Psycho exes, seven minutes of work, the opposite of summer

I enjoy looking at pictures from the season opposite the one I'm living in. I took this picture last winter with my little busted Nikon CoolPix. Look how *cold* that looks. Today, it was 94 degrees in this same park. As much as I dislike winter and the cold, I still find it interesting to contemplate the extremes of seasonality in the place where I live. It's been as hot as 106 here and as cold as -24. That's quite a range.

Work was slow today. That's putting it mildly. I did exactly seven minutes of actual work today, as you may have guessed from the post title. I suppose it makes up for those days I have so much work that I skip lunch and stay late. I feel kind of bad, though. I'm getting paid to sit in my Herman Miller Aeron chair and look at blogs. To what higher power do I owe such good fortune?

I talked to my brother today, briefly. The poor child is living through poison ivy hell. Apparently he and the wifey stopped by my parents' house earlier today with their new puppy, and the girl was actually civil to my mother--although she wouldn't speak to/make eye contact with my dad. It's a step in the right direction, at any rate. I just don't understand. And I don't want to spend any more mental energy breaking my brain trying to understand. When I talked to my brother, I called him on his cell phone rather than their shared landline. I told him of the hot-water remedy and he said he'd used it the night before with miraculous results. We talked about his dogs, briefly, and then we hung up. It was almost a normal conversation. It was good to talk to him. I hope we can do it again in the future.

This evening, I picked up the page proofs for a book index I'm doing for my ex. She was in bad shape. She's been having a really hard time the past couple years, going through one bad relationship after another. I knew it was going to be awkward and she was probably going to have some sort of meltdown so I was prepared for it somewhat when she started saying she kept hearing this voice inside her head that screamed "what's the point" over and over, and that she was confused, couldn't write more than one sentence without forgetting what she was doing, and dealing with getting this book published was making her want to slit her wrists. She started crying and couldn't articulate her words. When she cries, it's more of a nervous breakdown, she does this little shrieking thing and starts jerking and sort of grabbing at things and like, I don't know, fuck. It's really disturbing to see. She had a breakdown when we were at Borders one time and I was about two seconds from calling an ambulance. It scared the shit out of me. But I've gotten better at handling it now that I've been exposed to it several times.

Once, when we were dating, we drove down to go camping in Kentucky. It was about a three hour car ride so we just talked the whole time, playing the questions game. I rather jokingly asked her if she had a secret that she'd never told anyone before. She blurted out, my brother sexually abused me for years. I don't think I'll ever forget that moment. The blur of humidity in the air, the thickness I suddenly felt in my veins, the stink of my own suddenly-sprung sweat, the chill of the car's air conditioner blowing on my skin. The stillness after she said it. Jesus. Everything about her suddenly made sense.

It didn't work out with us. And I felt terrible about not loving her. She was so lonely. She needed so, so much more than any human on this planet will ever be able to give her. It's desperate, and naked, and stark, and I couldn't do it. We didn't talk for a while after we broke up, and then we gradually morphed back into becoming friends when she started dating somebody new, who got to the same point I did with her, and dumped her. And so did the next one. And the next one, and the next one, and the next one.

Ugh. I feel weird writing any of that down. Her small body is the repository for more psychological pain than it seems capable of holding. I feel terrible for her, but I can't fix her. I tried. I managed to at least have her smiling and even laughing by the time I left, but it felt like a quick fix, duct tape on a broken water pipe. I've suggested before that she see a therapist (such a delicate suggestion to have to make to someone). She said she tried it and it didn't help. I think one day, she'll probably do enough damage to herself in some sort of depressed rage that she'll probably kill herself, but I have no idea how to prevent that from happening. I've been there for enough of these breakdowns. I certainly know she's capable of it. And know that she'd take it as the ultimate betrayal if I tried to stop her if it came to it, or she'd get so out of her own head that she'd try to assault any EMTs I might call in desperation.

Oy. A lot to handle when I just went over there to pick up the page proofs. She actually let me give her a hug before I left, which is a good sign; usually she freaks if you get close enough to touch her when she's like that.

I feel grateful that I'm not in that state. It scares the shit out of me. Dealing with it scares the shit out of me. I'm glad as hell to come home to M and stability and three dogs who demand nothing more of me but that I feed them and let them out to do their business and snuggle with them in the morning when we wake up. M and I took them for a walk when I got home and it made me feel better. I talked about the situation with M and he was sympathetic. He is the greatest. I am so lucky.

All in all, a day that made me appreciate what I have all the more.

And tomorrow, I start the index. Fun.