Page 14 of The Vineyard Crush

I sank down heavily onto the permanently indented cushions of my beat-up old couch. It had been my faithful companion for too many sleepless nights spent camped out in this shed, burning the midnight oil on whatever project had consumed my concentration.

My hands trembled as I raked them through my hopelessly tangled hair. Stray crumbs and Lord knows what else rained down from the mess of knots. God, I’m such a disaster.

Mom’s words played on a vinegar-laced loop through my mind. “You need to grow up and get your life together, Emma.”

The disappointment and naked frustration saturating her tone sliced me deeper than any barbed insult ever could. I squeezed my eyes shut, but couldn’t shut out the memory of her pinched expression and the disdainful sweep of her gaze across my shed. To her, this space was just a pigsty. To me, it was a twisted funhouse mirror, warping my self-worth.

She just didn’t get it, though. Didn’t understand the way my brain worked - or more accurately, the way it didn’t work like everyone else’s. From the moment I opened my eyes each morning, it was like someone shook up a snow globe filled with a million thoughts and ideas, sending them swirling madly in scatter-brained chaos.

No matter how hard I tried to focus on whatever productive task was in front of me, some shiny new thought would bob up and distract me. Before I knew it, I’d be off on a new tangent, chasing that fleeting burst of inspiration like a deranged bunny hunting a carrot.

Organization, cleaning, paperwork - anything involving meticulous attention to dull administrative details bored me to blinding rage. As soon as I started trying to straighten up the mess, my mind would be seven countries away in an instant, off composing a sonnet about artisanal cheese or deconstructing the subtext in Dr. Seuss before I could blink.

ADHD, the counselor at college had labeled it after running me through a dizzying array of tests, symptom checklists, and Q&A sessions. As if that random series of letters was somehow supposed to excuse all my flakiness, my inability to follow through and see things to completion. Supposed to be a justification for why I always felt like a profound disappointment.

I gazed numbly around at the embodiment of my personal chaos, feeling the shame burn fresh across my cheeks. It coated my skin like sweat, sour and inescapable no matter how I tried to blink it away.

Constantly changing Majors during undergrad and barely getting through finishing Uni. A string of internships and part time jobs quit or because I would inevitably hit that phosphorescent brick wall of boredom, tuning out everything and spiraling into paralyzed disinterest.

Relationships cratering due to my supposed selfishness or inability to just BE PRESENT. Accusations of being hopelessly immature and irresponsible, Peter Pan lost in Neverland while the rest of the world grew up around me or just being plain too much for them.

Maybe Mom was right. Maybe I’d never really grow up and get my shit together, no matter how desperately I wanted to. The thought made my throat constrict, a bitter lump swelling as suppressed tears burned the corners of my eyes.

I was a perpetual letdown, a kaleidoscope being of a thousand brilliant facets that could never quite coalesce into one coherent, focused image. The realization tasted like ashes.

Carelessly, I swiped at the stubborn moisture blurring my vision, only succeeding in smearing makeup along with the trail of wetness. Pathetic. I squeezed my eyes shut against the threatening torrent as the voices of shame swirled around me in an echoing cacophony.

Lazy. Immature. Irresponsible. Selfish.

The refrains of judgment and disdain, both from others and my own acidic inner monologue, all eventually looping back to the same conclusion - I simply wasn’t enough. Not focused enough, not disciplined enough, not enough enough.

With a shuddering sigh, I tipped my head back against the sagging couch cushions. Memories of what kicked off this latest bout of maternal criticism came trickling back…

It was just supposed to be a quick inventory run for the vineyard’s tasting room. A straightforward task - take stock of the wine supplies, place an order for whatever we were low on, send it off.

Simple, right? Something even someone as easily distractible as me should be able to handle without issue.

Ha. As if adulthood and its requisite responsibilities were ever that uncomplicated for me.

I could pinpoint the exact moment my concentration took its first disastrous detour. Sitting at my cluttered desk, I reached for the binder with the wine supply info. But the chaotic spread of paperwork gave my restless eyes nowhere to land, no single focal point on which to center my bouncing attention.

A flash of azure blue amidst the off-white mess caught my gaze - one of the tissue-paper sale tags from the funky boho skirt I’d gotten at a vintage shop downtown. The soft, rippling printed fabric had washed over me in waves of color the moment I’d spotted it on the overstuffed racks, sparking an instant yearning to fill my life with more of its carefree, bohemian ecstasy.

Just looking at the frayed price tag started transporting me back…the dusty, jam-packed aisles of the boutique a menagerie of retro wares; the spicy-sweet fragrance of aged patchouli lingering amongst the racks; the beckoning call of a million unique finds awaiting discovery, winking at me with their faded charm as if to say, “Take me home, Emma…”

From there, my thoughts slipped swiftly into muddied free-association, spiraling through a tangled web of loosely-connected creative ideas. A design for an eclectic wind chime using thrifted chandelier crystals and antique flatware. An art installation celebrating the lush colors and organic curves of the feminine form, with abstract nudes sculpted from repurposed vintage glassware. Inspiration begat inspiration with my every manic mental leapfrog.

Before I knew it, I was hunched over my sketchpad, pencil flying in a frenzy as I attempted to capture the ephemeral visions unspooling behind my eyes. I filled page after page with rendering after rendering - swirls of abstract shapes and flowing lines coming together, pulling away, constantly shape-shifting with my fleeting whims.

So absorbed was I in the freeing act of creation that the real world fell away entirely for a blissful span. No mental shackles of due dates or expected decorum, just sweet surrender to the unrestrained id of my muse’s whispered directives.

At some point, my frenzied scratching must have lulled, because the next thing I knew, Mom was standing over my shoulder.

“…really, Emma?” Her tone, laced with familiar exasperation, finally penetrated the airy bubble of artistic flow she’d shaken me from.

I blinked, suddenly re-awareness of my dingy physical surroundings after being blissfully untethered from reality for who knows how long. Dozens of crumpled paper iterations of whatever artistic compulsions had consumed me littered the floor at my feet. The easy creative abandon I’d surrendered to now crashed headfirst into Mom’s displeasure, dispelling the sense of zen like a harsh fluorescent beam cutting through soft shadows.

“What?” I asked dumbly, still feeling disoriented. I tried to shake off the vestiges of whatever universes my brain had briefly escaped to.

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