dead flowers

Love is like a flower.

You don’t give it enough water, and it begins to starve to death. You give it too much, and it drowns, suffocating any last hope of survival.

I tend to overwater my plants. I don’t even realize I’m doing it until it’s too late, and then it’s questionable whether it will end up surviving or not. Before you know it, you’re looking at the once thriving and vibrant piece of life that seemed to grow so energetically, to where it stands now. “Stands,” being more of an exaggeration, given it’s slothful posture that would fall with the slightest of winds. It’s sad, really. Whether it’s because I’m so adamant in watering it constantly, or maybe I keep choosing plants that don’t want all the water I can give it.

I like to write in metaphors, because to put it bluntly, I could just say I’m just a bit toxic. When I love someone, I love too much. I get attached. On the receiving end it’s never enough, compared to what I'm willing to do for that other person. Falling too deeply is my curse, one that is rooted from a fear of being alone. Although it’s funny, because I’m an introvert who prefers to be alone. It seems that my constant internal emptiness is unable to be fulfilled by anyone, including myself.

***

It was October and I was drunk. At a casino, nonetheless, it’s where I wanted to be on my birthday. My boyfriend, Sean, was playing poker with me at one of the tables. It was nearing the end of the round, and I knew that I had this in the bag. For some reason I have a gift, and that is: being a perfect poker player. God decided that the person responsible for this genius capability should be someone who has just the right amount of intelligence and impulsivity.

I had put all of my money up at this point. 10,000$, pretty much the entirety of my life’s savings. I saw Sean’s expression from the corner of my eye, and it wasn’t an approving or accepting one. “That’s all you’re money Gen, c’mon.”

I ignored him, knowing I was about to double it. He would be happy to know my plan. Instead, he doubted me and didn’t believe I had it in me. I momentarily fantasized feeling sorry for myself, when the time came where he was wrong and hadn’t believed in me.

“I’m all in,” I said with a nonchalant tone, but weak enough to put the other guy in a position of confidence. Did he have a better hand than me, and would it be worth 10,000$ of his? Aha, probably not.

The man, probably in his mid thirties with two baby mamas, scratched the edge of his scraggly chin hair. For a second, I thought he would fold. If he did, I’d still win, although I was here to win his money like I knew I could. I waited the longest 20 seconds of my life for an answer, the one I was hoping for. Pushing his chips forward, he sighs, “Call.”

Sean had eaten his hand at this point, and I probably should have been more nervous. After all, my only asset was a 2 pair of fives and eights. He turned his cards over, revealing a poor pair of Aces. I won.

My drunken state turned vigorously euphoric, as I now had 20,000$. I turned to Sean making a face that could only read, looks like you’re wrong buddy, and I sarcastically screamed, “Noooooooo!”

The man I was playing against grumbled angrily and stumbled away, probably drunker than I was. I grabbed my bag and lept toward Sean, who was visibly astonished.

“Let’s goooo,” I say, dragging him by the hand to wherever it was that we claimed the money. What was I going to do with 20,000$? I was only 22 and never had this type of money before. Perhaps I would share it with Sean, or maybe I would travel, or buy an alpaca because they’re so fluffy. Sean and I had only been dating for about 2 years, if you’re counting the time where we momentarily broke up for a couple of months. Still, he is probably the person I would marry. I know what you’re thinking. I’m 22. But the way I feel about him surpasses any emotion that I have known, and the thought of it ever being over is more than devastating. I don’t know what I would do without him, which in part, is the reason I stay in the relationship when it’s so turbulent. I know that he loves me, but sometimes my mind tells me he doesn’t.

We headed back to our hotel room, which was thankfully a short walk away since the casino was located right below. I danced down the hallway and he shuffled, trailing behind me. I opened the door and dived into our fluffy king bed, expecting him to join me. Instead, he slowly closed the door behind me and stalled, taking off his belt and shoes.

“Time to celebrate?” I asked, beaming at his unreadable face.

He slowly took off his watch, and sat on the cushion near the door. “Gen, you could’ve lost it all. That was all you had. The guy had one more pair of anything-”

“Are you serious right now??” I sat up, ready to fight. He was not about to complain about my huge win, or ruin my good mood.

“You just. You can’t do things like that, imagine if you had lost it all, that’s all I’m saying okay?”

I could feel the anger, the perceived doubt from earlier, all of it bubbling up ready to explode like one of those mento soda experiments from fifth grade. “You know what? Maybe you should thank me. And apologize while you’re at it, you didn’t have any faith in me did you. You never do. This is just like you.”

“What are you even talking about?”

“You don’t even want to be with me. I’m not capable of making big decisions am I?”

“What? That’s not it. I’m just concerned about you ok? Sometimes you make these impulsive decisions and it turns out fine, yeah, but what happens when it doesn’t? You don’t think through things, just going off and spending like crazy.”

“So now I’m crazy.”

“Gen-”

“You know what SEAN, you would be better off without me. Then you would never worry about any financial troubles of yours.”

“That’s not what I’m saying. And stop taking things so personally.”

“Oh yeah. Cause you don’t even want to be here.”

“I told you this trip is expensive, but I-”

“But you did it for me, right. Cause it’s my birthday, not cause maybe we can finally spend some quality time together?”

He rolls his eyes, “We’re together all the time”

“That doesn’t mean it’s quality time. All I wanted to do was just do something fun with you but all you ever do is complain, oh the money.”

Sean rolled his eyes and thrust himself down across the bed. “I’m not having this conversation for the hundredth time.”

“Then don’t. Maybe just leave.”

He slowly got up, avoiding my eyes, grabbed his things and headed to the door.

Inside, my heart started racing. I didn’t want him to go. The door slammed behind him, leaving an echo that would never stop ringing in my ears.

I sometimes fantasize about what it would be like if I was at my own funeral. Hovering above, looking at all of the people who miss me dearly. I wonder who would be there, and how everyone would feel. I do want to die, but at the same time I don’t. I fantasize about it because it’s comforting, but if I were to ever go through with anything, perhaps I’d change my identity and move to New Zealand. Now that I have the money, especially. It’s either that or Australia. Anyway, I don’t think I’d ever take my own life. Because if I was dead, I’d never know whether I was missed or not.

**

“You must be Geniveve!” The woman exclaimed, putting her hands together, as if to prey. Which would have been appreciated, since I could use a bit of godly magic. Dr. Wexler looks exactly what I picture a shrink looking like. Her dark scraggly hair, as if she was an offspring of Einstein, bordered her hairline. She seemed like a cool hippy version of a professor but had eyes that smelled like your childhood.

I nodded and smiled, walking into her cozy I guess- therapy room. I looked around, immediately noticing the collection of ceramic turtles of the sort.

“Come sit down! Make yourself at home honey,” she said as I noticed the twinge of New York accent on her tongue. “I talked to your mother about your ah- history. ADHD, anxiety, depression, how fun!”

“Yeah,” I laughed at her seemingly insensitive joke, although I did find it funny.

She lowers her glasses and looks at some paper, “You’ve received medication, been in and out of therapy, okay. You didn’t have too many visits with your previous therapist, Dr. Banson, but he said that you have displayed many signs of bipolar disorder?” She looked up at me, as if to try to see whether my face matched that diagnosis. “We’ve talked enough over the phone and it seems that your triggers in mood swings are mostly circumstantial..” she bites her fingers and looks down at her notepad, “I believe you may be suffering from BPD.”

I blinked and stuttered, “w-what?”

“Borderline personality disorder. One of instability and impulsivity. You seem to have at least 5 of the 9 characteristics. I’m going to list them off for you, and tell me if you agree, okay?”

I nodded, a bit distant but there.

“Fear of abandonment. Unstable relationships. Impulsive, self destructing behaviors. Chronic feeling of emptiness. Feeling suspicious thoughts of others motives...”

I was in my head now. It all made sense, beyond this story.

“Here,” she hands me abruptly. “Take it, c’mon, it’s the only thing better than therapy.”

Confused, I slowly reached for the black notebook that she held in her dainty, bony hand.

“See, writing helps you expel all of these.. ah, turbulent emotions. Make sense of it all. Trust me, it’s the only way a lot of us can really understand what’s going on inside,” she raises an eyebrow and tapped her pointer finger to her head.

“Ok,” I begrudgingly take it out of her hand. “Is this supposed to be like a diary?”

She laughed like a crow, “Bahaha, only if you want it to be. Write daily. However you feel- I mean heck, write poetry. Just something.”

I felt it’s textured cover, playing with the elastic strand with my thumb making a continual snapping sound.

She tilts her head and smiles, “I know it’s weird to write all your thoughts and feelings down, but once you can read them back, you can understand how your circumstances make you feel, and how your feelings make you act. The mind is a strange and powerful thing.”

Dr. Wexler goes on about something like mindfulness and whatnot, but it’s hard for me to think about anything besides Sean. We parted ways months ago, but I have to go on knowing that maybe I could have been happy with him, if it wasn’t for this internal voice in my head.

I went home that rainy afternoon and sat on the oversized chair by the window. The black notebook sat on my lap like a premature baby. Unsure and uncomfortable, mostly because I didn’t want to address my depressing thoughts, I shifted in my seat and looked out the window. The sky matched my mood as the flowers sitting outside the windowsill become overly saturated with incessant rain. I began to write.

Love is like a Flower.

authors note - Mental illness is something that a lot of us struggle with. It's common to hear about anxiety and depression, and while these issues aren't any less important, some walk through life without knowledge of a serious condition they live with. I want to shed a light on BPD, as well as any other personality disorder that makes life that much more difficult. Writing is a type of medicine that can help us all.