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The fight with Mom didn’t end when the words stopped. It kept playing afterward. I call it the tapes. You know the kind. Old recordings that loop in your head, replaying the harshest lines anyone ever said. Not the compliments. Not the forgiveness. Just the sharp edges, over and over, like a broken record that only knows one song. This time it involved family, so I’ll leave the details out. But the emotional echo stuck around long after the argument ended. And I didn’t help my situation. I missed my medication yesterday.I loaded up on caffeine.My system was already wound...

Last night and this morning were rough. Mom and I got into it over finances, legal issues, family tensions, and her belief that my past and recent marijuana use has damaged my brain. One comment led to another, and before long the conversation wasn’t a conversation anymore. It was a chain reaction. Old frustrations. Old fears. Old resentments. Arguments like that have a way of piling history onto the present, turning one disagreement into a courtroom drama starring the entire past. Eventually, we both did the smartest thing two people can do when the emotional temperature hits boiling: we stopped...

There’s a new rule in my art therapy strategy: if cigarettes took my time and money, art gets both back. Every minute I would have spent smoking now belongs to the studio. Every dollar that once went up in smoke now goes into paint, paper, ink, and the growing mountain of supplies that promises possibility instead of regret. Even more money goes into advertising, arranging shows and events, and other forms of promotion.  To make it real, I committed big. Six major events this year to sell my work. Six stages. Six deadlines. Six reasons to keep moving forward instead...

While Whiskey Kitty sleeps through most of the day like a tiny, tuxedoed philosopher conserving her energy, nighttime is a different story. That’s when she clocks in for her evening shift. For about an hour before bed, she expects full entertainment services from her human. Once we head upstairs, the games begin. She wedges herself between the mattress and the wall for a dramatic game of peekaboo, then launches surprise attacks from across the room like a four-pound jungle predator. She interrupts my computer work by walking directly across the keyboard, because apparently every program benefits from random cat input....

Most days I wake up a little before noon, feed Whiskey, and open the door so she can make her grand entrance downstairs to inspect her kingdom. I sometimes wonder if feeding her later in the day is throwing off her sleep schedule because she often seems tired during daylight hours. Then again, she’s a cat. If there were a PhD in napping, she’d be teaching it. I know when she’s hungry because I hear her calling from the other room. Interestingly, she doesn’t come into my room and meow for breakfast. No, Whiskey prefers a more direct communication style....