This Coloring Book is a Garden of Creative Possibilities
Inside this book are canvases of botanicals imagined by the mathematical beauty of fractals, and hand-drawn from nature. Whether you’re attracted to symmetry, or wild, spiraling complexity, each design invites you to pause and see the flowers, breathe deep, and engage in smooth focus through artistic immersion.
Coloring is more than a pastime—it’s tactile meditation, a quiet ritual promoting neural conductivity, hand-eye coordination, and focused creativity. Research has shown coloring reduces stress, calms the nervous system, and fosters clarity. In a world of constant motion, this is your chance to unplug.
Nurture Your Creative Expression
The soft gray outlines (instead of black) of each rendering are suggestions (kinda like the speed limit in CA). Colored pencils, crayons, markers, paints, you can use the outlines as rules, or merely guides. You’re encouraged to color outside the lines! Add flowers, petals, leaves. With endless possibilities for creative expression, every page is a canvas for creating something uniquely yours.
Make Each Page a Canvas
Each canvas is downloadable with the website link inside so you can print them out on your home printer on any paper weight you like. Every botanical illustration can be cut from this book and used as:
Young adults, new adults, and grownups to 100+ this coloring book is broken down by levels of difficulty. Be mindful to start at the beginning and hone your coloring skills to level up to the more complex renderings to come.
Spark Your Imagination
Need some inspiration to begin coloring these detailed floral illustrations? Each rendering was uploaded to Copilot and the AI asked to color the designs. Click the link on the last page of this book to see the bot’s coloring of these renderings.
Last night my husband got very sick. He was vomiting simultaneously with diarrhea and shat himself. He was restless through the night and got up early, clearly still feeling ill.
This morning when I came downstairs I asked him how he was feeling. Not so great, he told me. Still have diarrhea, but I’m not feeling as nauseous. I still can’t hold water down though. I think I have the norovirus, or food poisoning.
I put on my Dr. Mom role. Whatever is in your system you have to get it out, I told him. So, drink a lot. Start with water, or Gatorade for the electrolytes. Sip it throughout the day if it makes you feel sick drinking.
I don’t know if that’s the best idea. The internet says I should avoid drinking if I keep throwing it up, he told me he’d read earlier, likely off some bullshit site selling pharms but claiming to be ‘medical,’ like WebMD.
I felt my irritation building as he sat at the kitchen table and scrolled his laptop. You lost a lot of fluids last night, I told him. You need to replace it to help your system fight whatever you’ve got. And you need to eat something. How about a banana? They’re binding. Or a piece of dry toast, no butter.
Let me look it up and see what they recommend, he said and continued scrolling and reading.
Are you kidding me? I asked, miffed. Who are ‘they?’ The Internet!? By the time you find any real information on not only what is wrong with you but also what to do about it you’ll be convinced you need hospitalization. I’ve played Dr. Mom to our kids hundreds of times. Stomach flu, even norovirus is manageable with a few key steps. You don’t need to look it up! You need to stay hydrated. Bananas are binding and will help suppress diarrhea, I told him. Water will help flush your system of whatever is bothering you.
I know why he got sick. It’s the height of Spring, and we’re in New Jersey for his mom’s 90th. By the second day there he was suffering with recurring bouts of rapid-fire sneezing. Wheezing. Continual runny nose. Four days of severe allergies taxing his immune system, and he got on a plane to come back to the w[b]est coast. And while his allergies eased on the plane and entirely once home, someone in overpopulated New York City — the cesspool of the country, the crowded airports we waited in for hours with delays at Newark, or on our plane had something, and he got it.
Raise your hand if you know someone who constantly pulls out their phone during casual conversation to ‘get the facts’ (what a joke!) on whatever the subject of your dialog. Hella annoying! I’d rather contemplate the answer than have it served to me by an unreliable source.
We got together with a friend of my husband’s while we were back east. He’s ‘one of those guys’ who whips out his phone to check if whatever is being said is ‘right.’ He read aloud with authority whatever [garbage] he found on the net. But iterating the first thing that pops up on his phone screen is, well, idiotic. Today’s internet makes it impossible to find any real facts without hours of searching multiple sources well beyond Google or Chatgpt, and even then, the information you’ll find is limited to the recommendation engines behind most platforms.
Do you pull out your mobile when you’re on the toilet, in line at the store, even with friends or fam? Text someone? Check your email? Scroll Insta? Look for…whatever? At both airports, on both planes, in line at any store, in most public places packed with people, or even just a few passing by, and most everyone is on their phones most all the time. Take your face out of your phone and look around to see what I’m saying here is real. The TRUTH*. Instant access to the internet through cellphones or tablets are creating a massive addiction problem. People are relying on their connected devices like junkies rely on heroin. And like the drug, it may feel good upfront getting that dopamine rush from instant access to entertaining ‘information,’ regardless how amusing there is little truth to what most are getting from quick searches. And addicted phone users supply far more data to AI engines making them easier to manipulate you with personalized, targeted messaging. The Republicans have used mobile marketing far more effectively than the Democrats. Clearly.
WebMD says I’m supposed to eat bananas for the diarrhea and stay hydrated with water or tea or something with electrolytes, my husband read aloud this morning. Like most today, he’s becoming one of the converted, a true believer in the Internet, whoever he deems them to be.
That’s what I said, I defended. Without looking on the net, I added cuz I was feeling pissed off, and a bit scared of his internet addiction right then. My husband doesn’t go to the toilet without his phone or laptop. The Internet has become his God. And I have no interest in, nor trust in blind believers.
Cellphone and Internet usage, whether for ‘convenience’ or entertainment or ‘information’ is moving humanity in the WRONG direction, away from compassion, empathy, and quality, to idiocracy. It is creating more blind believers than any religion. Your cellphone and the internet are TELLING YOU WHAT AND HOW TO THINK. Think you know why there is no customer service at Macy’s, or why most retail is shutting down? Yeah, Amazon, but more to the point, no one protests their spending their life hours in the long line at Macy’s because they are on their phones, being entertained by messaging to convince us to buy [into], try, subscribe!
GET A CLUE! It costs me (and likely you) MORE to order plane tickets for New Jersey using Chrome than on Edge. Why? Dynamic or Personalized Pricing, except the profit is for the airline, and the assholes who make and manage their SaaS. Google (who runs Chrome) has more data on my spending habits, my income, my ‘purchasing power’ than Microsoft. Clearly. So Alaskan Airlines went with Googles data and charged me over $40 per ticket more. And most everything you buy online now has variable pricing — you are CHARGED MORE the more data you give them through your phone because every site you look at, every platform you engage with, every purchase you make through your mobile is recorded and sold to the highest bidder.
Have I lost you yet? You want to be ENTERTAINED, not brought down with the TRUTH. Look it up and the Internet will tell you I’m a conspiracy theorist. The Internet saves lives! It moves society forward.
Well, it sure has. It’s creating a planet of junkies.
Don’t think of yourself as an addict? Well, if you got this far and are reading this on your phone right now, put it down and look into a mirror. NOT a selfie. A real mirror and then ask yourself to tell you the TRUTH. Most addicts can’t see it — can’t admit to being addicted. That’s why the #1 Rule in Alcoholics Anonymous is first to ADMIT YOU ARE AN ADDICT.
Do you care you are a junkie, addicted to your phone? If you don’t believe you are, then put it down and leave it for two hours. How many times do you think to pick it up? Just check it, quick check, see if it has anything you must know about right now?
It doesn’t. That’s algorithms designed to convince you to stay on your device. That way you are a target for selling — products, services, messaging, belief.
If you are one of the very few junkies who understand mass addiction to corporate talons is bad for society globally, take the Internet off your phone so you’re not tempted to spend hours every day blowing away your life’s time on mindless content meant to get you to blindly believe whatever political agenda or corporate America is selling you.
—
*How can you trust I’m not touting conspiracy theories, that I’m telling you TRUTH here? My husband is a software architect that helped design the first recommendation engine [for Netflix]. I have been marketing SaaS startups in Silicon Valley since the dot com boom in the late 1990s, and teaching entrepreneurs developing SaaS and ‘AI’ at Stanford and Cal Berkeley for a decade. Sometimes I wish I didn’t know what you all do not know — that I too could be an ignorant addict like most of you. It’s certainly easier to live with your head up your own ass. Too harsh? Maybe. But really, in the long run, ask yourself what kind of world are you leaving for our children when everyone is a junkie sucking on the corporate tit.
I’m scared out of my mind, though I suppose I shouldn’t be. Cancer is not unexpected. I’ve been waiting for the diagnosis for years. Still, when I felt the tenderness in my breast a month ago I passed it off as a pulled muscle from weightlifting. I tried to ignore it last week too, told myself my breasts were just swollen from my impending period. But my husband felt it too during sex the other night. He moved the lump under my skin with the tips of his fingers, clearly troubled, and I had to stop pretending.
I find out the results from my biopsy tomorrow. A part of me already knows. They said it would feel ‘uncomfortable’ getting a core sample but it hurt like hell. As I sit here in McDonalds, across from my daughter, watching her stuff fries into her angelic face, I think of our limited time together. She runs off to the play structure and I wonder if she’ll remember me when I’m gone. She’s so young. I wonder how long she’ll miss me. I can’t help crying. People will see. I hide my face, stare down at the page.
It’s not death I fear. It’s the process of dying. I watched my mother grasp at every last second with each new experimental treatment while her body and mind withered, and it was horrific. I’ll opt for chemo, even though I don’t want to. I’ll do it for my kids, model not quitting, to never give up. Show them to fight for life against all odds. I’ll lose my hair, my thick auburn waves—my one feature I’ve always been proud of. I’ll be sick and tired all the time and it’ll all be for naught, just like my mom. Six months, a year, even a few, but cancer will kill me. Once it’s manifested in the system there is no stopping it.
It’s getting crowded in here now. Moms and dads with their kids eating Happy Meals celebrating life. I sit in the corner. I can’t stop the tears. My beautiful child comes running back to our table, her cheeks flush, her expression joyful. I’m afraid to look up, look in her eyes. She senses my fear. Her expression darkens. I’ve robbed her her joy. She asks me why I’m sad. I lie and say I’m not, tell her how beautiful she is. She hesitates, then smiles. She’s flattered but it falters as my eyes fill. I’ve never been brave and I suck at pretending. I’ve let her down again.
There’s a woman staring at me. Her infant son sits on her lap trying to suck a shake up his straw. He stares too. They’re wondering what’s wrong with me. It’s more than just cancer. I can’t breathe. I can’t hold it together. I’ve never been able to hold it together.
There’s no line for the slide, I inform my daughter. She hesitates and looks at the play structure then runs off to play, lost to the moment, lost from me. I stare down and write.
I’ve never dared write about things that profoundly scare me. The written word is so concrete, like casting a possibility into reality. I’m writing it down now because it doesn’t matter. The foundation was laid years ago. The result of reckless behavior is inevitable. I knew it then. I know it now. I’m writing it down because my fear is consuming me, and I don’t want to look up.
If I have it I’ll deserve it. It’s just a reprieve if I don’t. The bullet is coming at me. No doubt about it. I’m not being fatalistic. All the years of partying, smoking, six or more Diet Cokes a day, and of course genetics. I’m a realist. Nothing happens in a vacuum. I set this up with my obsession to be thin, and in. There’s no point in pondering if it was worth it. It’s done. Live healthier now? Somewhat. But I still partake in binging and treats and other bad habits. I only know how to go too far (a la Ed Sherran).
I feel her arms around my waist but know it’s my daughter from her embrace. I melt, barely contain sobbing. I gather her hands in mine and bend to kiss them then let go. She comes around the table and sits across from me. She’s staring at me, assessing my mood. I’m afraid to hold eye contact and look past her at the happy family at the table behind her. Don’t be sad, Mom, my daughter says, and I look at her. ’Cuz I’ll love you forever.
My beautiful child, forever is not as far as it used to be, I think to say but don’t of course. I’ll love you forever, too, baby, I assure her but it feels like I’m lying. Can’t love dead. If I hold her gaze another second and I’ll won’t be able to hold it together. You finished? I ask her as I gather the detritus we’ve left on the table.
She dramatically crunches her empty bag into a ball and goes to trash it. We’ll go home tonight, snuggle in bed and read aloud together. Her first—The Magic Tree House, then we’ll listen to her older brother read Harry Potter. They’ll both go to bed tonight, sleep soundly, and tomorrow will be just another day in a long life to come. Tomorrow will change my life forever forward, even if simply a precursor to what I know is coming.
A journal entry to my 7-year-old daughter on the nature of women and men…
I have this lump in my throat as I write this. I want to cry, for the ‘Thousand Slights’ you’ll suffer, my baby. I want to shield you from that pain. But I can’t. And it makes me feel helpless and hopeless and scared for you, and for all women.
I love you, J.
You were in the playroom when I came in last night after shopping. You were building with Magnatiles, this beautiful amphitheater structure. Dad and your brother were playing Stratego on the kitchen table. At first I thought the scene was good and you were happy down there on your own. But as I put the food away, I noticed your face. I saw your sadness, and as I write this I can’t stop my tears.
Daughter of mine, I want to tell you about a billion things here, things I’ve learned along the way. I want to ponder with you the infinite worlds of things I’m still missing. But one thing I know for sure, men are not wired like women. They’re not. They’re not connected outward, outside themselves most of the time. Most men anyway. And that is going to come back and bite you again and again. Their often indifferent, self-focused behavior will hurt you deeply. And I’m sorry. I wish it was different.
The thing is, men are genetically wired inward, their senses connected to their body, and inside their own psyche. Until very recently, women were more chattel than partner before the suffrage movement in the early 1900s. This is not an indictment of men. After loving many over the years, marrying one, and raising another, I’ve come to see that there really are genetic differences between our genders.
Perhaps because women give birth, we are connected outside ourselves. Most women are naturally maternal, hardwired to be caregivers, pay attention to the needs of those around us. Maybe it’s because we’re the ‘weaker sex,’ have been at the mercy of men’s physical prowess that women have evolved to be aware, present in our environments for self-preservation. I’m uncertain why women are wired outside ourselves. I just know most are.
Dad and E were plugged into themselves last night. I’m sorry you were excluded. And I’m sorry I wasn’t there to make them more aware of how that affected you. And I know it doesn’t really count to say they had no intention of hurting you. The truth is, they didn’t even notice they were.
My father used to tell me, “You’re going to have to bring most men to you — make them aware of your needs, even the needs of their kids.” I didn’t believe him. Old school thinking, before women worked alongside men to support the household. I figured men were more evolved somehow by now.
As you discovered last night, they’re generally not. You asked dad to be on his team, but when he said No, you should have told him how that made you feel. Don’t just walk away and feel hurt.
J, you are my ray of sunshine. You’re positively delightful by everyone’s reckoning who has the privilege of knowing you. I fear the ‘Thousand Slights’ will rob you of your lightness. I hope you don’t let them.
Don’t accept slights to avoid conflict. It will only build resentment inside you. Express what you need, how you feel. Don’t settle on being ignored, undervalued, invisible, constantly acquiescing to everyone’s desires but your own. Keep pushing the envelope of awareness, and know evolution takes millennium. We are all works in progress, and we must learn from one another to thrive together.
Clearly living is a choice most all of us make every day we live.
Almost 42,000 of U.S. will consider suicide today. Have you? I have. Not once or twice during hard times, and in passing, but many times throughout my lifetime, from my tween years, likely till I die. Yet, virtually daily, I make a conscious choice to stay living.
I don’t believe in any higher power than the laws of physics. There is no “Jealous God” (Exodus 34:14) watching, or judging our behavior from ‘beyond’. There is no heaven or hell. I cease to exist when I die. I’ve never been able to pretend we are more than the collection of cells, chemistry and neural conductivity that make up our bodies and consciousness.
I can choose to go hang myself in the doorjamb of my office after I finish writing this without fear of damnation. The only eternal soul we possess is our hope that we matter past our limited time alive. But we don’t. Not really, beyond our effects on the lives we touch while we are living, like our family, and a handful of friends and colleagues. Even if you’ve done DNA ancestry, other than their genetic contribution to your existence, your dead lineage are names in a ledger, nothing more.
Too dark a view for ya? It ain’t depression. It’s reality, and a scary one knowing that regardless of what we believe, our life adds up to what we DO with our short time of awareness.
Individually, we really have very little effect on, well, anything beyond our small realm. Even those who have ‘made it,’ like celebrities and ‘influencers,’ most will be forgotten over time, and lost to later generations. And we’ll never even know the names of most innovators, especially women, who invented the tech we use today.
For the religious reader, this blog probably isn’t for you. I’ve likely lost you in the opening bit, as suicide in most sects is a ‘sin’. If you are a true believer, it is equally likely you won’t off yourself. The only reason to continue reading is if you want to help someone who seems like they may be suicidal.
How do you know if someone is suicidal? You don’t, and likely won’t. Each of the above celebs were either flat out rich, or at the very least financially comfortable. So, it wasn’t poverty that drove them to suicide. They ‘made it’ doing what they loved, instead of a lifetime at some crappy job just to pay the bills. Yet, each made a choice to die. Why?
Every day I make a conscious choice to keep living, but a lot of days the choice to stay is hard. Very hard. Some days, hope drives me with purpose, that I can make a positive contribution to those I touch. But other days, on days where it feels as if I reach no one, or I get nothing done, or humanity is doomed to our own stupidity, hope abandons me.
Give it up. Walk away. Stop trying so hard. You’re getting nowhere. If there is nothing beyond death, and what I do doesn’t really matter in the scheme of things, then why not just check out, be done. At times, my life feels as if it defaults to the mean of hardship, and I obsess about exiting the scene, fading to black, longing to feel nothing at all.
How do I stop the voices of fear and hopelessness, either before they ramp, or even after they do, when I look up from I laptop to notice I’m not breathing? I think of checking out, conjure my exit strategy. I imagine taking pills, or maybe going into the garage, turning on my car and rolling down the windows.
What stops me?
I picture coming on to the Oxycontin, or choking on carbon monoxide, then throwing up, then blacking out. Then nothing. Ever again. No awareness, no consciousness once the neurons stop firing. No taking it back. No second chance. No waking up. Feel nothing, ever again. Or I try and feel what it feels like to feel nothing, but obviously, this is an oxymoron. Living and feeling are synonymous, as are death and feeling nothing forever— beyond black— non-existence.
When I’ve lost all belief in myself, my work, my world, I’m left with only one reason that keeps me here. Regardless of how lost I feel, how insignificant, how hopeless, I hold on to the one truth I know is real.
Every day I make a conscious choice to stay living— to FEEL.
Living is all about FEELING— glad, sad, mad, good, bad, proud, humbled, jealous, accomplished. And the list goes on… I get to feel them all, and many more throughout my lifetime, expressed in a thousand ways. Enjoying chocolate mint ice cream while watching TV. In awe of natural wonders. Heartbroken with loss. Swooning in love. From the physical to the surreal, we all get to feel— experience being alive.
Strip away the religious sales pitch that rewards us for charitable behavior, in exchange for an eternity in paradise. Ignore the social pressure that tell us our value lies our physicality, or our job title, or the acquisition of wealth. Let go of the pretense we are going to make a substantive difference to anyone beyond our small circle of connections. And the point of living becomes simply to feel the moments of our life.
Death— feeling nothing ever again— will come, regardless if I hasten it. The permanence of suicide becomes daunting when I consider I’d never get to taste anything again. I’d never see, smell, or feel rain on my skin, or someone hold my hand. If I take my own life, I kill even the possibility of feeling different, and finding ways to enjoy more moments of my brief existence.
I teeter on the edge of suicide when all reason and purpose has abandoned me. But you can help me during these times, or others who stand at the precipice of ending their life. When I’m consumed by doubt, black and sticky, pulling me under, please don’t tell me to “Hang in there, it’ll get better.” Though it may be true, as feelings DO change, sometimes in minutes, sometimes days, or even weeks, it feels like bullshit in those moments of darkness, as if blackness is all I’ll ever feel.
To help me, or someone you know whose depression seems all consuming, remind us, with empathy, that living is about FEELING, and the fantastic range of feelings we get to experience being alive.
I imagine when all is black in my head and heart, I’ll write something brilliant that justifies the darkness within. But when I’m depressed like this, I can not motivate myself to create, or do anything beyond succumbing to my sadness.
This essay is simply on depression, living with it in a world that wears masks, puts on facades online and in-person, because we’re not allowed to feel bad, or at least show it. We’re allowed to feel frustrated, annoyed, disappointed, in moments, but they better not last too long, or be too intense, like when feeling angry translates into yelling. Even in anger, we’re supposed to retain our composure.
I suck at pretending. I can’t pull off the I’m OK Buddy, when I’m not. Most of you reading this are much better at wearing faces. Most people are. But depression, that feeling there is something stuck in your throat that you can’t swallow, that with every breath it feels as if you’re sighing— trying to shed the weight in your chest— makes putting on a mask particularly difficult because you’re spending so much energy just trying to breathe.
Commercials for drugs to combat depression are all over the media. They come with a list like: Using this product may make you dizzy; nauseous; stop breathing; feel even more depressed; become suicidal even if you didn’t feel that way before the drug; die. Wow. Thanks, but no thanks. I don’t really need to take Lexapro to help motivate me to kill myself.
I’ve tried Prozac, a long time ago. I was allergic. It almost killed me. I’ve tried Xanax, which is by far the most popular drug for depression. All it did was make me sleepy. I’m already tired all the time.
Therapists like to talk, or for me to talk. And talk. And talk. Business 101— you make more money with continuing clients than having to find new ones. I want ACTIONABLE things to do, other than taking drugs or talking to a shrink once a week, which just makes me poorer, and even more depressed.
What is “depression” anyway? I mean, everyone gets depressed occasionally, regardless of the masks we wear. Technically, and absurdly simply, depression lies in our chemistry— dopamine, serotonin, endorphins, and oxytocin— these ‘happiness hormones’ are not adequately delivered to the pleasure centers of our brain. It is commonly accepted that some are born with inadequate levels of these hormones, or there is a problem with their release inside the brain. Clinical depression apparently has a genetic component, but this has yet to be proven as hard fact.
Episodes of depression effect most people when events in our life hurt us. For most, the length and severity of feeling sad is usually consummate with the event itself. Losing a loved one, or loosing the lottery generally solicits dramatically different responses. As it should. Most let their feelings of sadness dissipate, often forget them entirely over time. I’ve spent a lifetime envying these folks.
Those of us suffering from depression internalize pain. It resides in us, like a cut, or injury that just won’t heal. We hang on to our hurts, from minor slights to major loss. And whether born with an imbalance, or too many painful life events, when sadness sticks, builds up and gets thick, every day feels like wading through molasses. If depression festers long enough it will eventually kill you. It strips us of the single motivating factor that keeps us all alive through dark times… hope.
Curing depression for those who experience it, and those who have to live with people who do, is paramount. Over 90% of those who attempt or commit suicide are clinically depressed. Suicide is the 10th leading cause of death worldwide, which is a shame, because so often emotionally wired people are the creators, writers, artists, innovators and builders of societies. It is believed Abraham Lincoln suffered from Depression.
The only way to help reverse, or at least halt the chemical cascade into darkness is to actualize pleasure. I realize an effect of depression is finding no joy in anything, but those of you living with that weight in your chest with most every breath KNOW that joy is attainable, even when we are consumed with sadness. That blackness is the ugly voice in our heads meant to perpetuate depression, and a LIE. A rainbow is still beautiful. A double-rainbow extraordinary. The taste of your favorite foods; a hug when we’re scared, or lonely; backrubs; creating something— these things are still pleasurable. The Pacific cresting at 40ft is still awe-striking; a field of blooming flowers still visually stunning…etc..;-}.
Living, existing as human, is all about FEELING. The good, the bad, the ugly, the wondrous, the awesome, the magnificent empowerment of feeling loved, respected, valued. The charge that comes with creation. The suffocating black hole with loss.
Are you living with Depression?
If so, SEEK and FIND joy, pleasure. NOT self-destructive behavior, like drinking or using drugs for momentary relief, as trying to bury feelings, even temporarily, will increase depression. DO things, stuff that turns you on, makes you feel— if not good— at least glad you get to see it, taste it, experience it—without regret later! ACCOMPLISHING TASKS also lights up our brain’s pleasure centers. String enough joy and accomplishments together, even simple things, and, over time, continually reminding your brain why you are choosing to live will reinforce your desire to do so.
For Lisa, my BFF since elementary school, until her other took over…
—
I haven’t always been mentally ill. I’ve always been on the fringe of the norm, the glass wall between me and humanity kind of thing, but I didn’t feel myself start to fragment until my mid-twenties.
The first time it happened I was working as a bank teller. It was closing, and I was counting out the cash drawer and doing my balance sheet. I got this idea to close my checking account, take the $5000 I had to my name, and use it as a down payment for a Mercedes. I knew it was a bad idea. I could hardly afford rent. My job, like most of my others, was tenuous at best.
And then I separated.
I stood outside of myself and watched me clear out my account.
At the dealership, I tried to tell the other me not to sign the purchase agreement, but I did anyway. I gave the guy my five grand down payment and drove off in a new midnight-blue SL450 convertible. The other me sat in the passenger seat, her head thrown back, her short hair blowing around wildly. She laughed and laughed. And I let myself get sucked into her lightness.
Two days later I was stuck in traffic on the freeway and it hit me what a stupid idea it had been to buy the Mercedes. I couldn’t return it and get my money back. It wasn’t a pair of jeans. I couldn’t afford it either. I got so depressed about it I got out of the car, left it on the freeway and walked away.
The car was never found. I’d let my insurance lapse so they wouldn’t compensate me, even with my documented tale of someone carjacking me. I was $50,000 in the hole for a car I didn’t have anymore and no way to pay it back.
And I separated again.
Throughout each work day, I started taking money from the bank. The customers actually. I’d take a little off the top of deposits over a grand.
I didn’t. The other me did.
Again I stood outside myself watching this other me steal. I tried to stop her with moral and value judgments. She came back at me with justifications.
You get paid shit. You get treated like garbage- bottom of the rung lackey.
I told her I was afraid of getting caught.
She laughed me off. No one will notice. Nobody keeps tight track of their money these days.
But I knew the bank did. Sooner than later they’d discover what I was doing. Three weeks into stealing, and both sides of me finally came together, now joined by raw, unrelenting fear. So I ran away. Two days before the end of the month audits I left the bank at closing and never went back. I walked away from my life with $17,000 in cash in my pocket and became the other side of me—the wild side, for the next month.
There are only brief, fleeting images of that month. The first thing I remember clearly is my mom standing next to my hospital bed staring down at me, her face tear-streaked and gaunt. She started crying again the moment our eyes meet, and I got how hurt and scared she was. I wanted to hug her but I couldn’t. I was strapped down.
I spent three days at UCLA Medical Center Psych ward. I was diagnosed with Dissociative Identity Disorder, given Thorazine and sent home with my mother.
No cure. No hope for a cure. Manageable only with medication. Side affects to be expected.
The array of antidepressants I now take does keep both sides of me together, but it reinforces the glass wall separating me from the rest of the world. I walk around in this thinly veiled haze, which I suppose is okay, given the alternative. But I often wonder these days if sanity is really worth the price. It’s getting harder and harder to justify feeling sick and tired all the time.
jcafesin.com 