the aftermath
Since my accident, I've been doctoring myself with a combination of acupuncture, a chiropractor, unsulphured pineapple rings from Trader Joe's, making out in the middle of the day, gallons of water, a kinder view of myself, buying vintage underwear with satin tummy panels and leopard-print insets, and the antidepressants I'd been stashing in the bottom of My Worst Handbag in the back of the closet. I'm also following a strictly prescribed (by Dr. Me) diet of Mucha and Art Deco coffee table books, indie music on the telly instead of the insipid shows I'd taken to watching (I know, I know, me, television, the world is ending), Nin and more Nin, and A Coney Island of the Mind by Ferlighetti.

There's also the half-dead plants I've been bringing home in my reusable shopping bags. The plants are the equivalent of the ugly dogs in the pet store, the ones that no one wants because they lack pedigree or are too far from their puppy-years. They sit in rows at the front of the grocery store, almost begging me to notice them. Although my place is modest in size, I cannot resist a wilting plant and a challenge. I rescue the plants, put them on a windowsill, and proceed to nurture them into blooming, unfurling, and growing greener and thicker. Growing something is very therapeutic. The symbolism is obvious.

So far all of the experiments have been successful, except for the one mistake I made. After all of these plants without blooms, I wanted something pretty. The little pots in the front of Trader Joe's showed a picture of a lush purple flower. Sold! I snatched it up, and deposited it on a windowsill with the others. When I read the attached guide, I understood why the thing had been $1.99. Apparently, to get the purple flower, one has to put the bulb in the freezer for THREE MONTHS. Well, I'm an immediate gratification type of creature sometimes, so I put it on the coldest windowsill--the one where the window sometimes leaks winter air. I knew I'd forget about it in the freezer. And what do you know? Something green is starting to poke out of the soil. Take that, awful instructions with a twelve-week plan of freezer-burn!

Today, I am going to the gardening center, a place frequented by a good many grandpas, and purchasing the ingredients for my own little cactus terrarium. I've been missing my little desert Valhalla so fiercely that I thought why not bring it here? I'll need cactus soil, plants, a small bag of rocks, horticultural charcoal, and a glass container with a large opening. Since I've been so handy with these other plants, I am eager to see what happens with my own terrarium.

Other therapeutic things have been planning a trip to Seattle to visit my baby brother in May (he lives there now), Shaun inviting me to New Orleans for Spring Break, a return to my dedication and focus with eating and the gym (gingerly because I just do not want to mess my back up even more), focusing on the things that matter, taking care of my new betta fish, and joining Meetup.com. If Philadelphia is not going to bring friends to me, I am going to find my own damn friends. It's been harder than Chicago or Arizona, where pals fell into my lap as easy as anything. Philadelphia keeps to itself, as if people are afraid to trust each other or look anyone in the eye for too long. It reminds me of how dogs don't like direct eye contact and take it as a sign of threat.

Another new discovery is that my thirties have spelled more fun and whimsy with fashion than I ever knew before. I gather pieces of wearable art the way art collectors find paintings for their collections. I am having a blast defining my own sense of style, which is eclectic. For the first time, I'm all right with that, and think in another life, I'd have made a bad-ass stylist. My recent obsession has been this whole neo-Bohemian, Victorian revival. During the holidays, I found or was gifted with huge, ghostly corsages of diponi silk; handmade bath-bombs; stained glass switchplate covers; capelets of French lace and boiled wool; cuffs fashioned from Civil War era dresses and worn by actual rockstars; Mexicali embroidered dresses in hot pink and black; distressed harness boots; and hand-painted pictures of little girls with antlers for hair and sharp teeth. I haven't lost my vintage rocker tees and monstrous collection of Zuni/Hopi/Navajo jewelry, nor my skinny jeans with battered harness boots and the weird items I thrown in like fringed jackets or couture handbags and scarves. I'm just refining things. Perhaps it's because my work attire is so restrained that I am rebelling; I've a tendency to resist the things that seem to fetter me. I'm a whirlwind when it comes to resisting convention and the growth that happens when I do.

My sights are on health, happiness, and healing for the coming weeks. Knowing the work I've ahead of me makes facing it easier. I won't lie and say that I'm in a better place, but I am trying to trick myself into being more positive because this rock-bottom stuff is the pits. From the accident, my back's pretty messed up and my heart is fairly bruised. However, I'm not in Philadelphia forever--just another year or so until Shaun finishes law school, passes the bar, and we face a new chapter in our life together. We are West-ward bound after, back in the arms of our friends and loved ones. I need to make this the best experience that I can, until I am free. Once I am free, there won't be any stopping me.

Jewel