Two syllables and one saint.

(Here, have at it, Sunday's entry, out of order, unedited, unfuckingbelievable. I am a lunatic.)

    Snapping into fragments under stress has become a recipe for disaster, one we cook often, with miserable results that leaves everyone hungry and foraging for comfort. And hey! There are always seconds, and leftovers. Our appetites are insatiable..and yes, what the fuck am I spending time on this simile for?

    Jacob's friend Sam has a fabulously stinging theory about how and why I came to be so fragile and self-destructive like this, after the fact. He also thinks I'm addicted to sex. He can be positively engaging when I'm speaking to him at all, which is something he would take as a come-on, so nevermind.

    Bridget would never act out if she were in pain, would she? No more than people cut. Or take drugs or drink or..oh wait.

    Go away.

    Blowed right off, the steam it did.

    And I'm not leaving the flannel today. No sir.

    Neverafuckinggain, okay, Jakey? I'm sorry, baby. We fucked up so bad. I know I should listen to you but you scared me so I ran and hid. And if it hadn't been for that he would probably have left me this weekend. But he won't because he loves me and I made him prove it.

    Sullen girl. He can't forgive himself for scaring me. It was bad. He blames me for so little and I doubt it's fair but we're still working it out. We hurt each other magnificently and neither of us know how it even started. Maybe it was building for a while, for our life together is a mess of unresolved issues and sure, we've found a comfort level but everything is still...there.

    I left Saturday evening without touching the mess in the hallway-the explosion of broken glass and splintered wood from where he broke down the door with his bare hands, I'll let him fix it.

    (Just a door, Bridget.)

    I stood on the steps for mere seconds before that sleek evil-looking black car came gliding silently down the snowy road. The driver exited and came around, opening the rear door for me. Deja fucking vu for the fragile Miss Bridget, naturally.

    When I entered the car, the devil kissed the palm of my hand (too intimately) and complimented me and it sounded so fucking fake I swore at him and told him I had had a long day and when he was finished threatening me with his lawyers and knocking me down with Cole's ghost (all around me) he could just leave me alone already. He pointed out my beautiful diamond necklace and my long eyelashes then remarked that I was very good at fooling men into falling in love with me because so many have.

    I had a drink in the car. No, I had two. Which makes three if you count the one I finished before I left the house.

    I wasn't drunk enough not to notice that Caleb hadn't brought the letter with him when he came to the house. I was drunk enough to be the bad Bridget.

    He smelled like cigars and he was half-cocked himself on something flammable and on being very close to me again. It turns out he's been a proud member of the Saturday Night Cigar club here for a few months now, meeting the boys (my boys) once a month downtown to indulge in expensive stogies and even more expensive single malts at a men-only club. Jacob has attended a few times but has no interest in cigars and less in the alcohol habit and yet one of my favorite smells in the world is lingering cigar smoke, probably because it's one of the things that reminds me of Cole. Everything reminds me of Cole, especially Caleb, who also surprised me by showing up with the beginnings of a beard and dressed almost casually. Which just made him look a little more Cole-ish and put me a little further on edge for the night.

    He said we would swing by the hotel to get the letter. So I was angry but I agreed, and when we arrived and went upstairs he even went so far as to pretend that I planned to stay in the hallway, knowing full well I wouldn't.

    At this point I'm not sure if I did it 1) to prove to Caleb that I wasn't afraid, 2) to prove to Jacob that I could be trusted, or 3) to prove to all three of us that yes, I am really that foolish after all.

    Let's go with number three. Bad things happen in threes.

    I went inside his suite, and Caleb closed the door behind me.

    Why did you come in, Bridget?

    I want the letter.

    I could have brought it back down to the car.

    You could have mailed it, but you want to use it as an excuse to see me again, alone. I'm not dumb, Caleb.

    Maybe you are, Bridget. You're alone with me and your giant husband, I'm willing to bet, is having apoplexy right now. Why did he let you come tonight?

    This isn't about Jacob. Just give me the letter.

    You left my brother to be with Jake. Why does this letter mean anything to you now?

    It's addressed to me and so it was meant for me, so if you want to just hand it over, I can leave.

    Maybe there's a price for it.

    Tell me you really didn't just go there again, Caleb.

    He didn't respond, instead he pressed me up against the door, pinning my hands down exactly as I like it and he leaned down to kiss my mouth and I bit him. I swore at him and then I held my breath because I wasn't sure I knew Caleb well enough to guess his moves. Unless he's more like Cole than I hoped.

    You know you want to go there.

    I'm not going anywhere with you. Don't you get it? I don't want you.

    This isn't about wanting me, this is about experiences I can give you that you still clearly miss.

    Too late.

    He won't.

    Oh, he does. (I was lying.)

    You're lying to save your sweet little ass.

    I don't have to. I've already been saved.
    Then I saw the letter on the table and I went over and picked it up. Caleb followed me and trailed his hand down my neck and whispered to me, his breath so hot on my head as he captured my hands again. My sound was fading out, I was drowning all of the sudden.

    He won't ever know, Bridget. No man can be one hundred percent of everything you need, you've proven that to yourself already.

    He is.

    Then why are you here?

    I was underwater again as he pulled my hands behind my back. He kissed a line from my neck down between my shoulder blades and then turned me around and pinned my hands up over my head with one hand against the wall while the other found my throat. His lips crushed into my mouth and I could taste his drink, and more importantly his cigar.

    (The fucking cigar. The whiskers, his hands, oh God so close Cole I'm so close to you right now.)

    Cole used to love a cigar after dinner once or twice a month, it was familiar and I let go just enough to forget that Caleb wasn't Cole.

    I returned his kiss with tears running down my face and he let go of my hands and put both hands on my neck and he wouldn't let me breathe anymore and then he let go and I had an outlet for my fucked up misery. I found myself trying to untie his tie while he kissed me and he ran his hands all over me, all over my dress looking for a way to get it off. He forced my hands down again and then let go again while he struggled with his shirt, still with the cigar-soaked kisses, desperate, fucked-up.

    He was driving me crazy. Oh God justleavemyhandsandmyheadaloneplease.

    You won't regret this, princess.

    I surfaced. Like a fucking rocket. More sober than I have ever been.

    Get OFF! Get off me! Oh, Jesus, Caleb, GET OFF!

    He froze with me locked in his arms.

    Oh, I get it, no one else can use your nickname.

    Caleb, just let go of me!
    I whacked him in the side of the head and he let go but he kept my wrist in his hand so I couldn't go anywhere. Just like old times.

    Oh, not now. I've waited for this night for a long time, and you can't come in here and then stop short. It doesn't work that way.

    I promised you nothing.

    So we'll call it a favor. Your own dirty little secret.

    I'm leaving, Caleb. So let go. Do you want me to scream?

    Scream and I'll knock you out. And then you won't even get to enjoy your fetishes while I fuck you.

    I thought you were civilized.

    I thought you would be more fun, like you used to be.

    I have made a terrible, horrible, awful mistake.

    I have to go home, Caleb. I'm expected soon.

    Then you'd better get started. He dropped my hand. You don't leave until I get what I want.

    You can't be serious.

    I told you I was.

    Oh my God. Why are you doing this?

    You picked the wrong guy to play games with.

    I didn't come here for games, Caleb.

    Of course you did. You knew we'd be alone. Why else did you kiss me?

    I felt upset and reckless and I fucked up. I've been drinking-

    Oh stop hiding behind your lost-little-girl charade and tell me what you're going to do now that Jacob isn't around to rescue you?

    I want to go.

    Then let me make love to you and you can go.

    No, Caleb, don't do this. He'll kill you and I hurt him enough tonight by coming here.

    I'll worry about Jacob. You worry about you, princess.

    You're a monster, just like your brother was.

    Oh, don't play coy now, little Bridget. Have some fun, kick back and enjoy it. You never know, you might want to come back for more next time I'm here.
    I stood there shaking uncontrollably and wishing I hadn't ever tried to come alone to get the letter. He stood expectantly while I plotted an escape.

    And so I used what I had. Our own history and the knowledge that they're a lot alike.

    I took off my coat and let it fall to the floor. My dress followed and I stood there in my slip. Caleb whistled and stared and I closed my eyes. He stood up and took off his shirt and took me in his arms. I ached where his skin touched mine and I had to force myself not to recoil. He steered me over to the bed again and pushed me down on it, kissing me while he fumbled for his belt. I was shivering and sniveling and miserable and unresponsive and he looked at me with disgust and then he backhanded me across the face.

    Oh God, it hurt like all hell and it didn't hurt at all compared the risk I had just taken with my marriage.

    You've supposed to be enjoying this.

    I shook my head and turned my head to the wall, lifeless, my cheek burning. He let go of me and he turned away for a minute. When he turned back he was agitated, yelling at me suddenly.

    Don't you know what you do to me? How do you expect me to have any self control when you're tempting me all the time? I wanted to give you everything and you're ruining it! It's been five years, Bridge!

    And then I saw what had upset him so much. His inability to get, or stay excited. Because Bridget the fantasy was dead. A doll. Inanimate. Who didn't speak or move.

    He got up and dressed quickly. Buttoning his shirt with one hand he reached over with the other and hauled me right off the bed by my arm and pushed me toward the door. He tossed my dress and coat at me.

    Get dressed, you little fucking whore, and get out of here.

    I pulled my things on and he threw the letter at me and then he went into the bathroom and slammed the door.

    And I ran without looking back. It worked. Same way it worked with Cole-in order to be left alone all I had to do was pretend I wasn't there.

    They don't get what Jacob gets, they never did and they never will.

    When I exited the front door of the hotel, Caleb's driver was there waiting to take me home and home I went. The house was quiet. I went in and Jacob met me inside the porch, his arms wide open for me. I told him he was right, I am dumb. He just shook his head, defeated. Worried. But no longer angry (at me). Ashamed, relieved, curious. Scared to death. Every emotion I could check off a list in his eyes. And this night was deja vu. He'd have an outlet for all of that unspent rage soon enough. When I told him what I almost did. But first the letter.

    He had to finish cleaning up the mess from the door, too.

    I flew upstairs with my coat still on and ran a hot bath. I was still shivering, I just wanted to get warm and get the smell of cigars off me.

    I wanted to be with Cole in private.

    I stepped into the tub and sat down and I opened up Cole's envelope and with shaking fingers I unfolded the page within and I couldn't hold on to it with the violent wracking sobs my body was sending out in relief from the fear of Caleb and I dropped the letter into the bathwater.

    Dropped it.

    Strike three. Or is that five? Eight?

    (Bridget's lost count, the stupid whore.)

    When I picked it up the words had bled across the page in a blur of ink like midnight infringing on a ray of sunlight and all I could make out was,


        My Beautiful Bri

        I know you don
        ny things w


    I broke. In the dark and the cold I broke all into tiny little fucking pieces.

    When Jacob came up to the bathroom at last I was still there, sitting in a now-cold tub full of water, still holding the ruined letter and crying so hard I had begun to hyperventilate. He got me out, got me wrapped in my robe and then he went and found me a glass of brandy (fourJakeyIcan'thavefour) from somewhere and I told him what had happened. All of it. I didn't blame anyone but myself this time because I put myself there, with Caleb, on purpose.

    Hysterical. Not in the funny way but in that frightening Ican'tbreatheJakehelpme way.

    I was allowed to drink all of it. I did. Rather quickly and boom! So fucked up and so relieved that he wasn't screaming at me anymore because he was so relieved.

    He put the letter up to dry in hopes that it might be legible in the morning. Hope against hope. And I fully expect him to fly out shortly and murder Caleb, who has already flown back to Toronto, coward that he is. He's not that stupid that he would stick around and wait for Jacob to kill him. Little does he know Loch will probably kill him when he arrives. And he won't ever come back. I told you Bridget had an army. Too bad half of them are traitors and the other half who are so loyal it burns me are too busy looking after me to actually fight this fight.

    But can I blame them for me?

    (It's all your fault, Bridget.)

    Drunk. Clean.

    Safe.

    And at this point I'm thinking of writing my autobiography, or maybe I already am, but instead of calling it Saltwater Princess I'll call it, How To Do Everything Wrong and it can be the story of a girl writer who had demons longs before they morphed into flesh and blood and somehow that made her just crazy enough. Just enough for her very own take on madness/genius, Cole.

    Are you listening anymore when I talk in my head? Huh, Baby? Can you still listen in on my thoughts?

    Because wrong. All of it, it was just wrong.

    The letter was still illegible when it dried. Jake sat on the bed while I sipped from his coffee cup this morning and tears poured down my face and then his too and I realized I wasn't even able to pretend I was fine anymore, after acting it out for so long, I suddenly forgot my lines. He can't fix me now, in spite of his relief that our marriage is intact, that Caleb didn't get what he wanted.

    I didn't get what I came for, either.

    Redemption, absolution, forgiveness and grace. Something, anything. Acknowledgment that I mattered to Cole in this lifetime. Tell me I fucking mattered to him. Someone, please.

    The amazing thing here is that I could have lied. I could have not said anything to Jake, Caleb certainly wouldn't have, or I could have downplayed it, and hell, I would love to protect him from this kind of betrayal but I didn't, I was brave. I was strong. I took responsibility for fucking up on purpose and I risked it all for that closure because if you don't have truth then there's nothing. Trust doesn't come from gloss, it doesn't come from sparing pain and it doesn't come promises you break. Jacob taught me that much. And it seems sad that the person responsible for every happiness and ounce of spontaneous joy is the one you run from and then the one upon which you exact your misguided revenge.

    When we fell asleep he shook so hard. He held me in his arms and I could feel them tremble as he fought within himself to find some self-control, to rake in the emotions that were bubbling up again, to put his impulses aside. Which is kind of hard when someone you know threatens, molests and then strikes your wife. Very hard. I don't think he's going to be able to pull it off. It's worse when your wife very openly wanted one last chance with someone who hurt her every single day even though he wasn't even in that room. He might as well have been.

    It's hard to live with the fucked up princess and Jacob says that last night made him feel like he felt for the many years straight that he knew I was somewhere in a place I shouldn't be, being hurt and being threatened and half liking it too and he doesn't know what to do anymore but that he understands that he drove me out when he scared me so bad, I very briefly lost my knight and so I went looking for something, anything, that would bring a familiar feeling, even if it wasn't a good or healthy or a safe familiar.

    He understands me when I don't understand me. I don't understand why I have so much anxiety, why I can act out sexually, why I can take risks and land on my feet without being in charge of fuck-all and then I can turn around and efficiently do my work and run this household just well enough to stay out of the radar of the men in the white coats.

    It's one hell of a talent. I wonder how long it'll hold, guys.

    And now you can hate me if you want but you can't judge me until you've been chased, screaming in fear around the furniture by someone as big as Jacob when he's angry at you when he's never acted like that before since you married him. I think we both cracked up and it was a long time coming for him. For me it's been a daily battle that I'll probably wage for the rest of my life. I never think I miss Cole as much as I do until I let myself wish he was still here. And maybe this is why Jacob was so upset, he feels as if he's always going to come in second. Even though he won so long ago I don't know why this even happened.

    Last night I asked Jacob what he would have done had he caught me and he said he didn't know.

    That's why I did it.

    This morning I asked him again, and he said he would have held on very very tight.

    Cue broken girl part two, the return. Oh, wait, no she was still here, in a newly made vision of a fresh hell.

    I'm glad he figured it out. Now someone please help me tie him down so that he doesn't go after Caleb, because my flimsy argument that I caused this isn't holding up very well and I don't think Jacob is thinking through the possibilities quite thoroughly enough as he plots murder.

    Like we haven't been here before.

    Forgiven too easily by the one that I love.

(So he forgave me, but I'm guessing no one else will, and it's fine, because you don't know Bridget the way Jacob does.)

Boo.

I'm here and I don't feel like writing. Watch as this becomes a page and a half.

A lot of people were scared for me, needlessly. Never once did I say Jacob didn't have a temper and a bit of a streak of passionate...er..opinion on things. He does, but very rarely do I ever see it. He prefers to indulge in very quiet, smoldering anger with me that involves less talking and a lot of glaring. Or a lot of he-knows-better talking.

And then once every couple of years we have a knock-down dragged-out chase-Bridget-around-a-table-while-she-screams-and-he-hollers type of argument in which yes, we get remarkably out of control. Over nothing we can later identify intelligently. Sometimes we just do and then we're fine for a few more years. He would never ever hurt me. We both know that and at no time was I in any danger.

What made this argument so bad is that the space we would seek or pretend to seek from each other afterward has vanished, he knew I was on...argh..shaky psychological ground, and well, Caleb's presence.

Lord. Maybe the dumbest thing ever. And I wrote about it on Sunday at 6 am when I was still drunk and really freaked out still and you should read it.

In fact, I think I'll post it, maybe in a bit or tomorrow after I get some work done. I haven't done any since I proudly brought something to Jacob and he chucked it at me. It's a fascinating entry in that I sound like a positive fucking lunatic in it. You'll love it. You can laugh at me as I continue to make life-altering and infinitely poor choices.

And why in the hell am I trying to justify this to you? Fuck it, I'm not.

    Stop tell me where you going
    Maybe the one you love isn't there
    You're going under
    But you're over it all so you don't care about all that I had to see
    Watch you wait until you come around

Proof.

So...hey.

We're still here. That would be we, plural. No one's jumping the ship even thought the past two days there was a spectacular attempt launched in order to see who could hurt each other most. Who could dent the most fundamental of promises, and leave the other in more agony.

We've called a draw, both of us stopping short of the point of no return. We're okay. Stop worrying. The handsome albeit self-serving protector/rescuer reverend and his completely unstable adorable nymphomaniacal tortured writer-girl wife have called a fucking draw, a mutual surprise at a collective unwillingness to make it to the point where you can no longer take it back.

A bigger sigh of relief that there are still things worth fighting for in this world, namely each other. Testing a theory that held. Thank fucking God. It held.

We haven't laughed, yet, but we're doing a hell of a lot better than we were yesterday. And tomorrow I'll share it because I'm headed back to my wall of flannel now.

Reckless Enbridgetment.

Hi, stupid little me here.

Still so angry.

I'm not alone though. I thought I'd share the wealth and so I made sure that my fear and feelings of betrayal were contagious.

I made a date for tonight. Because I'm impulsive and petulant and dumb and about fifty other names that I have been called since yesterday afternoon.

A date with Caleb.

Who'll be here in half an hour. He was calling yesterday because he's only here two nights and he has a letter for me. I shipped him a few more books from cleaning out Cole's work stuff and apparently Cole wrote another letter and had been using it as a bookmark in something he was reading.

A letter that has July 1st written on the envelope, says Caleb. Which means Cole would have written it less than two weeks before his death.

I could care less about Caleb. I want that letter so badly I'm in tears just thinking about it. It's a second chance at the closure I never got. I sit here and say that I have closure, that it's done, and really it never goes anywhere past remembering that my fights with Cole are one-sided and rather skewed these days, but they still go on.

Oh and don't worry, Jacob deserves it. He came back and broke the rest of my beautiful french door into matchsticks and he came charging into the room in a rage at how I was wallowing and I needed to snap out of it and I actually jumped over the loveseat and I ran out the back door into the snow without shoes on. He stopped moving and told me to come inside and I screamed at him to get away from me. He triggered some sort of hysteria.

I don't even know. I can't think.

He didn't stay here last night but I imagine he slept in the garage or in the truck so that he wouldn't be far, unless he walked down to his old office. I gave him back his phone so I could reach him but I never called him, he called me this morning and we fought just a little more and I told him to go fuck himself and that I had a sitter and a date and that if he thought I was going to behave exactly as he wanted me to for the rest of his life well, oh, boy, someone is terribly, horribly, awfully mistaken.

See, Bridget isn't well.

No, she really isn't and I'm so very fucking sorry. I need help, not more control. Please, God, Jake isn't listening to me.

And I'm not even half drunk yet, since I've still got half a drink here to finish before Caleb arrives. Because as mad as I am, I've always been more afraid of Caleb than I ever will be of Jake.

And I wish he would go with me tonight. I'm really fucking scared and not nearly as brave as my anger would lie and tell you I was.

In threes, Princess. In threes.

Blink and you would have missed it. I wrote a brief rant about public school and then opted to call the school and work it out, thus removing the need for the post in the first place. My apologies.

I have to write about other things anyway.

    You're coming back down
    You say you feel lost can I help you find it
    When you come around
    From time to time we all are blinded
    You're coming back down
    You don't have to tell me what you're feeling
    I know what you're going through
    I won't be the one that lets go of you

    I think it's time to just move on
    When you come back down
    If you land on your feet
    I hope you find a way to make it back to me
    When you come around
    I'll be there for you
    Don't have to be alone with what you're going through
I don't like to talk so much about work, I try to just tick through my list and do it and it isn't a very hard job, really because I can wax and ramble and rock and roll on and on and only have to go back and flick out the nonsense later and it all falls into place after a few tweaks and a little polish.

A short while ago I actually had to duck as a roughly bound copy of something new I have been working on was thrown at me. Though of course now the story has changed and it was thrown at the wall and his strength was as usual misjudged (because he has no idea how strong he really is) and yet anger and frustration and sadness overtook him and he didn't bother trying to maintain his self-control just like he doesn't maintain it in other areas anymore, as a perk of comfort in one's own environment.

Was thrown.

Paper cutting through the air and the binding exploding which meant my eighty pages or so are now out of order and all over this room. Everywhere.

A work that has nothing to do with him but he saw too much of me in my central character and he didn't appreciate the context and I have never apologized for anything I've written professionally and I don't plan to start because I don't use our lives as fodder in my work. No matter how hard it is to explain how parts of you wind up diluted in your stories, others will simply see through your intentions and put you there, willing or not. And with the kinds of things I usually write, it's not a place he wanted to visualize me any more than he has in awful situations as it is.

Which makes the whole chucking a book at your harmless and nonthreatening spouse a most harmful and completely threatening gesture. This is the physical equivalent of me throwing a book at Ruth. Which I would never do.

I may have been too surprised to react properly.I withered a gaze at him and burst into tears and walked the fuck out on him. I went to the den and locked the door because as much as he likes to remove doors from their frames, this door is very large, very solid and very pretty and I knew he wouldn't want to break it.

He knocked on it for almost half an hour while I tried to gather up and sort through my papers with my shaking hands and I was doing great at ignoring his pleas until I looked to the table by the window and saw my once-intact cellphone lying there in about 4 pieces.

What happened to my phone, Jacob?

Caleb has been calling you.

What happened to my phone, Jacob?

He left eight text messages and around 6 voice mails.

Jacob, just answer my question, please.

Why is he calling you, Bridget? Why now?

Jake! You're scaring me!

I threw it.

What are you, the hulk now? Am I going to come out there and see you in ripped-up purple pants with green skin? What in the fuck is wrong with you?

I'm sorry, Bridge, just open the door.

Fine.
I crossed the room and opened the door and stood there.

I need your phone then, Jake.

Here.

He passed it to me and I stepped back and shut the door on him again.

And I unfairly leveraged my entire history against and I told him he was acting like Cole.

He hit the door once so hard and I knew it broke but he was smart enough to walk away. That or he figured out he was being scary and he stopped. Maybe he scared himself because scaring me wasn't enough to stop him?

And I'm still in here, aren't I?

And it's great that this room has it's own entrance from the outside and all because Jacob used to do his counseling from here and so I could run from this bullshit but frankly, my coat and car keys are somewhere else and I really don't feel like I should be afraid enough to want to leave my own house.

However, I am.

Wow.

The Gingerbread Man.

Yesterday afternoon I heard my name being called from outside Ruth's window and so I went over and stuck my head out, expecting to see Jacob on the roof of the porch. He wanted to poke around up there, a few of our neighbors are having issues with the snow melting and coming inside their homes and let's face it, any excuse to be up high somewhere death-defying and Jacob will be first in line.

He didn't seem to still be up there. I pulled back in and heard my name again. Out I peeked once more.

Look up, princess.

I craned my head around and was met with Jacob's face grinning at me over the edge of the roof. On top of the house. Our 3 story Victorian house that towers over the neighborhood like the Gothic mansion that it is. He was framed in gingerbread.

Are you tethered, Jacob?

Of course not. Now go down to the street so you can see.
I ran downstairs. Fuck! My heart was in my mouth. I was scared. It's winter. It's icy. Dangerous. He's insane. I'm going to watch him fall. He's going to die in front of me and I'll be two for two. Lord help us all.

I ran right out into the street and turned and he was standing there on the peak waving to me. His splayed-finger friendly How you doing? wave.

Jacob! Come down from there, you fool!

In a moment, princess. I just have to do one thing.

What is it? We don't have any water coming in.

Not worried about leaks.

What, then?

I LOVE YOU BRIDGET!

He yelled it so loud it reverberated off every building on our block and echoed in my ears, a sweet experience that I rode like a rollercoaster as his voice faded away.

Then he started to make his way back down, his mission accomplished. Me, I was still standing in the road with tears running down my face remembering something he said to me a few years ago on a night after Cole had snubbed spending time with me in favor of a better offer of a night out without me. Jake had said,

If you were mine, I would shout my love for you from the rooftops.

Jacob is leafing through our history with his phonographic memory and fixing it, fulfilling each wish and moment, the promises and-

No idea what I was about to think next, for my neighbor's car horn jolted me back into the present and I realized I was still standing in the middle of the street. And then Jacob was there, safely back on earth and he grabbed my hand and pulled me back onto the sidewalk into his arms. He was grinning, still in that completely foolish way, nodding while he used the end of his scarf to dry my face.

You remember.

I do.

So?

I love you, Jacob.

And I love you, Bridge. And I want everyone to hear it when I say it.

and then from next door,

Don't worry, Jake! We heard you! Congratulations!
And a new talent was born, tandem blushing. So now we can both run away together and join the freak circus I left so long ago. Come one, come all, see the blushing blondes!

And Jacob is no longer allowed on the roof.

Inspired by God (and the relentless communicator).

Oh shit, she's rambling again.

In all seriousness, I try not to phone it in. So now that things are re-buttoned and turned back rightside-out here and I can try and fix my hair that Jacob managed to pull out, let's continue. Because I have work to do and he's already left because absolutely no one expected him to stop working and of course he hasn't, really. Today he's going to help clean two shelters and then he has fundraising meetings this afternoon. Bless his heart, I encouraged him to keep doing the things he loves to do because he wouldn't be Jacob if he didn't.

Now...have you noticed anything? Different? Like things are better lately? More better than not? Different things that we have changed and done and hardcore therapy attendance, perfect medicating and a whole lot of love and things appear to be looking up.

Up, guys. Up. Like a hot air balloon in Bridget's beautiful blue skies.

Things like not babying me, he's treating me with all the confidence in the world, a hopeful optimism and respect that I've been drawing strength from, instead of watching him conduct life strung tight as a drum and knowing he's so goddamned worried, well that only made things harder. Now it seems like he's breathing for both of us and that power and faith that I get from him is growing, spreading. Also the talking, he's talking to me again instead of being afraid to step on toes or undo any progress I may have made under the direction of my psychiatrist. He's waded back in, with his jeans rolled up and has refused to let me drown. And that has helped more than anything.

My music is back. Phish. The dozens of traded shows and the collection I built during my life with Cole that reminded me of him so awfully much that I asked my friends to take it away and when Jacob pulled it all out I didn't die when I listened. I've had a few rough spots but otherwise I realized it was my music, not Cole's, not ours collectively, but mine. It feels good. My warm bath.

And sleep. I can sleep, sometimes. Not one hundred percent, but sometimes I do and it's a start.

And hey, no one said it would be easy. I've still got a million miles to go but I've got a map and a companion or three and some tunes to take me home and we'll get there. Every day is a little bit better and sometimes I drop a bowl and it shatters and I jump and then I laugh because it wasn't thrown and the ghosts are fading and Bridget is getting there. Every day, just a little bit better.

    Welcome this is a Farmhouse
    we have cluster flies alas
    And this time of year is bad
    We are so very sorry,
    There is little we can do
    But swat them

    She didn't beg oh, not enough
    She didn't stay when things got tough
    I told a lie and she got mad
    She wasn't there when things got bad

    I never ever saw the northern lights
    I never really heard of cluster flies
    Never ever saw the stars so bright
    In the farmhouse things will be alright

    Woke this morning to the stinging lash
    Every man rise from the ash
    Each betrayal begins with trust
    Every man returns to dust

Or maybe this is phoning it in, for you just read a list of my transcribed renumerations and a chronic peptalk from inside my head.

Have a good day, in any case.

Thursday.

It's a test, isn't it?

Hmm?

This. You. Us. You're testing me to see if I'll stay.

Yes. That's exactly what I'm doing here, Jacob.

I knew it.

So get the fuck out.

I'm not going anywhere, princess.

Okay, then you passed.

Yay. What do I get?

What would you like?
(silence and a huge grin)

Oh, it figures. I knew you were here for the sex.

Right. You're not that good.

Take that back.

Yeah, actually maybe I should.

Smart thing.

Does that mean I can get some?

Sure. What are you doing after breakfast?

A princess! Am I a lucky guy or what?

Free birds, blackbirds, magpies and an owl.

(Oh hello, you've walked in on a random stream of consciousness.)

Birds seem to be some sort of metaphor in our lives. Before I could safely identify Jacob here I referred to him as J and called him my friend, my free bird, who I had set free and he came back anyway. Blackbird for a treasured song, magpie because I like the word though if I do recall without searching too far there is something sinister about magpies. Owls because of the owl jokes, appropriate for all ages when so much of this world is not, an innocent nod to a haven in the little tiny cabin that we can escape to every so often when it's warm enough and sometimes even when it's not. Feeling safe.

Magnets and copper and reiki and the power of positive thinking and lovebeads and peace vibes, holistic mindfucks aren't going to do this. Eating a raw diet and living a world devoid of negativity isn't going to do it. Immersing myself in some songs and a red hot bath aren't going to do anything at all.

All of it an up and a down on a long and hilly Sunday drive, where when the sun dips low and a rumble ripples through our stomach while we stop for a picnic by the river and look at each other in surprise, as if we were so grateful for the company, it being the one person we would have most wished to be with right then.

And later when you awaken from a dream that wasn't good, covered with sweat and gasping for breath you rise into the protective arms of that person you wished for once again and you forget the details and the feelings and the fears and he tells you of the river. And the bird that he saw while you ignored nature within reach and licked blackberry jam off the tips of your fingers.

You hear the birds outside your window in a grayscale morning, the cold icicles of winter's final push clearing a path around your warmth and the chirps remind you of March which is about to step into your life for the first time all year.

You wind a scarf around your neck like a European fashion doll and someone offers you a cup of tea and it warms you right out to the edges of your bones like that warm bath and you wish you had a switch for these sensations...and others.

And a vintage pattern triggers a memory from dozens of years ago in which you snuck a gingerbread cookie into your room where there was a little Christmas tree decorated with red balls and glitzy tinsel and your turtleneck was three sizes too big but not for long because you just noticed you can see over the top of your bureau and in the mirror your little cherub face is covered with crumbs, crumbs laced through your curly blonde pigtails and crumbs all over your chubby little hands but you don't care.

Because there are birds outside your window and a brownie owl on your wall.

And a man singing Blackbird in your future, but you don't know about him yet.

Poor heart.

I think I've reached the absolute definition of bitter/sweet today. Not sure whether I should kiss or throttle my husband.

What in the hell is this called, Jacob? Jam band therapy?

Can you still play Pebbles and Marbles?

No.

Is that a no meaning you can't or a no meaning you won't?

Both, neither. I don't know, really.

I'm singing it.

I hear you, Jacob.

Then I'll do another.

You're trying to break me, aren't you?

No, I'm going to desensitize you. If there's anything I'm sure of about you, princess, it's that you live by your music and maybe that is part of the problem.

What do you mean by that? I shouldn't enjoy my music?

No, you lost half your soundtrack with him and those were your songs too.

I know.

And you miss them.

Badly.

So take them back and make them yours.

Sounds easier than it seems.

Like everything you've ever done.

Desensitized.

Right. You can do this, Bridge.

I really missed Free.

There's my girl.

Fuck me. This is yet another goddamned found fragment of the map that will take me home. Go Bridget.

Go spin.