~And that, friends, is how to make a quick sausage and potato feast. Don't burn your fingers!~
I sighed and logged out of the blog. "Mew's Meows" was my pathetic attempt at opening up to people. My therapist had suggested it, telling me that the anonymity of the 'net might make me spill my guts since obviously his sessions weren't helping. I'd grudgingly agreed to make a go of a blog, in return for a promise of a waiting prescription every month. I'd named the blog "Mew's Meows" because I didn't want my whole name (Bartholomew) associated with what I was writing. Truth be told, I also liked the alliteration of it. It had been helping, I was ashamed to admit. The bouts of depression came less often now that I could safely let it all out. I still had occasional dark days that nothing could make better, and sometimes I blogged about them and others I didn't.
I pushed back from the desk and took out my med box. I kept my pain killers and my mood elevators locked up in a non-descript case to keep people from seeing them. Not that anyone had been anywhere near enough me to see them. I haven't had guests over since I moved into my apartment two years ago. I cradled the pills in my hand and went to the bathroom to slurp some water from the tap. I didn't look in the mirror. It would be a sure fire way to ruin my day. I knew what I'd see anyway. The long red scar that bisects my left cheek, trailing through my eyebrow and up into my hair. The patch where the scar ran was white while the rest of my hair is dark brown. My eye is intact, but a different color than the right. One brown, one blue.
The accident was years old, but the wounds still seemed new to me. I popped the pills in my mouth and sighed, waiting for the release. My left arm is scarred, as is the chest muscle on that side. A fire had started after the car had slammed into the bridge. I had made it out of the back seat but not before my jacket caught and melted into my skin. I'd lain in the snow and watched the car, and my family, burn while I tore the baseball jacket away from my pain wracked arm. The blood from my face and head stung mercilessly and I'd passed out.
When I woke up in the hospital, there was no one. I drifted in and out of a pain-fogged and medication-dulled haze for days until a young looking doctor had wakened me and delivered the news that I was an only child to dead parents. The pain and depression had started that day. The therapy had started years later and the blog shortly after that. I sighed again and left the bathroom. I'd tried to avoid seeing myself and instead relived my nightmare. It was going to be one of those days.
--------------------------------------------------------
~I got myself down again yesterday. I am still in a funk. So no recipes today. You'll all forgive me though right? Instead, let me tell you what I did to try to get out of my funk. I watched The Princess Bride again. The Man In Black/Wesley gets me so hot usually that I can't be in a bad mood. It didn't work. So I watched put in my "I'm going to be sad today" line up. I have movie lists for my moods. Doesn't everyone? I watched Bed of Roses and Untamed Heart, both Christian Slater films, both guaranteed to make me cry. I always come out of it wishing I had a man like that. But I don't. And I cry more. Usually that's all it takes to get back out of a slump. I cry myself into and out of it. Is that confessing too much on a blog?~
I genuinely do love Christian Slater movies. He genuinely does make me hot. He was my first celebrity crush when I was a teen. He was the first gay crush I ever had. I smiled wistfully at the memories of spending days talking to my posters, imagining that I would find someone who looked just like him. Glancing at the clock, I realized I had to get moving. I was late for my job as a handy man at a local church. They had asked me to fix their roof, among other things, and I had promised I would get started today. The blog would have to wait, as would the half-erection I was now sporting from thinking about my crush.
--------------------------------------------------------
I drove the few miles to the small white church building that had hired me. I was surprised to see more than a few cars in the lot. Despite the heat, I pulled a hoodie from my back seat, determined to hide myself if there were too many people about. I didn't want any piteous looks from them as they watched me toil. I knew they couldn't help it, but I also knew that the mood I'd been in the last few days would make me see their quick glances and double-takes harder than I should. I went around back to get the ladder set up so I could go up and survey the roof.
I froze. Sitting between me and the small shed where the ladder was stored was a large group of teens arranged in a semicircle around someone. They were facing away from me, but the object of their attention was not. My mouth hung open. He was beautiful. I was close enough to see his honey-gold eyes, glittering from behind waves of blonde hair that fell astray from a pony tail at the nape of his neck. He had high cheekbones and a strong jaw with a hint of stubble. He cradled an acoustic guitar on his lap and was strumming softly.
I was enthralled. When he started to sing, just as softly, my heart contracted. He sounded like silk – smooth and soft and touchable. The group in front of him joined in the chorus and the spell was broken. Stumbling away, my back hit the wall of the church. He looked up at the small yelp I made and smiled. Perfect teeth, crooked grin and a glint in his eye. He made a small head nod, asking me to join the semi-circle but I couldn't. I couldn't make myself sit that close to those kids. Instead I pulled the hoodie on and edged around the gathering to hurriedly collect the ladder.
--------------------------------------------------------
~I'm not kidding readers. He. Was. Gorgeous. His eyes are how I imagine Jesus' eyes to be. Bright and clear and kind. He smiles like he loves everyone. And he can sing. I have a new little crush I think. My own personal Jesus (I smirked at the unintentional allusion to a song from my high school days) and I wish he were really mine. But those are thoughts for another day. Good night.~
My dreams were sweet, thinking of those eyes and that smile. I didn't even have the urge to pleasure myself to his image... I just thought of how special he must make his loved ones feel. Of how he could make me feel if we were in an alternate universe, if I were unscarred and undamaged.
The next few days the blog took on a worshipful tone. I waxed poetic on every moment that contained him. My P.J. as I started calling him on the blog. Every time I posted my movie plans or dinner recipe, or anything else, I imagined what it would be like to be sharing that moment with him.
The church was helping me out more than they knew when they asked if I could do more than repair the roof and I was pleased to take on any task the Pastor would give me, if only so I could see P.J. again.
The first time we spoke, I almost died on the spot. I was in the small back room, washing paintbrushes clean after a day of staining the woodwork in the offices. It was hot and stale in the small room. Thinking I had the place to myself, I took my long-sleeved t-shirt off. I was absently scrubbing paint from my nails when I heard footsteps behind me. Tensing, I continued to pick at the paint, hoping whoever it was would go away. I didn't want to explain. I didn't want to see pity. I just wanted to get out of this stuffy little room. Right now.
"What the hell happened?"
Slowly turning, I hung my head. I knew that voice. P.J. I never wanted him to see me like this – as me. I wanted to stay in my fantasy world where I could pretend I was perfect and our meeting would be like heat lightning and magnets all in one.
"I don't want to talk about it." I reached for my shirt and pulled it on, not caring that I had just soaked it. I turned the tap off and tossed the brushes in the bucket. My voice was gruff and I went into defense mode.
"Wow, oh, hey man. I'm sorry. I was just surprised to find anyone still here. Didn't mean to be rude." He was blocking the door. Making a snap decision, I tried to brush past him.
God, he smells so good I thought as I ducked under his arm. Like soap and spring and warmth.
My breath hitched. As soon as I got past him, I fled. By the time I got home, I was shaking like a leaf and holding back tears.
~ So why am I so upset readers? I don't want to talk about it. But he smelled so good, and I just ran away. Think I am a chicken if you like, but I don't give a fuck.~
It was one of the few times I'd sworn on the blog and it felt hollow. I did give a fuck. I was ashamed on so many levels that it threatened to pull me into the depths.
~I'm going to go make some comfort food – peanut butter and raspberry jelly sandwiches in case you wondered. I might watch The Princess Bride again and eat my sandwich and day dream about P.J.~
--------------------------------------------------------
It took hours of debate and a long, sleepless Saturday night to decide that I would go back on Monday to finish the work I had started. I'd just have to avoid P.J. which should be easy on a weekday. I pulled up in my battered Dodge Neon, and finding the parking lot empty, left my long sleeves in the front seat. It was hotter than it had been the last few days and I was grateful to not have to hide today.
Hours later, I had peeled off my shirt entirely and was sweating from exertion. Today's task had been moving and repairing pews. I sat in one and looked around. The sanctuary was beautiful and I had a pang. I hadn't been religious since my parents and sister died. I hadn't been to church since I was eighteen and now at twenty-six I just didn't feel the same as I had then. Sighing, I folded my arms on the pew ahead of me and laid my head on them.
"It's ok you know."
