My Bathroom, My Space Station

When I was I kid, around the age of eight or ten-old enough to know it was never going to work, I would sometimes hideout in our downstairs bathroom. Always the downstairs one, never the upstairs one. Bad things happened in the upstairs bathroom, or at least they did when my dad lived there. And when he finally left, the memories of what he did left an indelible stain on all the bathroom surfaces, especially the shower, so I never sought refuge there.

The ugly blue, beige, brown down stairs bathroom, as I remember it, was a different story. Long before it became a place to surreptitiously pop my zits, I would sometimes delude myself into believing it was my secret, savior space station. When life was at its lowest of lows, or I couldn’t starve myself anymore, or I wasn’t in the mood to entertain suicidal thoughts, or maybe I just wanted to get away but it was too (cold, rainy, dark, scarry, whatever) to run away, I would lock myself in the bathroom.

Then I would begin my secret rescue ritual. I’d sit on the toilet, with the lid closed, put my youngish left hand on the yellow handle of the plunger, which always sat faithfully next to the toilet, close my eyes, maneuver the magical handle forward in an intricate pattern, and begin my commands to the space station as we prepared for lift-off. Depending upon whether or not I thought I would be heard by anyone else in the house, I would either speak my commands aloud or murmur them under my breath; but I had this fervently held belief that if I wanted to be rescued, I must say the words out loud. I have no idea where I got that notion from, but I believed it, heart and soul, despite the fact that my bathroom space station rescue missions never worked. And believe me, I tried these rescue missions for far longer than I am willing to admit here!

I am reminded of my bathroom space station tonight because one of my deepest fears seems to be coming true-that once I no longer am able to maintain control over the ironclad, zillion-times sealed walls aptly confining my tears, my anguish, I will never be able to do anything else but drown in the mire.

I started crying uncontrollably on Monday, when Thomas, my most favorite of our now four cats, escaped from the deck. I hadn’t noticed he was missing and hence had no idea how long he was gone. Stupid me! I thought for sure THIS TIME I had managed to cat proof the fucking deck! I was beside myself with fear and panic that he might get hit by a car or kidnapped and cooked by our motherfucking neighbor (yes, I hate him and he rents a restaurant next to us and hates us as well, so it is possible that he would do such a thing for revenge!).

I spent what seemed like forever looking for him, hell, I even prayed to God to bring him back and offered up all the other cats in exchange, before I apologized for praying to a God I don’t believe in and offered up my prayers to the universe instead (yeah, I was a wee bit of a basket case)! When the fat fuck of a cat finally tried sneaking up behind me, my eyes did not believe my face and it wasn’t until I tried hoisting all 25 pounds of him into my arms that I realized he was truly alive and safe and home. And I lost it. I was sobbing and shaking. I mean snot pouring out of my nose, gulping sobs that caused the people going to the restaurant to gawk at me. I was clutching Thomas so hard the poor cat was gasping for air and I didn’t even notice, my crying was that uncontrollable.

When I finally got us both inside, I collapsed on the stairs, still hysterically crying while my seemingly bewildered cat, who was probably expecting to be locked in the bathroom for escaping, tried to console my by rubbing up against me, purring his head off…until he got bored with me and I finally got a grip on myself.

Except that I never really did.

What felt like the fatal loss of my most favorite animal companion ever, appears to be the final push that catapulted me into a chasm of pain I have been doing lifelong, mind boggling acrobatics to avoid peering into, never mind confronting head on. And now I feel as if I am spiraling, otherworldly, out-of-control, guts heaving, can’t focus on anything else, where the fuck did this come from, into something I intuitively feel is only going to get uglier the farther I fall in to it.

Even though I finally stopped crying external tears when Thomas became bored with consoling me, I haven’t stopped the deluge of internal tears that began falling that Monday. Now it is Friday and the taunt gossamer threads of denial which previously held my lonely life precariously together are obliterated by bitterness and acrid tears. I feel little but resentment towards my partner (?) who is rarely here and even when he is, does little more than offer physical proximity to me. I feel trapped and isolated living here in “the Valley” and enraged at my dumbass self for ever suggesting that we move here. I feel friendless in an area where I once had several friends. I feel in constant pain that few take seriously and no one (that I don’t pay) wants to hear about. I feel sleep deprived from the constant nightmares that keep me up, tossing and turning all night, while my partner slumbers on, oblivious to my nocturnal thrashings.

I feel my teeth ache from the spontaneous outburst of tears right before he came home from work today. From the crying almost all the way to couples therapy-our big Friday night date, and the crying on the way home, and when we got home. And on the bathroom floor, after he fell asleep. Which is what reminded me, as I sat sobbing and rocking myself on the chintzy bathmat, of my useless bathroom space station, and the fact that as an adult, if that is indeed what I am, no matter where I live, I still try to keep the plunger on the left hand side of the toilet-something I never thought about until tonight.

I guess my hope that I can rescue myself dies harder than I thought it would. And the pathway out of hell, or healing as my therapist likes to call it, looks like it’s gonna take a whole lot more out of me than I ever bargained for, if it doesn’t wreck me first.