I try to dredge up some sympathy, but I’m hard pressed. In fact, if I’m honest with myself, I’m resentful. I’d LOVE to be depressed, but I just don’t have the time.
I toss the prescriptions back in the bag they came in and pull the Jeep out into traffic. I still need to find Krispy Kreme donuts. The nearest location to Malibu is in Canoga Park. I had forgotten about driving around Southern California, the fact being that if you want anything, you’re going to be driving miles to get it. But the drive gives me time to gather my chagrin and toss it out the window.
What’s it to me if this guy is depressed? He’s not around most of the time, or so he says, and if that’s the case, then I don’t have to look at him being depressed while living in luxury. As long as he needs someone to keep house for him, then I can enjoy a little luxury myself.
As I drive out past the Costco I went to yesterday I pass a mall on my donut run, and decide then and there that Mr. McLean CAN get his own lunch this afternoon, I’m stopping in for a spot of shopping on my return trip. I have a pocket full of money, I can definitely afford something new. New, new, not new ‘used’. Something for me and only me, without thought to Tish, Mr. M., my beloved ex who often took precedence over any needs I had. Just for ME.
No, I’m not. I’m going straight back and fixing the man his lunch and mapping a plan for the cleaning people. But it was a nice thought while I had it. Maybe Tish and I can swing out here on the weekend. I have ‘me’ time on the weekends, a nice negotiable point that I think I negotiated well. I only work half-time on Saturdays, and I’m ‘on call’ on Sundays, with the proviso that I may not be around to get that ‘call’. It could all change in a heartbeat or on a whim if Mr. M decides he wants to entertain and needs me, or if there’s an emergency of some sort, but still, all things willing, Tish and I are going on a splurge this weekend.
And just knowing that makes me feel better about the entire day.
~~**~~**~~***~~**~~**~~
~~**~~**~~***~~**~~**~~
I took a long shower. It took time and I want to do time consuming things today. Anything to make it go faster, to make it pass, because I can feel pressure building up inside of me today, and I don’t like that feeling. I’m tempted to call one of my psychiatrists and see if I can’t book an appointment, anything, fifteen minutes, to just talk to someone who won’t care, someone who won’t offer advice. Just to relieve this tension inside of me. Just to get it out.
There’s nothing stopping me from just going out, too. I could get in the car and take a long, long drive up the coast, or a long, long drive down the coast. I can park and get out and walk up and down the beach, even work on my tan. And as long as no one recognizes me, I’m golden. And there’s not a lot of chance in that.
I want a drink. God, I want a drink. I want to go to a nice, dark, cool bar where there’s loud music playing and nobody knows me and if they do, they don’t care. I want to sit at the bar and drink. I want a bottle on the bar, in my hand so I can pour it myself. Jack. Jack Daniels. Over ice. Or straight up. I want to just go through the bottle until it’s empty, until the thoughts in my head go away. Because the thoughts are there now, up front, clear and painful.
I miss my life. My old life. The one before all this shit was happening. The way back, everything happening, life when I was too busy to be scared of what was happening. When I was too busy to think about things. When I could have a drink and it didn’t mean getting drunk. Or I could get drunk but it didn’t mean every night. Or every day. I want to wipe the slate clean. Start new. That’s what California was supposed to be, a new start, a good beginning. New house, new girl, new life. With all the time in the world to enjoy it in.
Now I want to wipe this out, too, because it all went to hell and I don’t know how it got there, how I got here, why I’m like this. The days are so long out here, and there’s nothing to do. I thought there would be things to do and people to do them with.
That’s a lie. There WERE things to do and I had Sarah to do them with.
Do you know what it’s like to feel like a, a disease? When no one wants to look at you, or be around you? When you embarrass people, when you hurt them? It’s awful. It’s the most awful thing in the world. And it seems like it’ll never end. Well, that was me. For a long, long time that was me. I was ‘put up with’ and I was tolerated, but I was hated, too. Hated, and by the only people I thought I could trust. Only thing was, they couldn’t trust me. I can’t argue with that, it’s the gospel truth, the real deal. Well, you go on and on and on until it finally ends, until something finally changes it all. That was rehab. I thought that life would be easier after that. I was changed. I know I was. And I had Sarah and we were going to have it all: house, marriage, dogs, careers, maybe even kids some day. She accepted me. As crappy as I was, as low as I got, when it was all over, and I was better, I was healed, I KNOW I was better, she accepted me, and I was grateful. Grateful. It was such a relief to be accepted by someone, somewhere at that point. And her family, they accepted me, too, they made me a part of them, and I felt okay. It was beautiful here, and we found this house, and got the dogs and it was going to be perfect. Our love was perfect. It was.
It was.
The day is so beautiful outside. Sunshine. The ocean is blue, the sky is blue. I can do anything I want to, and I don’t want to do anything.
This is going to be a bad day.
~~**~~**~~***~~**~~**~~
~~**~~**~~***~~**~~**~~
The house is quiet when I return from my travels. If I didn’t have things to do, I would spend the rest of the day outside in the sun. It’s warm in the best way out there, a nice, baking warmth that makes me think of bread ovens. The contrast of outside and inside is marked. Outside there’s the sound of the ocean. Inside there’s the sound of nothing.
I put my bags on the kitchen counter and go immediately to the laundry room to put the mattress cover in the dryer. It’s cleaner than it was. Tomorrow I’ll make some time to get a new one, though.
Once that’s running in the background, I unpack my parcels. The Krispy Kremes go on the counter in an obvious spot so Mr. M will see them. I open a new accordion file and put the dry cleaning tickets in one slot, the receipts from yesterday and today in others. There’s an empty shelf in a cabinet that I’ve reserved for this item, and for the stack of pads, and the pens I bought, too. My small corner of this universe where I can have a modicum of organization. Then I line up all of the pill bottles and a brand new prescription caddy. Top of the line, this one will hold a week’s worth of medication. One by one I drop the desired doses into their compartments. Morning, afternoon, evening. I’m glad the half doses have been pre-cut, because the pill is so small I can see a tragedy happening in any attempt to split them in half myself. When I’m finished with that I close it up and take it upstairs to the master bathroom. He can have the caddy, I’ll keep hold of the bottles and make refilling everything another part of my routine.
The bedroom door is closed. I wrap my knuckles against it, but there’s no answer. Then I remember what I’m holding in my hands, and why, and I’m dead cold from head to toe. Very quietly, I crack open the door on its soundless hinges.
He’s sound asleep on the bed. I know it’s sleep because he’s snoring, his head poking out of a cocoon of blankets that he’s taken up from where I laid them on a chair.
I’m immediately relieved. I couldn’t hear him through the door, that’s all. I tiptoe through the room, picking up wet towels and dirty clothes on the way, and go into the bathroom. This door closes quietly, too. The room is still a little damp from his shower and it smells sweet from soap and shampoo. At least he’s into a little personal cleanliness. I wipe down the counters, put out fresh towels, and leave the pill caddy on the counter in an obvious spot. Then I draw the drapes across the windows on their soundless poles and leave.
I don’t think I’ll be enjoying the dubious pleasure of Mr. M’s company any time soon today.
~~**~~**~~***~~**~~**~~
I lunch alone in the kitchen, listening to the sounds of the washer and dryer mingled with music from the radio. There’s an extensive sound system running through the house that I stumbled on, but I’m not really sure how to make it all run. It’s connected to the main leisure room that holds the television. But there’s another system that runs through the intercom system in the house. It’s on some top forty station out here, the kind of stuff that Tish likes to listen to. It’s all right, it’s company for me and my sandwich, but I’m going to find out how to work the sound system and find some nice, mellow jazz to play. Or blues, or funk, something other than the constant blah, blah, blah that’s coming through the wall at the moment.
He’s got satellite radio and satellite TV, I know that I can find something more to my liking.
For now, though, this is fine. I’m going to eat my lunch and then start pulling down drapery. There are all kinds of curtains and drapes throughout the house, and most of them suffer from mal de pooch. Those that don’t are caked with dust. Some of them might have to be replaced because they’ve been gnawed upon. Costco had a nice set of chew bones. They’re in the dining room now, along with the three beasts from hell who are content for the time being, too.
How beautiful it is out here. I look out at the yard and imagine the shrubbery to be pristine and lush, dotted with flowers. There are some vines out there that need trimming, and once they’re trimmed, they’ll be magnificent, the way they climb up over the pergolas that are strategically placed through out the terraced yard. This is an inviting place that could be more inviting if someone just put a little care into it; a little love. Right now the house and yard seem to have no personality. I have to admit, neither does the pool house, but that’s only because I haven’t had the time to go on my own little shopping spree and make the place our own. I will. I want to. I want to feel comfortable and put some care into a place that I’m living in, a place that deserves it.
How can he be asleep up there on a day like today? If it was Tish, I wake her up and shoo her out into the sunshine. Then again, if it was Tish she wouldn’t need any shooing, she’d be outside making the most of the day. Well, he’ll have to wake up some time and get to his meeting. Besides, the cleaning people will be here soon enough, and they’re not going to make the bed with him in it, I’m sure.
~~**~~**~~***~~**~~**~~
~~**~~**~~***~~**~~**~~
There’s a ghost in my house. It’s quiet, the way ghosts should be, but it likes to clean, and it does it on silent feet. That’s my first, waking thought. I open my eyes and notice that the towels I dropped on the floor are gone and the room is darkened; the ghost has pulled the curtains closed.
I linger in the blankets. The room is cool, not cold, but I can feel the warmth from the sun creeping through the curtains. It must be hot out. It must be after noon, because the sun is facing the windows that face the ocean. The clock by my bed confirms that. It’s after two. I have to get up, but I’m very comfortable where I am and I close my eyes again and wallow on the bed. I wallow and doze until I hear an alien sound.
Vacuum cleaner. Someone is somewhere in the house running a vacuum cleaner. The ghost has gotten noisy.
I sit up and light a cigarette and take a deep, deep drag. It burns in my lungs and fills me up. I love that feeling. Then I untangle the blankets and comforter from around me, and get out of bed.
The ghost has been in the bathroom, here’s something new. All my meds in a neat little box. Every day labeled, every pill in its place. I pick up the half-pill and take it, along with another glassful of California tap water. While I’m swallowing it down I can’t help but notice myself in the mirrors that line the wall.
I’m getting heavy. There’s a roll of fat that’s growing around my hips and I’ve got a belly where once I was washboard flat. The cut in the muscles is fading. And I’m puffy. All over puffy. Some of this is from the meds, a common reaction. Some of it is from sitting around too much. Some of it is pure junk food. This isn’t pretty. I never was pretty, or even really good looking. My legs are too thin, and they look even thinner with this bigger stomach on top of them. My nose is too big and my skin is scarred from acne. And I’m losing my hair. Nope, there’s not much attractive about me. My calling card was my personality, at least I thought it was. And that even though I was small, thin legged, downright slight, I was hard. Dancing, the endless shows and the endless touring, the hours and hours of rehearsing and performing, it was a non-stop workout and I looked okay.
Now I just look used up and worn out. And puffy. Well, maybe the puffy cheeks make my nose look a little bit smaller. Right.
I hope the ghost brought home the Krispy Kremes.
~~**~~**~~***~~**~~**~~
~~**~~**~~***~~**~~**~~
© 2003 Chandrah, Inc.
© 2003 (*> Baby Bird Productions, Inc.
