I sit, listening to Bright Eyes, staring out our dirty windows through the plants, hanging fairy lights, and two drapes I ripped in half to create 4. I try to capture the part of myself I've lost to anger and exhaustion. I think about the moment, the loss of one of our best friends, my beautiful son, and frustrations my husband and I hold against each other. I sip my wine, I take a deep breath...why the fuck won't that motherfucking fruit fly leave me alone. I frantically swat and clap the air, furiously determined to kill the shitface ruining the few goddam moments I have. He taunts my eyelash, just barely touching it, what the hell did I do to deserve this? We Can't Be Friends by Lorene Scafaria comes on. I played this song for him when he was living with us. he listened to it in a loop for an hour. "I wanna tear you apart, wanna make your bed, I wanna break your heart, I wanna break your head."
Parker was enigmatic; he was funny, brilliant, and tragically selfish. Like a tornado, if you got too close, you were sucked in and a lot of devastation always followed. But, like a tornado; intriguing, powerfully mystifying, and beyond human comprehension, you couldn't not get close to Parker on some level.
That fucking fruitfly.
When did I become so angry, so unapproachable? Racking my brains, I want to know at what point I completely stopped having faith in the world. I know, I jump back and forth between past and present tense, it's my thing and I don't give a shit. Was it puberty? My parent's divorce? My first hospitalization? After Parker's death, I began thinking about how hateful I am towards to people I love the most. He opened up to me in a way he wouldn't to anyone and I turned my back on him, the forces of my judgment and fear pulling me, maybe at times even against my own will, don't do it, don't hate, don't judge, don't, don't, don't, but suddenly I was twisted and blown away by it all before I could ever say "I love you, you are so important to me." I missed the many chances I had as I, once again, allowed myself to be dictated by pride and ego.
I think of my sister's recent words, "I don't think you like me very much. Angie, every time I disappoint you, you go below the belt."
My husband this morning, "you're always so unhappy; if it's not Jude, or how exhausted you are, it's a client, or your mom, or, most of the time, me."
I'm not going to lie, I pictured being sad, dramatically and romantically fucked up, but not angry, not hateful, not so dam unlovable. I was a joyful and silly little girl who had a world of energy and a thirst for adventure, but at some point, I lost that.
There are people born with a natural charisma, people such as Parker and Bridgette. Paul says that no matter how dirt poor, pathetic, and unemployed Parker has been, no matter how gross his drinking got or how much he smoked, he could get more beautiful women to fall in love with him than anyone we've ever known. Bridgette is the kind of woman who people hand money to. I'm the person in the background throwing a temper tantrum asking why the fuck they didn't give it to me; why the fuck they're not in love with me. Hm, not sure. The fact that I can laugh at myself is my only saving grace, I'm not crazy enough to believe my behavior isn't completely ridiculous. It totally is. Fucking fruitfly.
I watched my son tonight as I nursed him and he slapped his hand on my chest, grappling with my shirt and running the back of his hand against my skin. His fascination with texture and the budding relationship with his senses made me smile, which to him signifies laughter, which is exactly how he responded, lips curled, nipple in mouth, giggling excitedly; his two over-sized front teeth sticking out proudly. Why can't I laugh like that? It was once so easy.
