Centurion Parade Books 1 & 2
Updated: Sep 11
I woke up one day, and it was 5 weeks later. I devolved quickly into psychosis, unable to remember my lost time until people told me what I did.
I attacked my husband, then an officer. I was violent and uncontrollable, so they put me in solitary on suicide watch. I spent eleven days neglected until the right people returned from the holidays to get me treatment.
Languishing alone in a cell without treatment, I got much worse. I didn’t sleep for fourteen days. I didn’t eat and rarely drank. It just wasn’t important where I was.
I was followed by death, found myself on spaceships, saw Earth civilizations end, sat waiting for an end to hell, watched art unfold on the walls and doors, imagined the people I talked to were deceased loved ones (but were probably guards or caretakers from the treatment facility).
It was strange when I “came to” the first time I could keep half of a day straight. I was covered in bruises and abrasions, blood under the remains of my fingernails, knuckles raw and red, a massive infected abrasion on my abdomen and breast. Every morning they asked me the date, and I didn’t know it. Then after weeks, I finally started remembering.
As I continued progressing into sanity, my caretakers became strangers who were somehow familiar. People were kind, smiled at me, spoke gently. At the time, I just wanted my liberty but was stuck until I could prove that I could control my anger.
Looking back, I have a fondness for these kind people who welcomed me back to reality. It took a long time and many phone calls from my grandmother and parents to get me to calm down.
My caretakers weren’t sure who they’d get when I was around: the chola/Latin Queen, the diva, or the clown. I went from persona to persona like a change of clothing, at least this is how my husband described it.
One caretaker told me I danced on the counters and humped a bible.
Do you remember doing that?
No, but I bet it was hilarious!
She smiled and nodded.
This situation I would wish on no one. I was in hell when I was in jail, and it was real to me; it took over a year to describe parts of it without crying. I recorded my delusions as if they were memories from reality; more unfolded with time.
I’m thankful for this; at least, it has given me needed perspective. I cringe when I hear the terms crazy and insane used to unfairly blame people. I feel empathy when I see untreated mental illness, homeless people, and addicts. I can’t be offended by their violence anymore, or get myself to believe that their homelessness was a series of bad choices.
If you’re in a state of psychosis, even a mild one, you can no longer be your own advocate--let alone make sure shit gets paid or taken care of. Without someone to catch you or to help, you’re at the mercy of strangers and law enforcement. As history shows, violence is met with more violence.
So what follows is a sampling of what I remember most while incarcerated; my delusions captured in a snapshot using the flash nonfiction genre. Since the progression of the web, my attention span has shortened—I’m sure yours has too. I tried to stick with brevity as well as I could.
Some things are not really discussed with psychosis or altered states.
I noticed cognitive degradation like someone who experienced a TBI (traumatic brain injury) or even a stroke. Unchecked psychosis for weeks can shrink brain matter.
The brain contracts in on itself.
I slept for 16-18 hours a day under the weight of heavy antipsychotics and entered one of the worst depressions of my life.
I no longer wanted to live.
The first drawings frightened me when I realized I was looking at evidence of an injured brain. I could see the injury on the page.
So I started over.
Circles. Cubes. Chairs. The edge of a table. Betty Edwards' book Drawing From the Left Side of the Brain became my quiet companion while I tried to teach my hands what they used to know.
Day by day I showed up to the page. Despite my disappointment and discouragement, I wrote, and I drew, and even when they both felt like poor attempts and shadows of my previous work, I continued.
Here you can see the progression from post psychosis and onward.
Here are examples of self-portraits spanning the years. I don't have any from 2013 or 2014, which might have shown some backtracking in my technical skill. Included are the multimedia self-portrait from Pima College in the early 2000s, the paper cranes piece from around 2007–2008, the CPAP self-portrait from 2019, the colorful, messy one from 2024–2025, and the final two, completed in 2025–2026.
As I continued writing, I thought: How do I take this immense experience and make it digestible for others to read? I heard about the Flash Fiction and Nonfiction genres.
A story distilled down into a paragraph.
Each vision was accompanied by an illustration.
In 2017, I released Book 1 as a small, pocket-sized zine with hand-printed covers, bound with a paper clip and rubber band.
This collection of Book 1 & Book 2 is a 64-page zine. All the illustrations are redone to reflect the work I am currently moving into: mixed media, combining photography, paint, charcoal, and drawings digitally to create a new image.
Using Photoshop and not AI.
A note on AI: When Midjourney first appeared, I experimented with it to create rotating imagery for video, evoke moods, quickly express pieces of writing, and test ideas. I no longer use generative AI to create imagery. I use my own hands as I have for years before that experimentation. Sometimes tech draws me away from being an analogist and retrophile. I do use AI as a research and editorial tool—asking for feedback, takeaways, clarity, or suggestions for consistency.
The artwork, imagery, and writing within Centurion Parade are my own.
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