59. Bailey
fifty-nine
Bailey
Two Years Later
I cleaned up my small apartment earlier, knocked out the few dishes that were left in the sink, but I still need to get a load of laundry going before work. I have to pick up one weekend shift every month, but it hasn’t been a problem at all. The shifts are usually fairly chill.
I shuffle down the hall toward my bedroom. I shove my favorite bottle of lube in the bedside table in case Mom decides to drop by again unannounced. I smile, my chest squeezing tightly as that damn feather resettles.
My phone dings in the pocket of my sweats. “For fuck’s sake,” I growl, annoyed.
I don’t know what’s gotten into me lately, but I’m a little salty. Sand in my panties. Not at all as unhinged as I was, but still unsettled. Like something is missing and whatever it is, is just out of my reach.
The difficult nights come and go. Memories resurface. Nat smiling, Lolly laughing. They’re painful in different ways, but over time have become less debilitating.
I recently read a study in epigenetics that breached the topic of trauma and its ability to extend into genetic expressions, altering those in its path. Truly fascinating shit. Definitely made me feel better about the severity of my anxiety but doesn’t at all soothe my ego.
Super cute for a grown ass man to need a few minutes in the fetal position every now and then.
A therapist told me it was helpful to personify our emotions, picturing fear or anxiety as something non-threatening to aid in compartmentalizing and working through it.
My fear looks more like a Wendigo, something Sam and Dean Winchester would hunt and destroy with salt circles and silver bullets, not a benign cartoon character like they had so readily suggested.
It’s fucking stupid, but I can appreciate the psychology behind it.
I focus on stopping the noise between my ears, taking a few full breaths as I grab my clean clothes and turn the shower water on.
I make sure my bottle of lotion is on the countertop, not willing to risk the inevitable crash out that will occur if I can’t find it after I dry off and have towel hands.
The thought alone makes me sweat. Fuck’s sake, man, your hands are fine.
The water is scalding; I turn my back to the stream and focus on relaxing the muscles in my back and shoulders.
My jaw ticks as an unwelcomed memory attempts to slither its way up my throat.
I swallow it down. I haven’t had a shower breakdown in weeks, but last night the darkness found me. Made me its bitch.
Some days it feels like my skin suit is going to rip itself off and drive my Jeep on its own.
Dread wriggles its way in, but I combat it—tapping my temples with both index fingers, I count to ten for three sets, then repeat. My heart finally realizes we aren’t running a marathon, and slows to a more reasonable pace.
I still have to use two towels–one black, one grey. One for my face and hair, and the other for my body because the thought of accidentally drying my face with my ass towel will never not give me the creeps.
I finish getting dressed, checking the mirror one last time before I grab my keys, and head toward the door. I’ve been dreading the shift, but now I’m glad to be getting out of the house. Another weekend alone with Beto sounds decent, but I need a change of scenery.
Learning what I enjoy doing without alcohol has been a slow fucking process. So far, I’ve confirmed that I like video games, naps, water-based lube, orgasms, and street tacos.
I really should’ve left the house in time for a meeting, but I can hit the one at noon tomorrow. Incorporating regular meeting attendance and working with a sponsor has been a wild timeline shift, but I’ve managed to put more than a year of sobriety together.
I swallow, already feeling like a pile of dog shit even though I am fully aware I can still make my assigned three meetings this week. And, I just might do the step work John gave me just to spite his grumpy ass.
Gross. Self-inventories are painful as hell.
I sigh as I start the Jeep and am about to put it in drive when I damn near jump out of my seat. “Jesus fucking Christ!” I squeal, then huff a laugh as my soul returns to my body.
I turn the system all the way off like I’ll remember how to drive if I can hear again—my brain frazzled all to hell after the auditory assault.
My eyes are burning from lack of uninterrupted sleep, but caffeine and earbuds are locked and loaded.
Hopefully I’ll have time to listen to my new favorite podcast. This crazy ass scientist accidentally grew a brain and spinal cord from mouse neuro cells.
Fucking insane. No doubt I’ll have to rewind a bit, my attention span now shorter than my porn to splooge ratio.
For fuck’s sake, man, you need to get laid.
My cheeks heat as the scent of leather and spice follows a memory. It’s not enough that I can only get off to gay porn, no, I also have to literally smell him. That damn olfactory nerve and its ironclad memories. He loves to share those at the most inopportune times.
I give my dick a quick glance of disapproval. “Mind your business.”
I glance around the parking lot, worried someone just saw me talking to my dick.
What is wrong with you, dude?
I pull in a breath, counting to five, holding for five seconds, then exhaling for five seconds.
My therapist called it square breathing; she advised me to use it when my sympathetic nervous system decides we are running from a herd of dinosaurs and not just minorly inconvenienced or under fluorescent lighting.
Or, in this case, fantasizing about brown eyes and thick thighs. Fuck, Bailey.
I gather what’s left of my mental faculties and jump out of the Jeep, clicking the locks shut behind me as I walk up to the front of the building to let myself in.
“Hey Bailey,” Chuck yells from the back when he hears the door chime ring.
“Hey, Chuck,” I say with a grin as I let myself through the small entryway and walk toward the workroom where I know I’ll find him finishing his orders and entries.
“How’s the reduced work schedule going? Has Jenna planned any more post-retirement trips?
” I put my stuff in my locker and grab my white lab coat.
Chuck grabs his bag and coffee mug and heads toward me, “It’s been great, honestly.
And yes, she planned two more cruises but won’t tell me how much they were,” he laughs.
“How are you? Jenna said she misses seeing you around. She asked me how you were the other day and I honestly wasn’t sure what to tell her.
It seems like we’ve been working completely different schedules, haven’t we? ” he remarks, tone warm.
“I’m doing well, Chuck. Tell Jenna not to worry about me,” I reply. “You can also tell her that if she needs anyone to be a test dummy for her baking escapades, I would be more than happy to oblige.”
“I sure will. She’ll be thrilled to hear it. You have a good evening now son, and take care of yourself.” He pats my shoulder as he walks by me and out the door.
“Oh, before I forget, check out this catch from the bass tournament,” he says with a huge grin as he pulls his phone out.
“Holy smokes! That’s a big one,” I say impressed.
“He put up a hell of a fight, that one.”
“I’ve no doubt.”
I smile again, a foreign sensation blooming deep in my chest. It’s scary letting people in, knowing there’s a damn good chance you’ll lose them some day. I quickly shake my head to clear my thoughts.
I grab a K-cup from the carousel and make a cup of blonde roast, carefully securing the lid to the top of my travel mug. I have a tendency to spill shit, so I’ve learned to put lids on my drinks whenever possible.
The clumsiness is ridiculous. Just last week I finally got to the bottom of the weird bruises on the insides of my forearms. Fucking doorknobs. It dawned on me as I was hitting one yet again.
I began working on perfecting my caffeine intake as treatment for my self-diagnosed attention deficit disorder. Certainly I don’t need a formal diagnosis after meeting the criteria in its entirety. The reasoning is sound, I’m sure of it.
If, or when I remember to, I’ll take Lion’s Mane supplements but I generally just rely on caffeine and nicotine.
I haven’t smoked cigarettes since college, but I am highly, and I mean highly addicted to nicotine lozenges and gum.
I will go to great lengths to procure my nicotine fix.
It’s a weakness, I know, but every time I’ve tried to wean myself off it, something has gone horribly wrong.
Once, the local lion at our zoo died the very same day I tried to quit and I just knew I wasn’t meant to stop. Rest in peace, Misha.
I think it’s just meant to be. It’s just me, myself, caffeine, and nicotine. Ride or die. BFFs. At least my lungs aren’t being punished. My cardiovascular system will just have to stick it out with me, hoping for the best and expecting the worst.
I remove my earbuds from their case and wipe them down with an alcohol swab before placing them into my ears. Ear wax is fucking disgusting.
Gag.