1, 2, 3

I hate to enter the territory of TMI but it helps explain my headspace this week. I was going to skip writing anything at all but last night when I woke in the middle of a night and couldn’t fall back asleep I went back and read everything I’ve written here and decided to keep going even when I know I sometimes will write things that make me cringe later.

The TMI isn’t too bad. It’s simply that every month I get hit hard by whacked out hormones, and one of three things will happen:

1. Anger. Every little thing is an irritation. Every irritant becomes grounds for justifiable rage. The good news is I only scream obscenities inside my head (and sometimes in the car). The worst that I unleash on anyone is terseness, but that can be pretty noticeable. Holding it in takes a toll so I try to keep my distance from people as much as possible.
2. Weepiness. Everything will make me tear up, and a crying jag (or two or three) is inevitable. Accompanying this is hyper self-doubt and oversensitivity. I’m fed through an emotional wringer over and over. It’s exhausting but a bit easier than number 1 because number 1 makes me feel like a horrible person, and this one only makes feel weak. 
3. Exhaustion. For several days I’m almost unable to hold my head up.

Occasionally a combination will occur, and sometimes nothing very noticeable will occur. Lately—three or four months—all have been mild. Not so right now. Number 2 is kicking my ass.

A few years ago I started adding whichever number is occurring to my personal calendar. Once I realize it’s going to be, say, a Number 1 month, I’ll add daily appointments that just say Number 1 and set it so I’m reminded a couple of times a day. This helps me remember that things are being distorted so I should try to chill. It sort of helps. I still feel whatever I’m going to but am able to keep a bit of perspective.

So on the Fourth I spent the day with Mica. We took the little white dog to the dog park because the smoke in the air was keeping him from going outside. The dog park we went to is bordered by a cemetery, a golf course and a park. It was as quiet (and smoke free) as possible. No one else was there, but he was happy to have new territory to sniff. When I left early evening—the time I always leave on the Fourth—I felt guilty because this year I wasn’t going home but to Blaine’s. I felt guilty because I somehow found someone to date when Mica, who is better than me in every way (that isn’t a distortion—she really is), doesn’t have someone. I felt guilty that I never do anything with my brother (too much to get into here). In short, I suck.

Blaine and I made popcorn and watched a movie (Game Night, which was such a good idea with a great cast but wasn’t executed well). We left the lights off and watched the fireworks we could see through the windows at the back of the house. We tried to go for a late walk but there were too many kids handling explosives, which caused us to feel extra combustible. Settled back on the couch, Blaine asked if something was bothering me. Apparently I was quieter than normal.

All of a sudden I had the hag from “The Princess Bride,” the one who stands up and calls Buttercup the queen of refuse, queen of slime, queen of putrescence, shouting at me, calling out failure, loser.

I told Blaine I was fine, because although at that moment I was plagued by guilt and inferiority, I knew nothing was truly wrong.


I had Thursday and Friday off, and I kept to myself. Did some laundry, meticulously cleaned the interior of my car, shredded junk mail, binged on “Nashville” (meh) and lived on peanut butter toast.

Friday night, however, I had to go out. Eve’s birthday was earlier in the week and Paul had arranged for their closest friends to gather for drinks and supper. Except for Kim and John, who are on vacation, this is the group from St. Patrick’s Day and also the group that meets for lunch on Sundays.

For conversation purposes they arranged themselves so the guys were at one end of the rectangular table, the women at the other. It happened to work out that Blaine and I were beside each other and  Eve was on my other side.

Later, after we’d been visiting for some time, I asked how long they had all been friends (a long time). Someone remarked how unusual it is to find so many couples where everyone clicks. That reminded everyone of the person who is no longer with them. The death of Blaine’s wife was a huge loss for everyone who knew her. The women told all manner of stories about her. Some were hilarious, several were sweet, all showed that they love and miss her. I understand that very well. I have had losses like that in my life.

The longer they talked, the more unworthy I felt. Not for the first time. I’ve never understood why Blaine is giving me so much time. He can do better. He can certainly do prettier, and more interesting wouldn’t be too hard to come by. He absolutely can find someone who is less awkward and much less insecure in situations like this. What I have going for me is that Eve recommended me. She is protective of him and wouldn’t have if she didn’t genuinely think I might be compatible. Her approval must make it easier for him. I’m

I excused myself to the bathroom when I could. Ran my hands under the cold water until they were chilled, then pressed them on my face and neck, all while I silently repeated Number 2, Number 2, Number 2 to myself (not something you want to be caught saying out loud while you’re in a bathroom, especially if you’re not inside a stall). The trouble with knowing when my emotions are not entirely under my control is that I still can’t stop them. I can’t keep my eyes from going glossy or my voice from getting weak. All I can do is remind myself that what spins out of control in my mind can stay inside my head.

When I returned to the table, the dinners had arrived and people were involved with the food. I slid back onto my chair. I knew Blaine was looking at me but it wasn’t a good idea for me to look at him, so I took a long drink. When I felt him put his hand low on my back, instead of feeling reassured, as I usually do, I filled with impending loss.

Leaving the restaurant, I didn’t think I could be good company. I lied about having a headache so Blaine would drop me off.

Then I felt guilty about that.

I had already said I would go with him to a fundraiser at his church yesterday so I couldn’t hide at home. The church held an an ice cream social and dessert auction (and accepted straight donations) to raise money for someone in the congregation who is undergoing cancer treatment. I have a particular soft spot for this sort of thing because I saw how much it meant to my cousin when his church did something similar for him. The money is a godsend but the knowledge that so many people are there for you is every bit as needed.

Nearly everyone that Blaine introduced me to mentioned they remembered the fundraiser they held for his family and said how they missed his wife. A break for a few days, that’s all I wanted.

Early in the week—seems so far away now—Blaine and I agreed that after the fundraiser we would go to his house and make a late dinner. Cooking together is something we’ve discovered we really enjoy.

I unlocked my phone and handed it to Blaine so he could pull up my Spotify playlists and pair the phone with the speakers (still the old ones) while I used the restroom. When I came out he told me a calendar alert had come up. “Number 2?” he asked, mildly.

“Oh.” I waved my hands around. “Just a reminder to myself.”

“Can I ask…?” I could tell he was expecting the explanation to be amusing.

I tried to think of some general thing to say but couldn’t come up with anything that didn’t sound like a dodge. So I attempted a different kind of dodge. “You don’t really want to know.” Which isn’t a dodge as much as an invitation. During a less addled week I would have caught that in time.

He didn’t say anything. The way he stood there, waiting, said I was wrong about not wanting to know. So I explained in the briefest way I could. He didn’t say a word, didn’t move from where he was leaning against the counter. I was about to inform him the shrimp weren’t going to marinate themselves, when he asked if anything in particular bothered me this week.

I knew he had noticed something was up a time or two. “A couple of things,” I admitted. “Not actual problems, just little stuff that my head blows out of proportion.”

He told me he would always be willing to listen if I thought talking would help relieve the pressure.

And that’s when my lip trembled and tears sprung out of the corners of my eyes. “Oh honestly,” I gruffed at myself. “This is stupid.” Blaine walked around the corner of the breakfast bar and put his arms around me. I pushed him away. Through little huffs of air, I said, “My mascara isn’t waterproof. It leaves marks” He pulled me back and said he has other shirts.

I do not get it. But sometime in the future I may read this and see something I can’t right now. So, long and unedited, I’m hitting the Publish button.