Back from the brink of the world.

(Hey, so yesterday's post is literally just an old war wound I needed to lick for a second and is not directed at anyone currently living here on the point, so don't assume. You can, however, assume I am fine and dealing with residual anger as it pops up. That's all, and sometimes I use this for a word-dump and I'm sorry if you arrived fresh as a daisy from breakfast and looking for entertainment. 

Also I didn't put a trigger warning on it because I don't do that, the whole site is a trigger warning. Hell, I am a trigger warning but again, thank you for the emails of concern. It's nice to have people out there who care.)

(Also had a week-long nonstop anxiety attack in there that almost did me in completely.)

I'm making an old favourite this morning, cocoa-molasses cookies (a variation on the recipe here) and trying to find a copy of the Violet Evergarden movie to watch, now that I've finished season one, the bonus episode and the special. Gosh, it's right up my alley. She and her gloves and her typewriter and her broken heart. I kind of wish I could whip off my hat and show mechanical ears the way she takes off her gloves to show her prosthetic arms but at the same time maybe not. 

I had a good laugh with Dalton over the fact that every character who carries a bag in these shows always always has an orange messenger bag that's completely nondescript. It's funny because I have an orange messenger bag and everyone comments on it and I love it so much. It's loud and ridiculous and matches nothing I own but it's also exactly something I would carry now that I no longer carry a designer bag. I gave them up and never looked back. I like function over form.

Dalton was a warm heart to curl up against this morning when I came in from running around the yard with the dog, who slept well and had the super-zoomies and wouldn't you know it, so did I and it was four less than zero out and they're calling for all kinds of snow this week upcoming but that's okay. It gets dark at five-thirty at night now and it's bright before I can finish my coffee each morning and I have hope because winters here are easier still than anywhere else. 

Caleb says that's why he moved us here. Easiest winter without leaving the country, or we would live in the Canaries right now, or Monaco or Sicily but since I won't leave Canada this is it, though it may not be forever. Our ten year plan is complete, the new five-year plan is now under way and then some big changes may take place, as that's what we've decided and it's not for sharing now but perhaps later. Ruth and Henry won't live at home forever but while they do everything stays the same so they have that glorious, underrated security and that's the takeaway here. 

Feeling safe.

The imposters were found out immediately but the charade has persisted through the years. Outward perfection. Perceived wealth. Oneupmanship, a sport as revered as any in these circles, where family tragedy was to be quashed down into a manageable, historical denial and the hype train rattles on. There's horror underneath every fresh coat of paint, and the lights we shine upon the hard parts are fuelled with gas. Designer labels and the exhausting pretense has left me cold, as I realized so early on that it was all so horribly wrong.

No, actually it left me angry, not cold. Learning how to reverse engineer support, belief, warmth and encouragement is an impossible task now and the efforts to try and escape the quicksand of compulsive perfection and ultimately endless failure is a gift that should not be wished upon anyone, ever. All of it could have been fixed with simple acknowledgement or extra effort but back then one didn't look inward, you didn't look behind you as you ran (something I always do, no matter what, even if it means landing on my face) and you certainly aren't going to go and talk to anyone about the fact that you were the one that found him swinging from the rafters in the garage when you were of such a formative year, were you? 

No, because you can always slap on another coat of paint over that and just carry on, right?

I was already fucked up before you gave me to the wolves and yet that doesn't matter one bit, does it? 

My entire life now dedicates itself to changing history and fixing all of the worn spots, so that this doesn't happen again. Twice as much work for me because you wouldn't do any at all.

Jar of hearts, almost but also I may just get out a jar because it would make so much sense.

There is a glass bowl full of foil-wrapped hearts on the big table in the kitchen. That table is sort of a catch-all. People paint and draw there. I do the budget there. It's where we spill over doing meal prep if we run out of counter space. It's where we dump our bags or personal things after leaving coats and boots and shoes in the front hall. It's where packages that have been delivered are left for their recipients and it's the first area of the house decorated for any upcoming holiday in the form of treats left out for anyone passing by. The table itself is a heavy thick maple with rough-sanded planks and a bench on each side with a wooden armchair at each end. It can sit ten for a meal and looks like a set piece from the top of the wall in game of Thrones. It's probably my favorite piece of furniture just for the variety of use it sees every single day and now it's decorated again for the first time since Christmas. 

One more appointment this afternoon and I have a few days free on the other side of it. I can't wait. There's been like twenty things to look after at the end of January into February and I forgot that I hate being super busy. 

Wish me luck.

Peaking at twelve hundred metres above sea level.

Five kilometres, straight up in the snow. Ridiculous incline. Coffee at the top and then the hard part, coming back down. Up is so easy. The reward of being at the top is so beautiful, I look forward to it. The punishment of my knees on the way down almost crushing. Coffee again at the bottom. The backs of my hands are so cold I am almost crying but the tired I feel is a physical exhaustion and it's such a beautiful change from the emotional (heavy) tiredness I am profoundly grateful. 

Sam baptizes us with snow and then saltwater. He smiles warmly as he does it, grateful also for the change of scenery. It's hard to believe we went straight from this peak back to a mountain of chores, but with all hands on deck we aced that too even as it involved a major bathroom repair, a truckload run across town and some electronics rejigging to make sure all of the property cameras worked, as two had stopped. We walked the dog, celebrated Henry's school victory and now I plan to sleep like the ghosts do tonight because that was incredible.

Pajamas and brandy at seven? Lochlan smiles. He loved today too. 

Hell, yes, I confirm. Who's going to turn that down?

In the quiet.

Not a wailer. I don't cry out loud. I flood into my sadness like a rogue wave, drowning in tears and pain and I try to swallow myself up into a little ball. I don't make a sound. I don't cry out loud. I don't cry out loud. That's either the way I'm built or it's a reaction to early instructions, gun against my temples, told that it would be safer both for me and those I love if I didn't make a sound and so I don't. 

They hate it. I didn't say enough at breakfast and got called out hard. I didn't make enough noise, didn't give a good reaction to a great plan. I sat, holding my triangle of toast with cheese with both hands, staring out the window as Jacob paced on the point. I'm having trouble getting rid of him, as my mind doesn't want him anywhere in our sights but my heart won't let him go so there he is and there he stays. 

Lochlan is having a sleeves-rolled-up, all-business sort of morning, hair tied back in a ponytail, low against his neck, probably wondering how to do battle against the nine-foot ghosts of my past in the bright sunshine of an early Saturday afternoon without the collateral damage of whatever inevitable lobotomy might occur afterwards. I would welcome it, he would not. He said I have a mirth, a light he never ever wants to be without. A tender presence that means his world and he's not going to lose, he said.

He said he'll make the ghosts go away, not because he wants to punish me but because he wants to help. 

Jacob comes up and taps on the window. Time is money. Am I coming out? Am I going to put up with this guy calling the shots? I can infer all sorts of attitude from that one knuckle-rap on the glass. 

I nod. Of course I am. Lochlan is everything and Jacob knows this. The minute Jacob was gone, Lochlan took back over again and he's determined to get it right this time and legally, hierarchically, and reasonably I believe him, and so does everyone else.

Watch over me.

Neither awake nor asleep I am on the steep edge in between, arms out, fairly confident in my balancing abilities, walking the line between dreams and life, as always. 

Jacob slides my bangs away from my eyes with his thumb. 

Morning, Princess. Nice to see you sleep. 

Drugs, I mumble, still clinging to that edge and not ready to pick a side. Issinevitable, Pooh.

Necessary evil. He kisses my knuckles, reading them with a strange look. Not sure in the end that he actually adored my tattoos or simply put up with them. I should show him the big X on my abdomen if he wants to really be surprised. 

Mmmmm. I turn away from him, back toward Lochlan, who is out like a light. 

A kiss bounces off the back of my head as I fall back into a shallow sleep and I forget to pay attention. He is there. I have to acknowledge him but if I don't is he actually there? He can be Schrodinger's Jacob and I can be in denial. I'm not actually crazy if I don't tell anyone I talk to him in the most unscheduled ways now. He just flits in and out of my days or nights like a will o' the wisp and I have to focus or he's gone again. I'm only doing this to remember his voice or the way his eyes crinkle right up when he smiles, right? I'm only doing this so I don't have to acknowledge that he's gone, across the marsh with the geese and into the dim twilight again, flooding me with a homesick cure, burying me alive. 

In the actual morning I wake up, the ledge is far off in the distance, depth of field putting it behind the fog and Lochlan is in front of the ghosts, who bide their time and their directives, left by me in another life but still holding and will never change. I keep my enemies close but my ghosts even closer and Jacob looks concerned but satisfied that Lochlan is jumping through Sam and August's hoops to keep me on track, so I don't go right off the rails. 

Where? (Crap, I'm busted.)

By the stables, just in front of the blackberries. 

And the other? 

On the roof. 

Far enough to be safe. He has his own ideas and I don't understand his any better than he understands mine. 

An open letter and a lot of freezing.

 Dear hearts,

I hope this missive finds you well. I am not dead. Instead I got roasted. Instead of being angry, Caleb was flattered and laughed about it all evening. Too bad, I was looking forward to my overhand flight into the sea but apparently he only gets angry if I act too stupid in front of him or more curiously, not stupid enough.

If you want clarity about the deal, there's a fine line between being crafty and then being shrewd enough to be able to ask open, honest questions that create a need for transparency and hard answers from the other party. They will realize you are smart, but perhaps not sophisticated and so instead of pretending to know everything and play along, it's much better to play confused and call it all out so that it is laid down step by step and there's no chance of ambiguity or coyness later. 

Works for me. *shrug*

Besides, he points out that our age difference is slightly less than a decade and perfectly acceptable so it's not really a 'daddy' thing. 

*'Mkay.*

In other news, I had a fountain pen explode in my hands this morning and spent this afternoon getting a thousand dollars worth of dental work done. I lost a filling a few weeks ago and then part of one of my big baby molars went with it and boy, that was fun. I hurt so I'm going to whine at PJ while he takes dinner shift. Have a good night.

Perpetually and decidedly not yours, 

Toothy Miss B.

Just checking in to say it's been an absolute pleasure. LOL

Caleb got a little too glowy-crowy this afternoon, picking at Lochlan just sharply enough to make me annoyed. That's almost the worst kind of mad for me because I get frustrated and stubborn and easily flustered. So when his phone rang and it was on the table he asked if I could grab it as he was talking to Lochlan (or I should say boasting) and so I did and it was his senior lawyer, the partner just checking in to congratulate him once again. 

I answered Caleb's phone with the name of his holdings company, as one does when you're not the phone owner and it's business. 

Ah. Good afternoon. Bridget, is it? How are you?

I'm fine, thank you for asking. How are you today?

Can't complain. Listen, is Caleb close by? 

Sure thing, just one moment. 

I laid the phone face up on the table and yelled, Daddy! Phone! 

When he's off the phone he's probably going to throw me out to sea.

Wicked true.

 Oh my God. I think I prefer days where being in pajamas is optional and I can throw logs on the fire until they're all gone and then let myself be hypnotized into the ether. This rare alternative now smacks of cruelty and charge as I stand in front of the fridge at two-thirty this afternoon in my work dress, stilettos on, ipad case under one arm, stabbing at some cold rice and chicken while propping the fridge door open. I don't have time to heat it up, don't have time for more than a couple of bites because someone had an emergency meeting and then one ran super-long and so help me, I told Caleb if I wasn't home before the mass exodus of traffic hits the ninety-nine, just after dark at suppertime, there will be a reckoning the likes of which he's never seen before and will never ever forget.

(Spoiler: We made it. It's four thirty-nine and he has volunteered pajamas and brandy and take out. I have declined in favour of pajamas, pot roast, broccoli and diet Dr. Pepper.)

Besides, third fucking set of meetings* in a little over a week and I don't need to be there. He just wants something to look at when he's bored and someone else is talking, wants to stir the pot with Lochlan by taking me away for the whole day and wants to liven up his life for it is so quiet now without the two-thousands techbro music, cocaine and Russian prostitutes, all ordered and then written off by corrupt former frat-boy bosses anxious to live the Wolf Life. 

It makes me laugh. Caleb now lives with a women who buys living lettuce and sews her own aprons, who has a long list of lovers and he is weirdly not even at the top. I hate techno, cocaine AND Russian prostitutes (or from anywhere, for that matter) and as I've said before, if you're going to write something off on my watch better make sure you qualify.

I feel like I was designated Caleb's conscience when I was still in Grade 5 and he's been running flat out ever since, unaccountable, unchecked. 

Except he's an old man now, quick to anger, quick to be placated. 

What do you think, Bridget?  

Suddenly I'm being taken seriously? Right. I bite the end of my pen so they can see my sharpened milkteeth and spout off a bimbo reply. It's on purpose and it gets the polite laughter and Caleb's eyes flash so dark I am shocked as I return my gaze to my agenda. 

He wraps it up fairly quickly and I am steered, by the arm, stilettos on snow and gravel, back to his car. It's a short-term lease. So am I. Limited mileage (HA) overpowered (WAIT NO) and ridiculously overpriced (HAHAHA YEAH). Sparkly paint job (INDEED). He loves it. He swears under his breath but doesn't throw me in the seat, instead waiting patiently for me to get situated and then he closes the door gently. I already had my punishment. This is merely payback.

Once home he disappears to his study upstairs and I find my flannel pajamas. Going to wear them to dinner and start a new fashion trend. Crank up the heat and find Lochlan, who pours me a glass of wine and asks how it went. Caleb returns just at that moment and we grin at each other. 

Mission accomplished. Four trips into the city, two pair of ruined stilettos and one very good deal now done. He owes me so big now I can probably rename the moon. Taking them all with me when I do. The sad part here is the dumber I act the more they let me get away with (the lawyers, not the boys).

 *(nothing to be alarmed about. We were offered a price for some real estate Caleb has held for a long time, one he didn't plan to sell but seriously for that sort of figure I would hand off my soul again but in playing it cool and being all super nostalgic and wistful about it in the end we walked away with far more than the original offer and I'm still forever pinching myself when I'm rolling high. Get it? High-rolling? Ha.)

Perfecting strengths (and I never looked back with the same eyes again).

(Movements change first, then the narrative that you file away without fail, then finally the emotions come on board and when that happens you will feel so much better. 

August promised me this and I understood him and look forward to my efforts ringing with reward. It's such a slow process. I have a tendency to be so destructive it's bloody unreal. He said I need to stop expecting things to change overnight. I don't. At least I didn't think I was. Maybe I am.)

I did it right. Breathing didn't work and so I called in the biggest support and the first person I go to and then we did distracting, physical things and then I had some focus in dismantling all of our muddy gear, muddy trucks, ruined shoes, freezing fingers and then it felt satisfying to look at the photos we took and talk about plans for the next time and with that the contentment settled in and I felt a huge reprieve from the endless panic as of late.

This morning Lochlan played and sang Slightly Defect Hands and then Into the Fire and I brought my coffee over and sat with him because he sounded so beautiful. 

We had a great night, truth be told. Watched all the shows we're all keeping track of. Went up and had a long hot bubble bath together followed by s'mores and brandy in bed by the fire and then we didn't sleep all night. He wanted a second inspection of me, the first being a cursory check for catastrophic wounds and this one merely for imprints and bruising. 

He didn't find a thing and I'm not sure if he struggled with that. I know I would, as it's easier to find a concrete reason to hate someone who could be devouring the love of your life versus treating her gently, which implies love and only serves to catalyze jealousy into the opaque green glass of Lochlan's eyes, fusing him into a frustrated stasis. Caleb loves doing this and is playing with him, though when called on it denied it up and down. All it will serve to do is keep me away from him, and he won't be Saturday Night anymore for a long time. I don't fuck with that, sorry. Not going to put Lochlan through that. I follow his feelings in this case and leave my own at the door.

The night was unspeakably perfect. We have a routine and it's beautiful and by the time the sun rises the whole world is blooming with new love built on top of the original and it's so overwhelming I can't even describe it today but it's almost as if we have to rip each other to shreds in order to find our way closer to each other. Everyone says it's because of history but I always feel like we're trying to strip each others' skin off in order to fuse our veins and even our bones together into one.

(He starts in on Suddenly. I think I might burst.)

You can't do that, Peanut. 

Hush. Keep singing. I love this. 

Follow your own heart. 

I am!

You know what I mean. 

Right. Keep playing. Please.

Love you, Peanut. 

I love you too, Locket. 

God, I'm so tired. 

Me, too.