Hello, kids. I’ve got a triple shot of vodka, that I’m calling a double…Can feel my bloodstream sigh out its relief as it hits. I have been cutting back on drinking the past couple weeks—aside from one night last week where I blacked out & sent out affectionate fb messages to everyone under the sun….thanking people I hadn’t talked to in years for specific acts of kindness of which I had been the grateful recipient. (i.e., the receptionist from a previous job, who left her to post to run out to hug me as I was being escorted out, after being undeservedly fired due to office politics….a high school acquaintance who was kind and reassuring to me at musical rehearsals…my aunt for reaching out to me to offer support.) These may seem like sweet things to do…but I recognize them for what they really are. These are the kinds of things I do when I am suicidal & preparing my exodus. I am shaping my epilogue, tweaking my final image, ghost writing my eulogy…all in the name of a leave-taking.
After going hogwild doling out the feelgoods on fb, I puked…then I messaged Boo utter filthiness about my sex life in a complete blackout…(Always feels super great the next morning when I’m reading texts/messages I sent while my brain was still functioning, long after my memory was not.) After sending my quota of unsolicited raunch, I did laundry, washed dishes, got kids’ clothes out for the next day…all in drunken automatic pilot. Then, recognizing the day was done, I completely passed out. I have been pulling back from the bottle since then…but alcohol is both the siren call & the rocks I will dash myself to bits on.
I also have been trying to drink more water & take my lithium. Unfortunately, the lithium always deadens me. I am unable to write on it. I am not quick-witted on it. I am heartsick over the absence of mania, the only opportunity I have to feel shininess, to feel luminescence…as my life doesn’t necessarily provide me the opportunity to feel like that very often. I am calmer now, yes…the woolen sweater of irritability gone…but I am also nearly always focused on death. Specifically, my own…at my own hand. Also, although not necessarily related to the suicidal ideation currently, I have developed a severe sensitivity to sun because of the medication. I love being outside, taking the kids to the park. It’s one of the small things that gives my life meaning…to watch my kids play happily at the park. Now, every day, when I take the kids to the park–within 5 minutes, I am a leper covered in scalding hives. I scratched myself to ruby polka dots of scabs in my sleep…All day, my limbs burn with even just a kiss from the sun. My body is currently a bonfire.
So…today…I am drinking.
It was Bridget’s dance recital this morning. I got up and was readying for the shower, when Mike told me he had to take Ian to work. (Ian, mind you, is 19. He no longer has a car—because his broke down earlier this month…but instead of working more than 4 hours a week to buy a new one, he has decided to be a lazy putz & spend the $40 he makes a week on fast food. Ayyyy, why not, compadres?) So while I am trying to get both kids ready & try to shower, Mike is taking off. He returns some time later with a large iced coffee for himself…which he proceeds to sit down and drink and watch golf videos, as I am struggling under the weight of all the preparations. This motherfucker. Ever the fat, coffee swilling, golf video watching albatross around my neck.
I finally get us ready & tell Mike we need to go because we’re going to be late. He decides at this point he wants a picture with Bridget. I tell him he had 30 minutes while watching his golf videos to do so, too late. We get to the venue late, they are calling for Bridget to come backstage to get ready. He decides to get off his phone at this point and take a picture with our beautiful, leggy girl. I try to tell him that they need Bridget backstage. He gets upset and starts yelling at me. I tell him, “Go ahead. Yell at me. Right here. In front of everyone.” Then, I take Rowan outside for a walk. As I’m walking back inside, I hear the ping of my phone. It’s a text message from Mike. “Someone is in a fucking awful mood today. I’m at Bridget’s dance recital and her mom is flipping out over every little thing.” HAHAHAA! Dickwad sent me a text bitching about me that he meant to send to someone else. You stupid, shitty nibletfuck. I walk back in smirking, holding my phone out for him to see, sweetly ask “Did you mean to send this message about me to me?” He stammers for a bit and then says, “Well, you are flipping out about everything.” I tell him, “Maybe it’s because I didn’t have time to sit & drink coffee & watch golf videos.” Hahaha. I know what he’s doing with sending those texts to whatever unlucky woman is waiting in the wings. It’s the old “my ex is a crazy bitch” routine. I recognize it. I fell for it myself with this douchefucker. Now I’m the subject.
My friend, Hope, who is quickly becoming one of my favorite humans ever, comes to watch Bridget dance. Then my parents and niece show up. Mike’s parents? Nope. He finally calls them…Yup, they had forgotten. They arrive just barely in time for the show to start. Judy, his mother, asks to sit by me. She is sweet, but proceeds to jaw her way through the recital that I am actually trying to enjoy…I try to respond with monosyllabic cavemen grunts & nods…but she doesn’t get the hint. I even consider sending a message to a friend that accidentally gets sent to her, “Mike’s mom is so lovely but I wish she would shut the fuck up so I can watch this show.” Oh. Oops. Did I send that to you? Sorry.
Rowan is a wild man of the highest order throughout the recital. He gets passed from lap to lap like some kind of communicable disease. Also, he has not mastered the art of the whisper. He loudly wishes that each person coming out to dance is going to be Lightning McQueen from Cars. He also loudly states that a ballerina looks like Luigi. At one point, when the curtain closes he exclaims, “Ah, shit!” Despite the fact that his speech typically sounds like a muddled bowl of alphabet soup, this is clear as all get-out. Then, he takes off running at one point, towards the stage. Both Mike & I try to catch him before he makes it to the front, but he is too damn fast. Finally, another mother thankfully body-blocks him. When I sit back down, Judy asks me why there is a dance called “Mr. Banks is Discharged from the Bank.” I explain that it is probably just the title of the instrumental track from the movie soundtrack. Despite the fact that all the other dances have been famous, quintessential numbers from Mary Poppins, she asks “What movie?” “Debbie Does Dallas, Jude.” At this point, all I can think of is a cold, cold glass of vodka. Envision the glassy ice cubes. The freezing burn in my throat. Goddammit.
Finally, it’s 1 of Bridget’s 2 dances. I excitedly get my camera out to film. Judy keeps talking as I’m filming…asking which dancer is Bridget. Half the class is children of other ethnicities. Oh, and did I mention there were only 6 children in the dance? I want to ask Judy, “Do you even know what your grandchild looks like?” Meanwhile my friend, Hope, who has only known her for a few months picks her out immediately. As I’m filming Bridget’s second dance, Judy still can’t pick out Bridget…but apparently it’s because she has chosen to focus her attentions elsewhere. She repeatedly loudly asks me about another child in the dance, “Is there something wrong with that black boy?” Ok, guess I won’t be posting that video on fb. I suppressed so many inward groans, I am bloated with them. Jesus Christ. Why is this my life?!
But…
Finally, at the end, they give out awards for “Star of the Show.” Bridget is the recipient for her dance group! She gets a medal & I can see from my seat that she is thrilled. I feel my eyes fill with tears of joy for her because I know how much it means to her. The only way to let her know this is to scream her name to the rafters, loud as I can…to cheer for her like a lunatic, till the rest of my family joins in, too. I ask her later if she heard me screaming her name, crazy with pride. She tells me she did, but she knows I’m always proud of her no matter what—whether or not she medals, whether or not she hears me yell her name from the audience. She knows. Lock that away with the other good stuff, baby…
My parents nicely offer to pick up some pizzas for everyone to eat after the recital–which I do appreciate. I invite Judy & Terry, wanting to include them. (Really, Judy is lovely & has been good to me, even if a little dipshitty at times…I just was not in the mood today.) Judy & Terry arrive late, after thoughtfully stopping to get Bridget a beautiful bouquet of flowers. Bridget’s smile is well worth the wait. My mom also gives the kids a bunch of presents and clothes. I feel like this is an intentional pin jab. She does this every time she feels me drifting away from her, every time she hurts or disappoints me somehow. Seriously…albatrosses in all shapes & sizes today. My parents have to leave shortly after Judy & Terry arrive. Mike also leaves me with his parents, so he can go pick up Ian. Oh, ok, thanks, Useless Joe—sure thang. Mike’s parents stay for a bit longer, then they also leave, with Mike’s mom throwing a, “Goodbye, Roz” over her shoulder as she leaves.
Um…my name is Roxy?
And I’m probably an alcoholic.
But my daughter…my daughter, Bridget? She is amazing and she got a medal today. And she knows her mom loves her no matter what. It was a good day.
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