I asked, I received, I suffered a Category 4 meltdown last night (fun!) and Alex had to patiently walk me back along the steps to Sanity Row, a cul-de-sac near the crossroads of
A spectacle is defined as “an elaborate and remarkable display on a lavish scale, especially in one’s bedroom,” and so it goes. I have no sense of privacy, our master bedroom more a bus transit than a secret terminus, an unusual reality for someone who to this day still feels like it is a mortifying sin to enter his parents’ bedroom. It is not uncommon to find my wife riding her exercise bike, both kids jumping on the bed and my mother-in-law asking me if I’ve fed the dogs (both of whom are also present) ALL IN THE CONFINES OF MY SPECTACLE.
And so when I slip and fall, even at my computer, at the far end of the house, I do not lack for an audience. The children, of course, generally do not enjoy watching their protector-provider deteriorate into a screaming mass of irrational goo, but they are drawn to the light of the meltdown. Whenever I would yell, Naya would yell, and I would have to yell louder to compensate for her advantage in octaves, all so that Alex could fully understand why it is that I wanted to lament my ever having been born.
Throughout the night, afterwards, when I had gained sufficient composure to brush my teeth, we could hear her sleep walking and wake stumbling and imaginary chit-chattering, likely conversations with the future parole officers of her now despoiled childhood. At 3 in the morning, I walked into her room and asked her if she was having a bad dream, and she said, ‘Yes.’ And I said, ‘Me, too, sweetie.’
Tristan used to do this, and we (I) were (was) even worse back then, used to provide MUCH more fodder for his psychoses. I don't know how you can be young and not yell at each other, even when things are going swimmingly. He would wander aimlessly in the night, sweet little chatterbox, and I’d try to get him to go to bed, and he would wail, and part of me would think, I'm the world's biggest asshole, note to self, do not fight in front of the children. And yet part of me would be like, 'Tough it out. Stop crying. At least all we do is raise our voices. Come whine to me when the shouts are peppered with a healthy dose of closed fists and physical humiliation.' Of course, I only think this because I am uncultured, and in all likelihood, several million years ago, a Neanderthal raped a Cro-Magnon woman and the resulting child begat my ancestral Adam.
Apparently, however, I do quite well for a charm school dropout, and in spite of my SPECTACTULAR display, Alex made sure I arrived to work in time to open the following message:
Hey baby,
How are you feeling today? I hope that you're doing a little better. If you think that you need more venting, I will be home tonight for you.
I love you.
The source of you
I thought it a wonderfully cryptic and symbolic signature. Enough to spend my time sweeping aside the she-loves-me-not petals instead of obsessing over my inability to keep my shit together the night before.
But she sent a follow-up message saying that the previous note had been cut off, and what she had meant to sign with was, ‘The source of your misery, Alex.’
I’ve already checked, and there are 12 flower shops between here and home.
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