Circa Post-traumatic Breakup, Mistakenly Taken for “Daddy Issues”

I have a black thumb. As much as this budding twenty-something would love to
engage fervently in the vibrant suburban DIY subcategory of “g a r d e n i n g” and “cultivation”, I am apparently inept when it comes to keeping a goddamn succulent alive. Give me the cleanest, greenest, most simpleton succulent that the greenhouse employee refers to as “low-maintenance” with a grimace after judging your general air of confusion in the fucking vine aisle, and it will be brown, wilted, and either in a state of desertion among soil so dry it is mistaken as a terrain of small rocks, or completely drowned by my excitement over watering with a copper plated watering can.

Now my case would be seen as quite common among the new millennia of women who pretend disgust and an overall sense of impossibility over being able to perform essential “womanly” duties (i.e. cooking, keeping their living space clean, arts and crafts, and the ability to do their own hair and makeup (“I like never wear makeup so I have no idea what I’m doing right now”)), in fact this entire intro is probably a bit in Amy Schumer’s future 100th comedy special, airing as “Women ARE Funny” on WhiteFeministNetwork.

No, my case is unique in that my black thumb is entirely á cause de my overzealousness to take care of my chosen plant. As soon as that succulent is out of its last hope at a healthy environment and into my eager small boy hands, I feel a rush of childish desire to make this my sole project until its eventual (realistically soon) demise. My mom will see my dirty hands and squinty focused eyes as I carefully transport my plant upstairs and give a reassuring, “Hopefully this one will last until the end of summer.” This acknowledgement of my former consistent gardening failures I push to the back of my mind because it’s going to be different this time. Why? Because I’ve reflected, I’ve grown, or more so I’ve told people that I’ve grown. I’ve done research this time, and legitimate research too, not my last study session over Cosmopolitan’s “10 Mind-Blowing Ways to Get a Blossom” but some scholarly articles from people who actually have the real student debt statistics to prove they really fucking know what they’re talking about.

So I plant the seed that this succulent is entirely distinct from the last. There’s no possible way that I will be the sole proprietor of mushy brown vegetation in some dirt because I will do even more than last time, I’ll be the fucking Martha Stewart of gardeners.

I carefully place my succulent into my window box and feel warmth enter my heart as I finally am back into the provincial neighborhood competition over who has the most free time to make a florist wet over their lawn and garden . I put the rocks back into the window box, because with the knowledge that I accumulated from Succulent xiv, I know that you are not supposed to take out the rocks from the bottom of the box your mother has already prepared for you, even though it makes no fucking sense. Apparently the functionality of this is for drainage purposes, as according to all my former failures I prefer to completely drown the living shit out of my plants rather than allowing for an effective water circulation system.

My soil-caked hands gently take the succulent and place it into the center of the flower box. Centered because it is a new priority now. I know myself, I know that I won’t, that I cannot forget about this little shit this time around. Is there enough sun? Probably. But more importantly, will Patty from across the street see my horticultural accomplishments? Definitely.

I ensure that it will be more than easy to nurture Succulent xv, so the screen is permanently taken out from the frame of my window. That way I can continue to convince my parents that my (supposedly long outgrown) angsty sneaking out activities supported via my easy screen-less escape route are actually agricultural activities.

“Is Chloe sneaking out on her roof to smoke the marijuana plant again?”
“No, Patty,” my mom will respond, “She likes to go out on the roof to check on the status
of her succulent garden.”

Granted, smoking weed on my roof is a night time activity, but the undeserved confidence my parents have in me allow me to assume that they undoubtedly believe I’m just doing nightly window box garden measurements and leaf counts… with a flashlight? Yes.

The worst part is the waiting that follows. I’ve planted its roots, the succulent is centered and in the sun, my mom is home so a general support of horticultural growth is in the air; but, there’s a lingering feeling of “what ifs” that permeates the peaceful Becker Household. It’s the anxiety over my past agricultural disasters that leaves an empty feeling in my stomach for the first few weeks. My mom will tell me over our daily summer tea times that it was a different time, that I wasn’t yet mature enough to handle the  responsibility of having a plant in my life to take care of, that it wasn’t a reflection of who I was but of the time and the headspace that I was in. And even beyond that, she convinces me, the deadly endeavors I’ve had with my past plants weren’t entirely one-sided. There’s external factors. Hell, maybe the sun didn’t shine for the entire month of July that encompassed Succulent xiv’s short lived life. Maybe the species of succulent wasn’t right for the environment I gave it. Or, at a higher probability, my former succulents were not killed by my mistakes, rather they were murdered by the demonic squirrels that harass me from my window box. (Seriously, stop leaving your fucking corn cob in my window box. I will continue to shoot you with my Nerf gun and throw your precious corn cob into the woods, you dumb fucks.)

Despite my mom’s reassurance, I can’t help but feel the time gap closing. The amount of time I’ll have with my healthy plant is dwindling quickly. I can feel it. Before I fall asleep during these nights, my eyes sleepily lock with the curtains guarding the window separating me from my window box. Will it make another day? Or by morning will my ownership of a questionably wholesome succulent deteriorate to a loss, after another failed gardening attempt by none other than my own Self. I can groggily drink up those first sweet moments of the morning, honeyed by the summer sun pouring into my bedroom, when my mind is clear and without worry before I awaken enough for the uneasiness over my plant’s well being to encapsulate my mind. It’s like a never-ending loop between feverish joy over my evolving plant and the depressive melancholy of how close I could unknowingly be to another suburban horticultural loss. Another devastation to my incredibly important 20-something life.

The passing worries turn into a constant anxiety as the calendar of life based on my prior succulents is diminishing rapidly, I might be out of time. So I become irrational, I have to act fast. A slightly risen green succulent in the middle of my window box isn’t enough progress for me, I’ve witnessed this hope betray me so many times before. It’s been two weeks and I don’t yet see blossoms. Shouldn’t there be blossoms? I contemplate my choices. Impulsivity fires through me in waves from my burning stomach to my buzzing brain, I feel my fingers pulsing with a displaced and abrupt feeling of an itch for… revenge.

I know, that is the last emotion that any suburban woman in her right fucking mind would feel in this situation. But it plagues me into action every time. I feel this pressing need to not let something die in my hands again as a result of my own inadequacy. A false air of confidence fills me and my impulsivity is allowed to thrive. I break out the Miracle Gro and an even bigger watering can.

What follows is the shameful cycle of my accelerated whirlwind of decline. I take humiliating steps to ruin any possibility that my plant might make it through August, even as a withered stump. I suffocate it in resources and my efforts. Swamped in water, overwhelmed with the toxicity of Miracle Gro, weary from full days in the sun and the added exposure from my imitation sun lamp. I’m horrified with myself, with my exhaustive and exploitative actions, but I can’t seem to stop until Succulent xv’s death is solidified. I watch myself move my murderous hands in a dissociative state with an inescapable feeling that I am this monstrous slut for attention. For acknowledgement, for reciprocation in my efforts. And this reciprocation, is always left bare, because I didn’t give my plant a chance to grow. A chance to flourish and become a part of the bigger picture, the lost beauty that would be Chloe’s flourishing window box garden, blossoming even as the summer months turned to autumn.

I take the dead plant gingerly in my clammy hands, and timidly give it to the woods. I don’t perform this procession initially, however; for the first few days following my succulent’s brownish death I refuse to accept my self-perpetuated catastrophe. I have to just look at it. Just look at it and gradually let go of the idea, the false idealist prophecy that my childish yearning holds on to, that it’s not actually dead. Not really. I can always bring it back to life, I can hand it off to my mom- she can save anything. But days pass, my efforts slump, and I swallow the cold reality that Succulent xv’s life is truly over.

People always will tell me that I let goodbyes hit too hard, especially in the context of a fucking houseplant. I’m like a droning Miley Cyrus sequel album, Miley Cyrus & Her Dead Plantz. The span of mourning seems to shrink with each dead houseplant, and I can feel the shards of glass get duller every time. I take a break after my black thumb does its worst, I like to let the storm that raged from my impulsivity settle as I return back to inside of my body rather than floating outside as a paralyzed spectator. I eventually will face my mom a few days after with sheepish eyes and show my teeth before I tell her, “Oopsie,” and present her with the desolate window box I’m holding behind my back. She isn’t disappointed in me or angry, she just wants me to break out of my hasty dispositions, and probably and take back her, “I’m so proud of the young woman you’re becoming,” commendation from earlier that year.

My cycle of doing the most will flare up again. I’ll somehow manage to taint other succulents before I can swallow my pride and go to TJMaxx with Patty, (in disguise of course, Julie on Berkshire Drive frequents the place nearly every week day) to pick out the most realistic looking houseplants that are entirely fake. See, the consequences of doing the most will undoubtedly lead to this act of fraudulent suburbanism. Every time around, the selection of succulents I’m willing to take the time to invest in and care for gets smaller and smaller. My patience is wearing thin over the heartbreak lingering from the accumulation of my dead plants, so if I don’t see my new succulent reciprocating in growth after my tireless efforts to support it’s health, I’ll just fucking root it out. And sooner and sooner each time. My black thumb will be lightly taunted by the neighbor ladies until it gets to a point of legitimate concern, and gossip will assemble to label my situation as a result of patriarchal oppression thus leading to an inability to perform housework from my historical past. I’m sure according to my astrology projection my
ancestors were raped in the woman-prison that is The Secret Garden so now I unknowingly express my trauma by adulterating every plant I touch.

Above all else, with everything I’ve reflected on and shrouded in endless metaphors and sarcasm, I know it’s time to embrace my sacred duty of womanhood and garden the shit out of my kitchen-centric spice garden and shower head vinery, for Darwinistic evolution must encompass the growth of my agriculture. But instead, I think I’ll just end up back in my therapist’s office, glaring at her perfect thriving succulent collection and wonder how the fuck she does it.