Cakes and Diamonds
Nothing good comes from wallowing in your failures at five in the morning. Need eats life and makes the most opulent existence feel like squalor. What I want is ridiculous by most standards.
Romance, it’s a laughable word, a snickering word for children and those of lesser intellect but I look silently for it everywhere. Does anyone even have what I want or is this concept of overpowering emotion kept alive to sell wedding cakes and diamonds?
The feel of the cold sheets on the other side of the bed reminds me to be thankful next time I find any measure of companionship. It’s been a few months since my last lukewarm lover left for a new job in his new city. The silver lining of him taking half the towels was that I would be able to find someone new.
The anticipation of that first golden week of newness and excitement. I could have another chance at something epic and life-changing. My first encounter with love was unconventional at best. Being the object of someone's obsession both smothers you and ruins your reasonable expectations of other people.
The alarm on my phone began to chime. It was five-fifteen and time to greet a new day. I would eventually be traveling today, one of the things in life I hate and love equally. I value routine and the sense of well being that comes from following a predetermined path. On the other hand, I welcome change and excitement in small doses.
This trip had been planned for some time. My general laziness and daily choice to ignore the situation could be the reason I have put it off for so long. Suffice it to say there was a family home and there was a death. Now there’s a house that needs to be sold. That’s all this is, a monetary problem that’s keeping me from my normal routine. I moved far away and the house sits empty.
My name was atomized across my bedroom very early this morning. It’s was like a puff of perfume floating on the particles of dust that play in the rays of sunshine. The sound hangs there tangible and full until enough fresh oxygen can push it out of the room. My mornings have been this way for as long as I can remember. At least today it’s just the sound. I mean it has been a lot... I probably should say worse, but I guess more, and constant, and indiscernible from reality would be truthful.
Truth, it’s a sharp pointy word with hot and painful edges. Something my new therapist wants me to work on, truth. No exaggerations, just facts and numbers and dates and times nothing extra. Feelings are only chemical reactions to outside stimulus. The truth she wants to hear exists solely within the confines of common, socially accepted experiences. I don’t have problems with mundane things. I need help ignoring all the rest.
My investment guy wants me to invest the sale proceeds and divert the saved expense to my portfolio. It sounds good, just wave my hand and divert the expense to a different place. I have to travel to the house to sell it. Normally, I could get “people” do it all for me but I left something there no one else can properly collect.
I have spent roughly a year of my life in and out of fancy institutions trying to convince medical personnel that this something really exists. Finally, I figured out once they have you behind lock and key have to play the game to get ice cream on Thursday night and Jello on Sundays. After a few weeks of the dessert game, you get sent home with a bottle of little pills and a big story about how their groundbreaking new therapy worked brilliantly.
Priests couldn’t help me, nor could the Shaman or the Reiki master. I did have a Demonologist once; he was hung like livestock and cooked perfect vegan meals. I do miss him occasionally but he couldn’t fix my problem either. I don’t know why I thought a doctor could.
Finally, a tall, old man with a row of framed documents on his office wall made me so numb that I couldn’t feel anything. The prescriptions keep the voices to a low whisper and the invisible people to a manageable few. I’m pretty sure this is the best I have felt in years.
This truth, I’m supposed to be focused on, is not as clean and simple as Haloperidol or Risperdal. There are voices in my head and dead people in my bedroom and it all started when I was a young girl in that God-damned house.
The Gardner that takes care of the property called me last week. He keeps finding mangled, dead birds on the backside of the greenhouse and he’s retiring before the summer heatwave hits. My time to procrastinate ends with the summer solstice. The things I have left unattended are trying to get my attention.
There’s a quarterly finance briefing at eight, then I have a late breakfast meeting with my philanthropy group across town. Philanthropy sounds pretentious but it’s better than coffee with my bored gaggle of evil bitches. Only a few of them are actually evil but all of them are bitches. We gather a ton of charity money for some really worthy causes so I think our collective karma evens out in the end.
My flight is at two-forty-five this afternoon. I packed the single pair of denim jeans I own and some of my more casual linen pants. I’m not sure what the suggested outfit is for expelling a demon. I wasn’t able to find my Rosary but I’m sure there will be a religious store in close proximity to a gun and ammo shop once I arrive.
Rural California has an odd mix of depravity and religion. Wealth and abject poverty sometimes share the same block. It took me years to wash the valley out of my speech so I didn’t sound as stupid as I felt in my new sophisticated office. I’m sure after a week there the ridiculous cadence will coat my tongue again. So many things bother me about this undertaking, it is not worth listing them all.
I had several imaginary friends as a child, as many children do. Mine didn’t fade as I aged, they grew with me instead. This situation gave me something to hide from people and a good reason to be ashamed. As if a young girl doesn’t have enough shame to sort through. The information these friends provided made me seem like an extra compassionate person. The truth is, I am not the least bit compassionate and I really don’t care what other people need. I tasked one of my invisible friends with keeping an eye on my little problem and the house. With the report of dead birds, I have a good idea of where to look for the bastard first.
This unique situation is my fault entirely. I wanted to believe my own bullshit. I wanted to ignore the fact that my imaginary friends existed. I didn’t want to hear voices because that universally means you are a crazy bitch. So I focused on lipstick and nail polish, eyeshadows and eyeliners. I am not a waitress red and plum gasmic purple, bitch-slapped pink and black cat ash all gave my mind the focus on the useless physical gibberish that I needed to ignore the really awful crap that I could feel all around me.
People are quick to say you can’t take it with you when they talk about money. The issue they fail to mention is how you will linger in the moment of your death, or how you will still crave your cigarettes and that first icy sip of whiskey. The caress of your lover’s fingers on your non-existent back is a hard desire for people to let go of. I can feel all of it from the dead around me when I don’t take my meds.
I’m not strong enough to get rid of the problem long distance, plus I bound that bastard to the land with my own blood. I know, how stupid, how irresponsible, but it sounded like a really good idea to me at the time. I’m not proud of myself but I think with some work, I can kill it.