Shields are down! We're breaking up!

This week is the great sleep deprivation challenge. Will we break? Or can we hold it together? Stay tuned. I'm tired. I'm really, really tired. I've never known tired like this before. How to function naturally, without pharmaceutical assistance? I dunno.

Morning greets me much too early. I creep from the bedroom, down the hall and into the living room where I fall onto the couch and immediately drift off again. Mother calls me again and I try to sit up, try to open eyes, use fingers to pry the lids. I have no legs, can't feel them beneath me, can't stand. The wedding is today and I'm spun.

Supposed to go to town with Sherry, leaving by 8 a.m. to be there when store opens. No wedding gift for happy couple, no personal gift for my girl, no shawl for me. But paralysis grips me, can't get from the living room to the bathroom. Sherry's calling. It's the second time. I've missed the first.

Need to dye my hair. I'm not colour co-ordinated yet. Two-tone roots. Some grey only tall people might notice. Alan's Jardines are tallish, Stacy's are not.

Do I really need to go to town? Can I make do? Will my girl be understanding? Yes. Yes, I think so. I'll just lie here for a few more moments.

I can do this. I can get up. Go dye my hair. Get out of Dodge and back again in plenty of time to ready for service. I rest for a few minutes while my mother clucks her tongue . . . annoyed with me. Yes Mother, I AM irresponsible, but must we discuss it today? I never said anything. Hand over heart, taken aback, the nerve of me to be accusing such things.

I lurch into the bathroom ready to dye. Mom immediately flees the scene in the car. I have no idea where she's gone, she hasn't told me, but assume I need the car too. Now I'm stranded. Mix the dye. Dab at tips. How long are you going to be? Dad's up. My worse morning nightmare. 35 minutes, I say, I'm dying my hair. $%#%#%&^$#%&(&(%&$! He stomps down the hall and into the kitchen to roll a cigarette. I want one so bad right now, even his hand-rolled ones are appealing. What am I lacking in life that is making me crave so much now? Is it chocolate? Champagne? Strawberries? Sex? I don't know. Can't stand the swearing in the kitchen. Cease dying, throw everything into a box, take to bedroom and call sweetly to Father, "It's okay. I'm done now."

I am done now. I'm sooo done. I can't handle this morning. Can't hold back the sobs and tears, need to get hidden away quickly so nobody sees. Fight it down just for a few more minutes. Call Sherry.

Hello.
Hi.
Are you ready?
No. I don't want to go anymore.
WHAT!?
Yeah, no, I just can't do it.
You've got to be kidding me! You can't do this to me!
But it's just not that important anymore.
Click.

She hangs up on me. She's pissed. What have I done that's so wrong? Worth a hang-up? Inconvenient, yes. Inconsiderate, yes. But worth the wrath of Sherry? I'm not convinced, she's trying to steal my melodrama and I've got the full license for it this week. Sobs wracking me now, can't hold on, can't hold them in. I've never been this tired in my life, not even in insomnia weeks. Run down hall, sequester in little room with multi-coloured walls and Dora the Explorer posters, climb into too squeaky bed, cover my whole body including head, assume the fetal and wail into my pillow. This is bad. This is really bad. I may cry for the rest of the day. I may cry forever.

I cry for ten minutes. Pillow beyond damp. Chest sore from sobbing. It's the guilt I can't stand. Who am I to be having a nervous breakdown and changing my mind? What's wrong with me? I'm stronger than this. I need to just suck it up. It's not that late. If I throw on glasses, pull up hair, leave right now, it'll be like I never made the phone call, never changed my mind. I can do this. Drag myself to the phone again. Call Sherry.

Hello.
Mom?
Yeah.
What are you doing there?
Babysitting.
Where's Sherry?
She's gone to Blackville.
Well, when she comes back, tell her we can go. I'm ready.
No, no, she's alright now, you don't need to go.
But she hung up on me.
Yes, but she's fine now.
Oh . . . okay then. Bye.
Click.

And I'm crying again, off down the hall, tears spilling all over. God, I hate crying! I hate being the stereotypical emotional road kill! What is wrong with me? I've still got dye in my hair from earlier that I never bothered to wash out. I can't stop crying. Nick is whining with me, because that's what he does. He tries to lick at my tears, but I swat him away, he needs a breath buster. He throws big paws at me instead, trying to get me to snap out of it. Crying makes him nervous. I worry he'll pee on the floor.

I cry for another 10 minutes. I'm still crying when Sherry comes in. Now, she's concerned. I'm crying, incoherent. I can't talk to her. She's better. I'm a wreck. I'm not supposed to be the wimp. I don't do it well or gracefully. A maid of honour breakdown is normal, she says. She had several. If this is my first one, I'm doing good, I have been strong. I calm slowly but surely. We decide to go to Blackville for coffee and to seek a small personal gift for the bride.

I buy Sherry vodka for all her help.