The Mouse That Remembered Me. Part III: Still Blooming. Still Bleeding. (2020)

There’s a photo I took in 2020 while high on mushrooms.

I’m on the couch in my townhome—my first real adult residence.

Above me, a massive print: a woman lying on a stack of pancakes.

Mickey pajama pants. My Dalmatian curled next to me.

And layered over it, a chaotic digital drawing I made that night—

a swirl of lines trying to pin down something I couldn’t quite see but definitely felt.

It might be one of my favorite images I’ve ever made.

Because in that moment, I thought: This is me.

Like really me.

Just for a second.

2020 was the most creative I’ve ever been.

Still bleeding. Still cold. Still confused at night.

But somehow—blooming.

I had just moved into a townhome with a two-car garage.

That mattered because my Chevelle finally had safety.

It was symbolic in ways I didn’t have the words for back then.

Mickey exploded that year.

I made a blanket.

Ran a raffle.

Printed a custom puzzle.

Wore eight pieces of Mickey for his birthday.

(Twelve, if you count the tattoos.)

I wasn’t just participating anymore—I was performing something.

I don’t even think I knew what it was yet.

But underneath that?

I was freezing all the time.

Still bleeding from places I couldn’t name.

Still grieving things I hadn’t let myself admit were gone.

My ex had moved on.

Married the guy who’d been orbiting for a year.

They started showing up at my gym.

Every week. For months.

I rode the elevator with him.

I wanted to vanish.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I made merch.

My Mickey drawings got sharper.

I started designing like I was running out of time.

And maybe I was.

Not in a dramatic way—

in a cellular one.

My body was unraveling, but my hands wouldn’t stop.

They were trying to create proof.

That I was still here.

That something still made sense.

This year, I didn’t make a new Mickey flash sheet.

I didn’t need to.

I brought back the old ones—with a new set of eyes.

Not to reuse them.

But to finally understand them.

They weren’t just designs.

They were clues.

Next: 2021.

Where ritual becomes rhythm.

And rhythm becomes survival.

And Mickey?

He never left.

Even when I almost did.