Inevitabilities.

Fridays are supposed to be easier days. Days that are light on working hard, days where I can almost breathe and hearts beat on my behalf and I don't have to lift a finger, I don't have to go to therapy, I don't have to answer to anyone.

Ben's days off, that he spends here with me.

Only early this morning as I called Ben and told him he was free from babysitting me for the day because I was going to keep my two coughing-and-miserable kids home on this bone-chilling day, an argument developed over my ability to spend a day home alone. One compounded by my assumption that he'd be relieved to not come over.

Since we both know better, I did it as a formality, a reminder that I am keeping whatever boundaries I worked so hard to build while Jacob was here. Nothing changes and lately there's been so much collective input in my life I'm trying to reel it back in. One of my biggest challenges in life now seems to be not giving over control to everyone else.

I'm finding as the shock wears off and the gravity sets in that aside from losing a good two or three hours a day to dry tears and breathless panic, I'm well versed in faking it and can cope, mostly. Mostly if I only think about Jacob in terms of the shallowest waters of my ocean. If I think too deeply I drown. He was the ocean. It spilled from his hands, it swam in his eyes and I am changed.

Constantly changing. Like the ocean. Carving a landscape with a motion that is relentless and cold.

But back on dry land, my abrupt change in Ben's plans caused a wrinkle and he wasn't happy to let it go and so we fought and it escalated and we both said some amazingly awful things and virtually hung up on each other, me in tears, angry ones that aren't touching in the least. Him with a broken voice spitting hurtfulness that leaves me dumbfounded.

And now I spend my day alone, probably with the kids on the couch, watching movies and snoozing and watching my phone vibrate across the table when people realize that I've shirked the schedule and broken the rules. Maybe it's something I needed to do. I just wish I could have done it while still being on speaking terms with Ben.

Lyrics and legal drugs.

(I'm writing late today, because it's been a long one. I took a dayquil and am borderline narcoleptic so please give me due credit for whatever nonsense you're forced to read next.)

    Sing it for me
    I can't erase the stupid things I say

Jacob and my heart were broken into pieces and everyone got two, one of each:

Joel heads up the professional, what's best for you piece.

Ben is the romantic, the affectionate one. He wields the guitar now.

PJ is the non-procrastinator, the logic. The everyday.

Chris is in bodyguard/secret service mode.

And Caleb is still the devil.

No worries, I didn't give any of my heart to the devil. He just took it and I don't have any pieces left, as I'm sure Jacob swallowed the rest of it right before he stepped off the edge of my world. And if they all get together and try to connect their pieces, they invariably begin to fight over who has the biggest piece, or maybe who has the warmest piece, which piece is the prettiest and which doesn't seem to be part of a heart after all.

Some of them keep trying to destroy their portion. I hate that.

I wish they wouldn't remind me of Jake. I wish they would stop fighting over me. I wish people would stop holding their breath when it comes to Ben. His piece is not larger, or warmer or better than anyone's. There's nothing going on, he's just got open arms and a thorough knowledge of our dear princess so it gives, no, I give him more latitude, I guess. If you want to vilify me for a hug or a cheek-kiss then you're so far off the mark it's not even funny.

I take advantage, as it were. Not the other way around.

Which means that each of those pieces of my heart is lovingly wrapped in yards of misdirected resentment, tied with bows of unease and distrust.

Andante Cantabile.

Maybe in the spring.

It's become my mantra, my answer to everything, my get-out-of-jail-free card. They are slow to catch on. I discovered the effectiveness of those four little words when Ben stopped in last night, only staying long enough to gift us with dinner for three (he didn't stay) and a rosin cake for my bow, asking if I would consider bringing my violin on our trip. I didn't have to say I was still considering whether or not we would be going on the trip in the first place, that would be assumed at this point and hence his reason for talking about it. If he can get me to confirm that we will go then he will feel better.

Instead I said maybe I would play again in the spring, giving him nothing to grasp onto as a confirmation or a denial.

Works for me. Worked for him too. He dropped the subject, told me I looked beautiful in the snow-light and kissed my cheek before turning to head back down the front steps.

Ben. You stupid jerk. Come here.

What?

I could really use a hug from someone over three feet tall.

So could I, but if you're all there is, then it's good enough.

He came back up and stuck me face first into his jacket. He pressed his lips into my hair and breathed warm air on my cold little head, tightening his arms around me and we just stayed that way until he heard Henry calling for me and he called back that I was on my way inside now.

Then he let me go and smiled and went home.

I played for two hours last night. Music for the kids to fall asleep by.

Bridget's flawless Gothic etiquette.

My Christmas/Thank you cards are going out at the end of the week, mostly to the four hundred or so people who sent condolences, brought food, or simply stopped by and offered to keep the kids or walk the dog. Some jobs were easy, some not so easy. Thankfully I didn't get four hundred casseroles, but I got an awful lot of cards and letters with funny little memories of Jacob.

Edward Gorey's angels and hot air balloons. Who knew there was a more perfect card out there for this princess? Yes of course it's morbid and almost virtually tasteless too. Exactly how I needed it to be.

No worries, everyone who gets one will proclaim it to be perfect because it's from me and I'm rather weird.

I'll have all the addresses on envelopes by the end of the week. I've got the kids home today for the snowstorm and Henry has another ear infection and Ruth a bad cold so we bailed on the day and it puts me behind for being able to work on things during the day while I can still write legibly with a pen. That ability tends to disappear after 6 pm.

Mostly the reason I told you about my ridiculous Christmas death cards was to share them with you too. If I had the wherewithal or my act together to make up another two hundred cards to send to those of you who have taken the time to email me with good thoughts and comforts I would but honestly I don't. I don't have the energies to reply to anyone. I can hardly read some of them.

I don't know why you care about me. I don't know why you come back. I like that you do, and I bet you are stronger than I am. I wouldn't come back if I didn't live in here, inside my head.

I wish for you nothing but the best this holiday season.

Silent movies.

I'm a black and white movie. There is no sound. The film grain is pronounced, the visual scratched and scraped away with age, the characters melancholy and desperate. I can walk around the iron gate in the snow and find myself in the cemetery and out pops Dracula and I made my 'surprised' and then 'scared' face before fainting right into his arms.

And everyone laughs and goes home, safe in their colorized, monster-free world. Their music-filled, beautiful world.

For the first time this afternoon, I took my laptop into the pantry and sat down on the floor and shut the doors and played a movie file of Jacob singing his silly karaoke in the kitchen, using a wooden spoon for a microphone, eyebrows knitted in mock concentration. I laughed as the camera zoomed in crazily, attempting to focus on a moving target and then lost it when the song ended and he told me to turn off the camera and come kiss him.

One should always save the total mental and emotional breakdowns for that little spot on the floor right next to the basket holding twenty pounds of russet baking potatoes.

New damage: A to-do list.

-I need to find something great to send to Loch and Keira for Hope. Something wonderful and different. I'm an aunt by default, Keira and I have common ground at last and have declared peace in a long telephone conversation this afternoon that left me warm.

-I need to have the guts to ask Sophie to stop trying to contact me. I spoke briefly with her once to let her know about Jake and I gave up and passed the phone to Sam. He passed the phone back after telling her but I couldn't talk to her.

-I need to choose new godparents for Ruth and Henry.

-I need to change my will to include Jacob's parents. I don't need to but I'd like to. One of Jacob's biggest concerns was that they might need help down the road. Pensions don't go very far and neither do fish.

-I need to keep my mouth shut when PJ wants to vent or express concern (trying to word that objectively was tough).

-I need to make it very clear to Ben that he has no stake in me. He says he knows. I don't trust myself to be satisfied with his position. I need friends, not more people fighting over me. I'm rethinking Christmas already.

-I need to hem the curtains in the living room.

-I need to get a Christmas tree for the kids.

-I need to sell the motorcycle. I thought about keeping it for Henry but that's a lot of trouble and I've had offers. John asked for first refusal.

-I need to sell the hockey gear or donate it or something.

-I need to get the description of Jacob's body out of my head from the report on the desk while I was collecting what was left of his belongings. His twisted cross and shattered new watch and his wallet that was practically emptied in the fall and torn. The backpack full of clothes and his small bible and his guitar that was left in the room. The death certification. I know there was nothing beautiful about his flight but if I dwell too long on the other I can't breathe.

-I need to sleep so I am less crazy. I know, fat chance.

-I need to figure out if I'm going to stay here or move. I need to figure out if there's a difference between holding off on making big decisions in difficult times and prolonging the inevitable. I need to weigh the pros and cons of remaining in a city that I only loved because we were stuck with each other at the time. Now that I'm not bound to it I can run. Running is not as easy as it looks. I've got two kids, 7 pets, 1 truck, a house and a wonderful therapists office riding on my whims.

As if my whims can be trusted.

Case in point: I need to call Caleb and ask him to return my hearing aids and the video he says he has.

Right, Bridget. Always think through the big decisions before you do something you might regret.

Living for miracles.

Today the world stops for a wonderful reason.

Loch became a dad early this morning, in the wee hours when most people were still sleeping. Keira gave birth to his daughter, a beautiful fuzzy blonde 5 lb 6 ounce healthy girl. Her name is Hope.

Hope.

Painted in an unfair light.

Part 5482372, Ben versus the world. Give him a break already.

One of the hardest parts about being the close friend of an alcoholic is that the mistakes they make, or the slights of their past tend to overshadow their good deeds, their efforts to change and gain trust and be better forever. As in infinitely, neverendingly.

Relentlessly.

Looking at what I have written about Ben I can see where he is made out to be the bad guy, mostly through poor self-control and impulsive and sometimes retaliatory actions. Why not? He's the yang to my yin. He and I never grew up, we never made it past the childish outbursts and petulant rock-kicking that can be at once endearing and incredibly fucking annoying.

Put us together and we take it out on each other. People have asked us why we're still friends and I could only say that sometimes there are moments of incredible clarity and gentleness between us that make it worthwhile. We are sometimes the male and female equivalent of your stereotypical asshole person. We have deep personality flaws and wild streaks and that's why we get along so well and so badly all at the same time.

I am less perfect than he is, but you knew that already.

He did come back last night, poured out all of the alcohol, made me eat dinner and sit up until I was sober and then he handed me the key from my front porch and also told me to lock the door at the end of the hall which secures the main part of the house from the den and guest room and he stayed in the guest room last night. Close enough but with enough safeguards in place to help rebuild the trust we've eroded together in the past two years.

I poured him a cup of coffee early this morning and took it to him, unlocking the hallway door and then knocking gently on the door of the room he slept in and invited him to breakfast when he opened the door and took the cup.

He asked me how I felt and I said better and then he asked if we wanted to go play in the snow today, that he would stick around if I wanted him to and hang out with the kids.

It's quarter to four and he's still here. He's piled up the snow in the backyard and is snowboarding out there on the mother of all bunny hills.

He asked me if we, if I wanted to go away for Christmas with him.

I said yes.

His family has a house in Canmore, and we're going to stay there and snowboard and celebrate Christmas quietly with the four of us and without the ghosts of Christmas past breathing down our necks. We're going to enroll the kids in snowboarding classes and we're going to teetotal our way through the holidays together as friends and not fight or be awful or be miserable like we sometimes are here.

He's going to prove that he is trustworthy and I'm going to prove that I'm still alive.

No strings, no expectations (so quash your harsh judgment) and no regrets, because I'm already looking forward to a brief change of scenery.

Liquid princess.

I'm not having more. It's 8:45 pm and I've had two bourbons and I think I'm done. Ben and I had a shouting match out the back door at 8 and once he was gone it was safe to have a drink. Chris called and I lied and said Ben was still here because it was easier than dealing with the disappointment. Who do I care if I disappoint anymore?

No one.

I don't have to answer to anyone. I'm not beholden to anyone. I'm not worried about anyone.

No, Ruth and Henry. I answer to them and everyone else can kiss my ass.

Ben said something about a holiday from the holidays and I waffled and he told me I wasn't interested in living.

Ow.

Boom. Knock the princess over with a feather.

He said he hated the princess nickname, always has. I told him it was sour grapes and besides, he doesn't get an opinion on my life and he proclaimed to be my friend.

I said, oh really?

Friends don't have hidden agendas.

He acted hurt and I told him to go to a bar and find a Bridget-look-alike and fuck off and leave me alone. He laughed and dragged his palms down his face in incredulity. I don't even care.

I don't care.

Okay I care.

I hope I can get smashed tonight and sleep and sleep and not dream and not hurt and not ache and not die a little more. I don't know how far to go with all these pills. Tomorrow Sam will call and tell me to come to church and he's no better than my mother.

Die a little more.

Ben just called and said he's coming back with food. And that he's sorry and I told him not to be, and not to come. That I was drinking and I don't want him to be exposed to it. He used to have a major drinking problem, one time during which he snuck into my bedroom and tried to touch me and frankly I don't want him to ever be like that again but I trust him when he's sober.

I don't trust me when I'm sober but drunk I think I'll be okay.

He's coming anyway. He said he wasn't going to drink and neither was I anymore.

The Leafs won against Pittsburg, 3-1. The kids have colds again, the snow never stops falling and I really can't wait to see what life throws at me next.

At night the furnace comes on every 23 minutes. I count things.

It's warmer out today, it's damp and wonderful, just like the coldest days of my former Nova Scotia winters, the kind that howl right through your bones and out the other side, as if you aren't even present.

It's a day for warm cinnamon buns and thick scarves and sitting in a chair that makes me miserable while I watch Ruth and Henry draw pictures for their counselor while we talk gently about how we feel.

I'd like to scream.

But I don't.

We stopped on the way home and got a Gingerbread house kit to make. That will be fun, I think.

Thursday was bad, yesterday was interesting and today is sort of a mix of good and difficult. Each day gets a number and today is day 37 and at this point I don't want to hear that it will get easier with time, I'd like to know how to make it easier now.

(That's 37 days since he left, not since he died.)