scratching my legs.
The worst was my left leg. I must have landed directly on a nail when I straddled the door, driving it straight into my inner thigh, then dragging it sideways as I slid over, ripping the hole. The doctor noted that I’d missed my femoral artery by inches, and that a ragged puncture wound in an artery was next to impossible to fix and I would have bled to death. He advised I not do that again.
I cringe thinking of what could have happened to my testicles had I landed on the nail differently. The cringe sets off a spasm in my neck, which seems to have fused solid overnight from Shannon’s tackle.
When we finally got back home and got the kids to sleep, we had a long “talk,” another shouting match at talking volume. She explained that I was traumatizing our kids with my problem, that Logan had picked up on my nightmare man and had turned him into his own boogey man, and that my nightly thrashings were setting him off.
But I had knocked down the door because he was freaking out, not the other way around. I couldn’t explain that I knew he was freaking out because I caught the nightmare man slipping under the door.
She pointed out that in the throes of a night terror, my confused mind could easily switch around cause and effect.
I couldn’t argue with that. It happened all the time. My brain did its best to unify real sensory stimulation with hallucination.
She pointed out that it was probably me looming over Logan in his dark room that had him seeing a man in black.
But I wasn’t in his room, last night. Yes, the night before, but last night I’d been frozen in the doorway.
Then she said something that knocked the tiny stable surface I’d created right out from under me. “You were in farther than you think. You were right at the foot of his bed.”
And I thought back to her tackle, and it would have been quite a drive to knock me into his dresser from the doorway.
But I remembered standing frozen, unable to help him, unable to move.
But I remember so many things incorrectly.
Am I his nightmare man?
Staring at the iron sky, I droop. No amount of extra smoke breaks will help.
“Damn, you look terrible.”
I turn to see Leslie tapping a cig out of her pack. I stick mine in my mouth. Good hand free, I light her up and say, “Why do women get to say that to men? Can you imagine it going down the other way?”
“Well, a woman would murder a man for saying that. There are no consequences for the reverse. You need to set a precedent if that’s something you feel strongly about.”
I snort.
She says, “Seriously though, what happened to you? You look exhausted, and then there’s that.” She points to the wrist brace. “And I watched you limp over here.”
“Sleep problems.” After a moment. “Family problems. It’s too much to get into right now.”
“You’ve got my number. Call me.”
I want to tell her that she couldn’t possibly understand. I want to tell her that she doesn’t even rank on the list of things I’m concerned with right now. It’s a lie, somehow she’s ranked way too high, but I want to tell her because I want to make it true. I also want to let happen whatever she wants to happen, if that means we move from break-time buds to actual friends, to fuck buddies, to lovers. Any. All. She’s the only thing I can think about right now that doesn’t make me feel helpless and hopeless and worthless and every other “-less.” I’d love to feel less, actually.
I glance at her, taking in her dyed black hair, her nose, her big eyes, her slight build. Shannon used to be built like that. A couple of kids and a decade on the couch later and she can tackle like a linebacker.
I nod. She puts a hand on my shoulder. Squeezes. Lets it linger a moment too long. Slides it down my arm and away.
“If you need an ear, we could go get coffee or a beer or something. You can’t lose yourself in all this. You need your own space.”
What the hell does this poser art
The worst was my left leg. I must have landed directly on a nail when I straddled the door, driving it straight into my inner thigh, then dragging it sideways as I slid over, ripping the hole. The doctor noted that I’d missed my femoral artery by inches, and that a ragged puncture wound in an artery was next to impossible to fix and I would have bled to death. He advised I not do that again.
I cringe thinking of what could have happened to my testicles had I landed on the nail differently. The cringe sets off a spasm in my neck, which seems to have fused solid overnight from Shannon’s tackle.
When we finally got back home and got the kids to sleep, we had a long “talk,” another shouting match at talking volume. She explained that I was traumatizing our kids with my problem, that Logan had picked up on my nightmare man and had turned him into his own boogey man, and that my nightly thrashings were setting him off.
But I had knocked down the door because he was freaking out, not the other way around. I couldn’t explain that I knew he was freaking out because I caught the nightmare man slipping under the door.
She pointed out that in the throes of a night terror, my confused mind could easily switch around cause and effect.
I couldn’t argue with that. It happened all the time. My brain did its best to unify real sensory stimulation with hallucination.
She pointed out that it was probably me looming over Logan in his dark room that had him seeing a man in black.
But I wasn’t in his room, last night. Yes, the night before, but last night I’d been frozen in the doorway.
Then she said something that knocked the tiny stable surface I’d created right out from under me. “You were in farther than you think. You were right at the foot of his bed.”
And I thought back to her tackle, and it would have been quite a drive to knock me into his dresser from the doorway.
But I remembered standing frozen, unable to help him, unable to move.
But I remember so many things incorrectly.
Am I his nightmare man?
Staring at the iron sky, I droop. No amount of extra smoke breaks will help.
“Damn, you look terrible.”
I turn to see Leslie tapping a cig out of her pack. I stick mine in my mouth. Good hand free, I light her up and say, “Why do women get to say that to men? Can you imagine it going down the other way?”
“Well, a woman would murder a man for saying that. There are no consequences for the reverse. You need to set a precedent if that’s something you feel strongly about.”
I snort.
She says, “Seriously though, what happened to you? You look exhausted, and then there’s that.” She points to the wrist brace. “And I watched you limp over here.”
“Sleep problems.” After a moment. “Family problems. It’s too much to get into right now.”
“You’ve got my number. Call me.”
I want to tell her that she couldn’t possibly understand. I want to tell her that she doesn’t even rank on the list of things I’m concerned with right now. It’s a lie, somehow she’s ranked way too high, but I want to tell her because I want to make it true. I also want to let happen whatever she wants to happen, if that means we move from break-time buds to actual friends, to fuck buddies, to lovers. Any. All. She’s the only thing I can think about right now that doesn’t make me feel helpless and hopeless and worthless and every other “-less.” I’d love to feel less, actually.
I glance at her, taking in her dyed black hair, her nose, her big eyes, her slight build. Shannon used to be built like that. A couple of kids and a decade on the couch later and she can tackle like a linebacker.
I nod. She puts a hand on my shoulder. Squeezes. Lets it linger a moment too long. Slides it down my arm and away.
“If you need an ear, we could go get coffee or a beer or something. You can’t lose yourself in all this. You need your own space.”
What the hell does this poser art
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