It had been a long time before I could work up the courage to even consider entering that room. You know, that room. We all have a “room” that we’re scared to enter.
It may vary from person to person but the root of all hesitation is fear. One vow that I would learn to keep is never allowing fear to control my life again.
Fear of facing the person I used to be; fear of facing the person that I had grown into.
I used watercolor paints as a child to paint away my feelings about the divorce. Images, sights, sounds. I washed them away in pastel blue and grey.
There were so many of these paintings; people oohed and awed over them but nobody knew what they really meant.
When I grew into an adult, I used thicker paints. I experimented. I experimented with more than just paints; I experimented with love. With sacrifice. With my own soul.
I sold my soul to a man who used my body as a canvas; he painted me with purple and blue. Sometimes yellow. Paint made up the fibers of my life and the glue that held it together at times.
An artist’s workshop is supposed to be their safe place. A haven of creativity to draw strength from. I used to.
Once I ran away from myself, I didn’t stop running; I ran until it felt like my legs might crumble beneath me.
I ran away from him, I ran away from fear, I ran away from all the traits in myself that allowed me to make so many mistakes. I ran headfirst into the black.
I shed my skin entirely and what emerged from the ashes was someone who had never previously existed. That’s who I wanted to be; I wanted to be new.
I wanted to feel water on my skin and finally feel cleansed. I drowned myself in all the pain that I had been afraid of and I took my first breath as a better person.
Nobody would ever control me again.
I found a new vitality in my resurrection. I found salvation, but not the kind that you read about in holy books; I found a hero in myself. I learned to save myself.
I am new, but I still feel that pain. I learned to stop running from it. I live freely, but I am still possessed by his colors. By mine.
I used the sunroom as my workshop. I liked the way the rays leaked through the curtains in the early morning.
I liked the feel of the sun on my skin on a cold winter day as I dealt with my life the only way I knew how. My old life. I’ve had many.
I’ve lived fully and I’ve lived colorfully for being so young.
I’ve experienced heartache in many shades. I used to associate the color red with heartbreak; the richness of the color reminded me of blood, and sometimes of passion; of pain.
Now, all I can see is grey.