Cost of a Glimpse

Falling back onto the bed, my mind races through the taste. I can never get used to the taste in my mouth. You'd think that after all this time, every day, multiple times a day I'd get somewhat used to the taste, but you don't. That's one reason why I think it would be so effective for those interrogators and torturers. It's fresh and new every single time, oh joy.

2:11am, 32months 2 days since Jeremy left. I'm up to a whooping 97lbs.

Janet's really tried to help me, but like she says I'm a tough nut to crack. We've yet to crack it too. Janet's the most important Doctor I have. Together we have the toughest job to do. It all boils down to just one word...WHY. I've always thought that once I really knew, totally knew in my mind. Why I cheated on Jeremy, I could work on that and get my subconscious mind to adjust and go back to normal. I'm sure that I could.

Janet tries to temper my conviction. She always says that of course we'll keep looking. But that it might not be just one reason, maybe not even two. It might be a combination of many small things. Some we might never find. Never find a magic bullet to cure me. But I can't let myself believe that.

Because I can't keep on going like this.

Janet says that what she wants to have happen from our sessions. Is for me to learn to live my life in a positive manner. To learn techniques to improve my sleep and health. Ways to understand what's going on with my body. She feels that if we can accomplish these things, it will give me time and a way to heal myself.

Then she says that I already am, she points to the fact that my weight has somewhat stabilized, in fact it's climbing a little.

I tell her of how the African dream has been growing, getting more vivid and realistic. How I'm getting to be more in one of the characters. More into her personality, recognizing others in the tribe.

Janet's felt that I've got some validity in my tipping point memories. That tipping point in and of itself is true. At some point I decided to allow the thoughts of the possibility of an affair to enter my consciousness. Whether it was what Marge said might be another question. Marge and 'lucky bitch' showed another possible plausibility.

Janet said the girls learn sports and competition today, instead of home arts and lady like conduct. This in its self is not a bad thing, it just creates possible problems. That in just a couple of generations passed, the good girl ideal was still drummed into the majority of young girls. Marge's 'lucky bitch' spawned a 'locker room' competitiveness that previous generations didn't have.

Janet had several other possible reasons that are 'hidden imperatives' in women. The one of the most unbelievable to me was her 'Back-up Plan'. She said that it's theorized that there is a reproductive imperative in some women; to increase genetic diversity and volume.

The Back-up Plan is that a woman who has only had one mate and only produced children with that mate. Toward the end of her child bearing years, she will seek another mate to increase the genetic diversity, of the group or tribe. Or if she's had no offspring, she will move to another mate to increase the chance for some. As far as infidelity, the woman doesn't even know or feel the imperative that's pushing her toward this goal, that it's all in her subconscious'.

She said even though I scoffed at this idea. I had to think about it. Then she reminded me that I was 37 years old and my biological clock was ticking. But even though I didn't really want children. This imperative might have affected me. She then stated 'your obviously feeling the power that the subconscious mind can invoke.' She was definitely right about that, my whole 97lbs and that wastebasket believed.

Another she called the Magpie effect. A crow or a magpie will go after anything shiny or attractive, to add it to their collection. Which they guard as a dragon would his hoard. Against all comers even those much bigger and more dangerous intruders then themselves. The magpie will go into dangerous environments to get these 'bright and shinnies' even though they know that these can't be eaten or have no other value than being 'bright and shinnies'.

They see this in women who describe her marriage as ' loving and fulfilling' or even as 'perfect marriages'. But suddenly become fascinated by another man. 'I didn't even like him, but I couldn't quit thinking about him. Even though I knew he was a jerk.' This can be seen as the 'Magpie effect'.

Another might be a Narcissistic Complex. This has come into more definitions than just the Greek youth Narcissus falling in love with his own reflection in a pool. Such as Acquired Situational Narcissism, or ASN. ASN develops later in life. Usually brought on by acquired wealth, power or fame. Such as in actors or rock stars who struck it big.

People are recognizing it in other situations too. CEO's or other people in powerful positions. People who are controlling the fates of others. Even down to managers or leaders in business groups.

It leads into another phase called 'Narcissistic Entitlement'. Such as the rich, powerful CEO that feels he's entitled to that affair with his young secretary. Or the beautiful woman whose entitled to jewelry, designer clothes, and all the attention of admiring men.

The problem this creates or allows in the reasoning for affairs. Is in the loss of reality, to the point of believing in their own invulnerability. In believing that they're somehow above the law or immune to the consequences of their actions. Because they're so very special.

As in a woman having an affair believing that she'll never be caught, even to the point that she becomes very relaxed in hiding the affair. Also in believing that the husband will forgive and forget to the point of never hurting the marriage. That she so very much wants to remain, and the husband that she never quit loving. That she can 'have it all' because she's so very special.

But we both agreed that my ability to compartmentalize allowed me to start and maintain my affair. In that tipping point I created a playroom for myself. In examining possibilities, I made another reality separate from my real life.

That allowed me a playroom to put Eric and everything we did into it. Shut and lock the door on it, and it disappeared. AND it was never part of my real world. This was the key to me having and continuing the affair.

We both felt that my personality, my values, my very self. Were so diametrically opposed to the possibility of having an affair. That I needed this psychotic break, this almost Dissociative Identity Disorder. To allow this affair, I could only start it and continue it as two different people.

We started down this line of thinking because Janet asked me a question. 'How did I handle thinking about Eric when I was making love to Jeremy.' I think my response startled her. 'I never did and I never thought about Jeremy when I was with Eric.' 'They're just not in the same world'. That led to this Dissociative Identity Disorder ideas.

That led Janet to the idea that maybe I'd had a psychotic incident that led to my having an affair. Rather than my affair leading to a full psychotic break. So we go round and round of reasons and possibilities.

Another thing Janet and I go round and round about is Jeremy. She wants me to contact him, to see if he'll come in and help me, help her to help me. The first time we talked of this. I just looked at her and smiled. Told her that this was what Jeremy wanted to happen. He would never hit me or hurt me. He would never leave me destitute or in any form of danger.

But he is also human, and he had to leave me with some form of punishment. This was it, that total loss of him. He knew that it would hurt me. That's the reason I really don't know if he'd come back. I know that he never meant for my mind to break and affect my body like it has. I know that he'd never want to see me like this. He just didn't know that his punishment would be this devastating, but 'this is' his punishment.

So I didn't want to bring him back, only if it was the last possibility of saving my life. She had to honor my wishes.

The cry, the song has gone on for so long. My throat is passed sore, it feels like it should be bleeding. But I keep going, keep wailing the keen. It sounds like the whole village is here. Either standing around here in the dead of night. The full dark with no moon. Or wailing the song, voices, and voices, and voices on top of more voices. In the song, in the lament, for the dead.

I feel my little girl's arms wrapped around my legs. I feel her tears as they soak through my skirt onto the skin of my thigh. My strong young friend holds my hand as our cries blend in the song...the song for the dead.

The night is still and black, the air is dead no breath of life in it. The wind moves not, the grasses lay still. Even the frogs of the river are quiet. The birds of the air and the bugs of the trees are soundless. The bugs and beetles of the earth chirp but seldom.

The Earth Mother listens to our song tonight.

YAAK... as my body finishes it spasms. I almost slide off the edge of the bed into the wastebasket, and I don't try and stop myself. I don't care...

2:14am 37 months 22 days, 93lbs. DAMN numbers, I don't need numbers.

my Jeremy's dead.

It whispers in my mind.

my Jeremy's dead.

MY JEREMY'S DEAD!

They told me...they told me that my Jeremy died. But he can't be, because I didn't feel him go. I didn't feel his soul leave, I always thought that I'd feel his soul leave.

But I didn't.

Is my body and mind so broken that I didn't feel him go. Was my sin so bad that I couldn't feel half my soul leave. Was my shame so bad that I'd lost it, lost that half of my soul. I know what I did, I know the hurt I caused. I know that we're not married anymore. But he was still half my soul. I didn't even feel him leave me!

As soon as they told me. I went to his folks, they would know...know what had happened. I tried to be good, I tried to be polite, I tried to be calm. But it was hard, so very very hard. Because my mind was screaming at me. NO...NO...it's wrong, something's wrong, he can't be dead because I didn't feel him go, didn't feel him leave me.

I'd gotten Chrissy to drive me, because I couldn't drive and I knew that if I tried too. I'd kill someone else, someone other than Jeremy.

His folks had everything that they'd sent back; his clothes, his passport and other papers, a police report, a DNA report. On the car accident...an accident...a car accident...oh god! I had to be quiet and calm, and I was.

His folks were polite and they showed me everything. But they stared at me, they hadn't seen me in quite a while. His paints were there, and brushes. All in their bags and cases.

The painting was there.

I think that then I started to believe. It was Jeremy's work, so very obviously Jeremy's style, his color palette, his technique. Only it was half done...it wasn't finished.

I thought to myself that he must be dead, even though I never felt him leave, he must be dead. The painting wasn't finished...

I tried to be polite to his folks, to express my condolence. I just managed. Then I had to leave. We left the house, but Chrissy had to help me into the car. Then we drove off. I was quiet for half the ride home.

Then suddenly I fell all apart, I knew it, knew it was coming, and I didn't care. My Jeremy was dead...oh god, what am I going to do...I knew that I was all in pieces. I knew that I was screaming and crying, flopping all over the car seat. But I didn't care, my Jeremy was dead... I had the thought go through my head of 'if I don't stop this I'll make Chrissy wreck this car and kill us. But I didn't care...

Then I felt it, the heat and the dust, the smell. I felt the pull of other...

Then I felt the car stop and heard the tires screech. I looked to Chrissy and seen her wide eyed terror. Then I realized it, that I'd been hearing it in my mind, the wailing cry, the trilling keen, the warbling rise and fall of the African cry, the lament for the dead.

But I'd been hearing it in my ears too.

Then I stopped, and it died in mid note. The pull of the other place vanished too. We sat and just stared at each other. Chrissy bless her brave little soul ask me if that was the African cry, and I just nodded. She asked if I wanted to go to home or to Doctor Everson's office. I said home, so that's where we went.

My own cry pierced my heart in its loneliness. As it rose warbling, keening, wailing, into the black of night. The only light was from a couple of dung fires at the edge of the village.

I watched as I sang my cry into the night, watched sparks float up into that same dark. Heard the pop of heat from those fires that threw more sparks high into the night.

Little girls hand slides into mine, and she tries to join in my song, my keening cry. But she's not strong tonight, her voice breaks. Then sobs float up to my ears, then stop. As she tries again to join the cry, the lament...for the dead.

Only to again break and fall into sobs. I feel one of the other women come to take her back to the fires. Again I raise my voice strong and cry my duty out for the soul of the dead. Sing my song to the Earth Mother as she takes it back into herself. Raise my wailing, keening lament at our loss, as one more leaves the tribe and the song of hope that one will be born. Because loss and hope are woman's song and her duty to sing.

I don't have much for the bed pan this morning. I can't hold anything down, and yes I'm in the hospital again. 2:12am 37 months, 26 days since my Jeremy left me. 4 days since he died. 85 lbs the dry erase board tells me. I haven't slept even my two hours a night in several days. If they try to knock me out with drugs, the vomit still comes up, so they don't do that anymore, and I just lay here and dream of Jeremy. While they pump me full of TPN, of antibiotics, of all kinds of pills and shots. While I dream of Jeremy.

The African dream still pulls me in every morning. It keeps getting longer and more involved, more real. I don't know if I'm becoming more like her or if she's becoming more like me, but we are.

Doctor Janet came by after office hours that first day after Jeremy died. When the door bell and her knock went unanswered. The door was unlocked, as soon as she stepped in she knew it was going to be bad.

I stood in the middle of my bedroom in full song, the African keening lament for the dead. She said that there was hardly any more sound coming out then a normal spoken voice. But my voice was so bad that I'd probably been at full volume for hours. I was buried somewhere deep inside myself. She had to gag me to get me to stop my cry. At least until the EMTs got there to sedate me.

My Jeremy's dead.

I think my mind has told my heart that for enough times that it might truly believe it too. That my Jeremy's dead.

OH...but what an ignominious extinguishing of such a beautiful soul. Of such a loving and caring man, such a talented artist. To be in a backward, dirt poor, eastern European country, in a tiny village. Painting the portrait of a pornographer. Then drive drunk off a tall embankment and die. Painting a pornographer...

Jeremy you should have died at 99 or 110 surrounded by a loving family of children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. But I broke that dream didn't I?

It's little girls voice that draws me in. Her lonely oh so very young voice, wailing, crying, keening the song into the sunset. I pause just a minute to see the colors, those glorious gold, pinks, and flame orange.

That turn the Acacia trees into black shadows. The waves of tall grass into pink and golden seas. Her voice is getting better as she grows older, but she still needs my help. As I match my song, my cry to hers. I trill the keen up into higher notes.

So she follows as I teach. But I reach my hand into hers, as I hear the other voice join ours. My friend the young woman, full of life and power adds her song to ours. The Earth Mother will be pleased tonight as we sing this soul back to her. So we do it with all the power and heart that we can.

Until we must let it fall, with the soul of our fellow tribesman back into the bosom of the Earth Mother.

We stand and watch the finish of the dance of gold and pinks of fire flame orange. Of the final darkening of the seas of color in the grass. I know in my mind that some where there is pain and sorrow. Oh so much sorrow, I see numbers in my mind but I pay them no attention.

Out somewhere in the grass I hear the coughing chuff of a lioness. That brings some movement in the herd, raises the Ki...Ki..ki call from the herdsmen. In the shadows of my mind I hear the faint whisper of '21 days' followed by an even fainter ' Jeremy died' and I think to myself that someone else will be singing to the Earth Mother too.

Farther out in the grass and the night the hyena's laughing chuckle fights with the bark of the jackal, maybe over a kill. Then the lioness chuff's again.

Little girls arms start to swing back and forth like children do when they're bored. So I turn and lead our little group, my daughter and my friend. Back to the fires, back to our huts and our sleeping skins. Hoping in my heart that we won't have to sing the lament to the Earth Mother again for several moons or more.

Jeremy

I knew it was going to be a gamble. But I didn't have any other ideas of how to help both Kat and myself. Just some part of her that couldn't let go of the guilt. I meant for her to feel the consequences of her actions in the breakup of our marriage. I didn't think that they'd come close to killing her, and I didn't want her to die because of those actions.

I'd been able, through my folks, to keep a little flow of knowledge about Kat, and what was happening with her, coming to me. I hadn't meant too. At first I thought that I wouldn't need to, except to find out if she was going to try and contact me. Although I knew that she probably wouldn't. When she didn't even try to find out where I went. I almost told my folks never to talk about her again. Then Mom made that comment about her health failing, and I started to listen to the reports.

The one time that I'd gotten semi serious about a woman. I let it become known in our old circle of friends. I'd let pictures appear, of us, and her small child too. Along with the pictures I strongly hinted at marriage possibilities. It didn't seem to make any difference in Kat's condition.

I did a painting of an Irish Republican army, 'hero', and I'll use the term with a grain of salt. Because I don't think that there were many 'hero's' in a conflict like that. Just my opinion. While I was there though I met an Irish priest who I learned to respect a lot. We had a lot of very deep and heartfelt talks about Kat and I. Father Kevin Egan, and we talked over many a pint of stout.

We hashed and rehashed over everything multiple times. Must to the delight of the pub owner. Eventually we decided that I hadn't done anything wrong, and she had. But I might improve on a little forgiveness, from my end. But no better could be expected from a hard headed yank. Father Egan had also studied philosophy at Cambridge University. So I felt that I could take his words to heart.

The news kept coming with little change or maybe a little worse. So I came up with my gamble and wild idea, I would die. Not in fact, but I would fake my own death. Maybe break that cycle of guilt and get her to move on. Then if it didn't work, I'd go home and meet with her to see if we couldn't resolve this into something that she could live with.

It was in Germany, at one of those functions where you can meet the right kind of people, or the very wrong kind. He was introduced to me with a name that I'll never be able to pronounce. As an up and coming king of porn. It's a rising and growth industry in Russia and the former Czech republic. AND he wanted his portrait done.