, as it was a lie told in the dark to soothe a small child.

As always.

Today is a profoundly sad aftermath. I even went out and looked at the porch and tried to picture Jake standing there. I wondered if he would like it. If he would appreciate our point and the four houses here and the army that never stands down. I wonder if he would like that fact that the biggest gifts Caleb ever gave me besides suspicion, distrust and complete ruin were a beach and a commune of my very own because it is quite literally the least he could do. I wonder if they would still try to kill each other on the spot. I wonder if Jake would tell me I've changed. I wonder what he would think to learn he was a father after all. That's probably the biggest one right there. The irony above ironies. The straw that broke my heart over again. The thing he wanted most.

But now he is a prisoner inside my dreams and Lochlan's lies and there are no windows or doors so he can never get out and I'm making a weird peace with that, even if it's only moment by moment, instead of year over year. The tempo runs slowly. Too slowly for my liking but also way too fast, always.

Jesus hot rocks.

I had a rare date planned with Sam this morning and almost flaked on him wholly. He suggested we have an early sauna talk and then a quick swim. It's been eight degrees and threatening rain for days so of course I said sure. 

Then this morning I stalled until I knew he would be there and have already fired the sauna up until it's so warm I want to throw up. Getting there, however, was still difficult because I put on my bikini and the usual routine is to just stroll over but I'm not strolling in a bikini when it's eight degrees so I grabbed a wrap from the hooks by the patio doors. It's a mess of random life jackets, pool noodles, flannel shirts, someone's hoodie who doesn't live here (probably one of Henry's friends) and gardening tools. Plus a very expensive pashmina from Italy for chilly nights on the patio.

I frown at it. It's beautiful but it's not a pool wrap and unless I can put it on over my whole body forget it. I briefly contemplate making it into a pair of footie pajamas, which would be far more practical-

But there's no time. Sam is waiting for me.

My next thought is I will wear the inflatable T-Rex costume. Those are super-hot inside. But what a pain. (Though it would have been so funny to run across the lawn and jump into the sauna door in that, let me tell you. Always good for a laugh.)

So I trudged back upstairs and put on all of my clothes. Two sweaters. Lined jeans. Socks. Fuck it. Going in warm. Lochlan looks at me with half an eye open.

Cancelled? He mumbles. Comebacktobedmmm.

What? I say. At least that's what I think I heard. But he doesn't answer, he's out and I head back downstairs, throw on sneakers and head across the wet grass. Now my feet are wet and my hands are freezing. I get to the sauna and Sam is sitting inside like a vertical lobster, broiling himself silly. He looks so happy.

Purging evil? I laugh as I strip outside the door, leaving clothes all over the wet grass.

It's seeping out through every pore. He grins. Going snowshoeing after this?

If this cold brings snow then yes. I join him on the bench and we have a de facto therapy session, which involves him asking pointed questions, me telling lies and then finally changing the subject before he can call me out on them to being newlyweds and how everything is going.

Great, if you consider the fact that I got up at the crack of dawn to make some time to minister to you, pulling myself out of a warm bed containing my sexy husband to sit in a suffocatingly hot room and listen to you spin your yarns at me like I just fell out of the sky yesterday and don't even know you at all. Insulted is what I am right now.

I get up. About to slam some doors and break some hearts but the heat has sucked all the snot out of me. Fine. I am defeated. Let's go swim so you can at least be insulted from the deep end of the pool. And just so you know, Jesus would have let me off the hook minutes ago.

He bursts out laughing. Not in that bathing suit. Jesus would have burst into flames.

See all the people.

How can love survive in such a graceless age
The trust and self-assurance that lead to happiness
They're the very things we kill, I guess
Pride and competition cannot fill these empty arms
And the work I put between us,
You know it doesn't keep me warm

 You know when you wake up cold, nightmares and ghosts clawing you back to the dark with them, and you fight to get to the light, to get away from them? That was my morning, five or so, up with the birds, ghosts and 'mares, brushing the cobwebs of sleep away and then Lochlan pulled me in against his chest and I couldn't breathe there so he settled on his back, one arm around my neck, making tiny steeple-flames with his index fingers while I watched through bleary, teary eyes and sniffled constantly. Eventually he got too tired again and dozed and I slipped out of his arms and got ready for the day, ducking under a hot shower, then into clean warn clothes to head downstairs.

My phone is on the desk beside my laptop, lined up perfectly and the Devil sits at the kitchen island, sipping coffee, reading the market news. A second cup of coffee sits ready beside him at the next stool.

PJ up?

That's for you. He nods toward the cup. So what did you end up ordering?

An 11 pro max. Gold even. 512. Every bell and whistle I could get.

He laughs loudly. I would have expected no less.

You can't dole out pills. You're not in charge of them.

Maybe your husband gave it to me to give to you. You don't think we coordinate our efforts?

Of course I don't. Unless it's an emergency and it's not. Not right now anyway.

His eyes bore a hole into the side of my head while I climb up on the stool and get comfortable, taking a sip of the coffee. It's still hot. I'm still cold. Even without looking at him I can see how sad he looks.

Ironies and wine.

Sorry. Somehow I was assigned my own personal demon at a frighteningly early age and he's been here every since. It's hard to get around him to say things and so today's post is late. I also drew the 'mow the lawn' card which takes like five hours so take what you get, okay? Mowing consists of some brilliant idea I had to clean the mower first so it was shiny, then to wrestle it around. Then to get a rhythm only to have it broken by doubt when I look up to see six sets of eyes 'checking in', a trip out to me by Henry who offered to take over, a refusal to let him take over and then the finishing, which takes longer than the mowing, in which I hose down the whole point because it makes it look pretty.

I have a new rule, in case you noticed: Any time Caleb puts drugs in my food in the present tense, I will tell one of his past-tense awful stories. And the night before last I stopped in to see him, to return a book, his sweater and bring up his glasses, which were still on the table in the front hall. He offered a drink, red wine, as it was supposedly what he had on hand, in two different glasses, which should have been a red flag, and then Bridget got red wine + xanax and a quick trip to snoresville.

I drank the wine fast, because I had somewhere to be and then I wasn't anywhere, I was so dopey I asked if I could take a quick nap and when I woke up far too early in the morning with shaking hands I knew instantly what he pulled and we had a sunrise shouting match followed by a whole lot of threats, I went off and wrote about one of our Vegas trips, then we had a mid-afternoon shouting match followed by an evening of threats and I went to bed in tears and woke up to find all of my devices missing this morning.

So after mowing I had to go find them. I found my ipad, my laptop and my headphones. I did not find my phone yet. Ben can get it back for me later if it doesn't turn up. In return I left Caleb's bed full of grass clippings and have resolved to tell more stories louder if he doesn't fuck off with doing dangerous things like putting benzos in my alcohol and then not telling me. He insists my fighting weight means I won't make it off the bed let alone out of the house and it's perfectly safe and then in the next breath threatens to end it all just to make a point. I hand him off to the thug-boys (those who do my dirty work) and go cry while I look for my phone a little more and then I give up and go next door to wait out the day with Daniel.

Then I get madder so I come back, demand my phone, we reach an agreement about unwarranted drugs and unwarranted stories that don't need to be told (don't worry, I lied about agreeing to anything. Caleb probably did too) and it's been a long day so I'm probably just going to go take a xanax, have a glass of wine and go to sleep early.

Right.

Maybe if I do that I'll reverse time and my phone will appear back in the pocket of my dress. If not I'll just take the credit card he gave me and order a new, better one. And maybe a better demon, if I can find one.

When it's Love by Van Halen was playing on the radio when I woke up, that's why. Deja-fucking-vu. NOT TAKING IT DOWN. SORRY CALE.

Caleb's day at the tables proved to be lucrative. It put him in a good mood. We went up in the elevator to have room service. He had more champagne then food delivered and I mostly ignored my glass until he took my hand as I got up to go and get ready for the evening out. Fun time. My choice and I always choose dancing. It's the only time he ever loosens up. He pulls me in and picks up my glass, holding it to me.

Finish your drink.

I'm good.

Drink it, Neamhchiontach.

He's not being generous or sweet here. It's an order. I drink it. It takes me a couple of minutes to get it all down. Then he tenderly wraps his hand around the back of my head, gives me a kiss and then grips it hard with his hand. He's pulling my hair. I'm almost off my stilettos. He swings me in against his chest, locked in his arm and forces his hand up under my nose while he twists my hair harder still.

Breathe in, he growls at me and I sniff hard as he shoves his knuckle hard upward. Euphoria floods my bloodstream within minutes and I'm ready to go. But instead of taking me out he takes off my clothes and puts me up against the wall of glass, where he holds me up by the throat long enough to get off, and then tells me to get dressed.

That we have VIP at some club and we're late.

Do I care? I don't know if I do. He's thirty, he cares about his image. I'm nineteen and high as a fucking cloud right now. I don't think I care about anything other than being able to walk in these heels after that onslaught without looking like a limping colt.

And he's smeared my mascara in the process. I want to fix it but he says to leave it. That I look helpless and perfect. He holds out my silver slip dress and I put it back on. I grab my tiny purse and we head out. The only thing in it is a lip gloss and my lucky $100 chip.

We dance for hours and do two more bumps in the lounge between deliveries of more bottles of champagne. I feel like I could go for days. When we come back from the club he puts me up against the glass wall again but he's coked out and tired. We crash on the bed, enough energy to strip but nothing else. I fall asleep in a snow angel of discarded clothing. A cufflink imprints a pattern into my cheek while I sleep. A squared-off cylinder shape and a bruise.

When I open my eyes I hear him thanking someone. I roll to one side and he appears in the bedroom door.

Breakfast is here-Oh my God. Look at you.

That bad? I croak. My blood is racing. My head aches.

No. On the contrary. You look so small. As if the bed has eaten you alive.

I wish it would swallow me whole.

Don't wish for that, Neamhchiontach.

***

Almost thirty years later I watch him sleep and I still wish for the same damn thing and with all his money he still can't (or won't) give it to me. Sucks.

Communal efforts.

I picked up a new planner while we were out running errands on the weekend. I like to have a physical Calendar, a physical list and be organized and cute so I found a beautiful one from Recollections that says Shine Like Stars on the front and has a laminated cover FILLED with glitter. It comes with stickers and is good from July 2020 to December 2021 and it's all blues and greens and purples but pastel.

The best part is that I can't find the leak but every time anyone even looks at it it spills glitter everywhere.

Kind of like me.

We do share a Google calendar for important things and I have a big wall calendar that also holds important things but I am lo-fi, analog and always happier to use my pastel fruit-scented gel pens to record things in my own printing in an actual book that I can carry if I need.

I keep petting it and it releases more glitter into the room. This is great. I bet when the last spark of glitter is gone from the cover is when the book is finished.

***

We rented The Lodge last night. I had a mad crush on Thorin Oakenshield in The Hobbit so I figured a movie with Richard Armitage might be good. Also Alicia Silverstone is in it! She's great!

But no.

It wasn't great.

Well, it was great in an icky-feeling of dread kind of hey Hereditary and The Shining had a baby and it's The Lodge kind of way but I know one thing for sure. I'm never going to a remote cabin for Christmas. Ever. I also will never use laminate flooring on the walls, ceilings and doors because that was very fucking weird, dark and distracting during the movie. You know, WHAT WE COULD SEE OF IT because it was dark.

A solid 3/5 for rushing the predictable second-half plus Alicia was in it for two whole agonizing moments.

Definitely not a feel-good movie, but then again, I'm not a feel-good princess.

***

Bear poop in the driveway this morning. We think they came through the orchard. Caleb has turned the electric fence back on for the season and I am now forbidden to do gardening on the whole east side of the property alone which always makes me feel claustrophobic and childish.

I'll wear the bell, I plead. No one wants to go.

I'll go, he says. But wear the bell anyway. The look on his face says he is a bear, and that it's spring and he's hungry.

***

We ordered a new bed today! A new California king. Okay, three of them that get pushed together. But it was overdue, there are very obvious valleys and hills in ours because the springs are popped and the support is gone (HA). They should make heavy-duty mattresses for poly-sleepers. I need a bed that can hold up to five people on the reg, but at least three or four every night and that's a combined 450-550 or even more in pounds but after speaking with a bunch of salesman apparently all we can do is replace our mattresses more often than 'normal', which is 8-10 years.

So every four or five years? I ask

They were too red in the face to venture a guess. Lord! Some people are so uptight.

Down to the sound of a heartbeat.

Lucky for me I can't hear heartbeats. I asked Lochlan if he could and he looked at me rather strangely for a moment and then asked if I thought he could.

I shrug. I kind of hate it when he remembers that I can't hear regular things, like leaves rustling in wind and then there are other things that I think should make actual noise but apparently don't, like bubbles popping in a glass of champagne or combing your hair. Like curly hair would be crackly and rustling and straight hair would be a whooshing sound like a waterfall but not as thunderous.

I can hear fire if I listen very closely. I love the snaps of dry wood and leaves and the popping sound of oxygen bubbles in the flames so don't feel sorry for me, as I still have that.

I also have a lovely rendition this morning of Surfer Girl, sung in harmony by Lochlan and August with the ending howls and refrains by Sam and Matt, who arrived at the perfect moment.

Lochlan's been hover-ish and affectionate as always and I want for nothing more. He's goofy and entertaining and he doesn't let go. Most people will accept a hug (for a moment) or hold my hand until they get hot/weird/distracted but Lochlan's always been on a different plane of existence with tenderness for me. A hug means suddenly you're walking into someone everywhere you go. You have four legs and no arms. You can't see but shirt buttons and curls. You're warm all the time. Holding my hand means I am permanently connected. He can go without letting go of my hand for an entire day or a whole night, in his sleep even. He will excuse himself to let go to deal with something and then he's right back. At least once a week he will absentmindedly try to put my hand in his pocket for safekeeping.

It's endearing and it's very necessary as over the years it became as important as oxygen or water and he's never once failed to hold up his end of a lifelong promise in that it didn't matter who I was in love with or how angry he was at me, or to be fair who HE was in love with or how angry I was at him, that affection could still be counted on however long or whenever it was needed.

Our love story is a circle, full and round.

It's Sunday which is the Most! Righteous! Day! Of! The! Week! according to Sam who is anxious to get off the mic and back into the church but that is next week. Every second bench has been taped off and people have been divided into groups according to the alphabet so if your family name is A-M, please come to the early service which has been moved to 1030 and if you're N-Z please come to the 1130 service. Both services are going to be a lot shorter than usual and there will be no greetings in the vestibule. Any requests for home visits or hospital are now on the community minister which puts Sam out of the line of fire for getting sick and Matt is relieved.

New Jacob even brought home the collection plates and instead built a box for envelopes that will be at the back of the sanctuary so offerings can be made as people arrive. That's how to shorten a service, let me tell you. I think passing the plates is stupid and lengthy and that's why we fill them with silly things. But instead of helping sway Sam to give up the practice (I don't think hardly any churches do it anymore) it encouraged him to continue it to see what we come up with next.

So Sam blessed our heathen foreheads and gave me an extended dance around his outstretched hand, like a true ballerina and then they were off for a Sunday drive and maybe some take-out to finish out their final honeymoon weekend and I am twirled back to Lochlan who doesn't like church anyway and will have to be cajoled back to worship, which won't be hard if the rest of them go, honestly. He used to love sitting under the tent outside at the show listening to the preacher who would come and give a twenty minute service to the performers early Sundays. We would sit in the heat and fan our faces, his arm looped loosely across the back of my shoulders and nod with each heavy thought but then things happened and he stopped believing that God even existed and it's been a battle ever since.

Then what makes your heartbeat so loud? I ask him triumphantly and he surprises me.

You do.