I ignored my internal spiral down, ignored how I felt more disconnected with every day I woke up, and ignored how I seemed to feel only three things; hate, love, and nothing.
I gradually drank more so I could pretend to be human. A little wine helped the walls come down. His skin against mine quieted the worst in me. But every day I felt further away from myself.
His house was a drain, the memories swirling and replenishing like the water in the toilet threatening to drown me, a dark force sitting on my chest while I slept, the windows slamming on my fingers, the basement a dark living hole ready to suck me in, my basic dislike of entering or even driving to that place. Were my suspicions of the evil in the home actually my primal instincts telling me to get out, get away, from him, from the boy? I questioned all the time, whose life was this, because going ‘home’ meant kissing two boys, tolerating the noise that comes with a two-year-old, feeling like an alien in this world.
How absolutely crazy I was about them. How I was willing to turn my world upside down so I could be in their lives. W and I would color, create voices for barnyard figures and read. And read. My best memory is going home after a stressful day at work, needing to sit on the porch glider, needing to find the quiet. Although I dreaded the noise of going home W proved me wrong. He sat on the glider with me and although I didn’t know what he was saying and he didn’t know what I was saying we had a full conversation. And I found my quiet.
The last day I had the privilege to spend with W we fought off monsters. I didn’t know how literal it would be. Maybe he saw them. In between the steps of making macaroni and cheese, we went around the house, kicked the air, and told the monsters to get out! We kicked until we reached windows and told the monsters they were not welcome. T laughed at us as he sat at the computer looking up information for our honeymoon resort. How oddly perfect.
Foolish to think I mattered to them. I was replaceable.