They’re not all good. Painting such tiny paintings is tough. But I hope that by the time I paint 100 of them, I will have improved. I’m scheduling my life now. I have so many unfinished projects and so many unused craft supplies that I could open a second-hand craft store in my garage.

I’m running out of time. I probably only have ten or twenty years left, or an hour after I leave the house. I don’t want to leave a giant pile of craft supplies that will be tossed away. I don’t want to die and leave the neighbors talking about the craft supply hoarder. Recognition of the problem is the first step even as I sit here trying to decide if I really want to spend money on some more paint markers.

There’s a void I’ve filled with stuff like that. I think it goes back to the nomadic life of a military dependent and oldest of way too many siblings. Everything I had had to be shared. I had nothing for myself. Dolls, games, art supplies, books, and even clothing. The only thing I have left from my childhood is my original birth certificate. I don’t even have my baby pictures any more. That’s the only thing that is not my parents’ fault.

My daughter took my pictures and albums to make a scrapbook of my life. She didn’t get to create it though. Her house caught fire from an electrical fault and everything was lost, including my baby book and photos. A few charred fragments were found outside afterwards, but everything else was gone.

You may ask “doesn’t your family have some of those photos?” Well, no. The Crazy Lady ( mother, dearest) burned everything in the fireplace during her mental collapse. Paintings I did in college which were in stored in the attic — broken, torn apart, and burned. Actual furniture from the living room — burned in the fireplace. Clothing, books, whatever — shredded and burned.

Her fragmented mind created fantasies — people were breaking into the house and taking things or leaving things, the children living at home had been replaced, but sometimes they came back. My father tried to get her help and take the kids, but no. This was the olden days where mothers got to keep the kids in the divorce. He almost got them, but her sister spirited them away to California where her other siblings and her mother had settled.

Why am I telling you this? Probably because I’m just as crazy, but in a different way. No one is out to get me. People aren’t talking about me or looking at me funny. Well, no more than they would any other white-haired older woman dressed in tee shirts and leggings, wearing a ball cap. Comfort first, looks second. At least I comb my hair.

I think I’ll go get those markers.