“He’s had a lot going on with the club. And he still does, so please don’t bug him with this; he doesn’t need anymore headaches.”
“From what I know about your man, I’m pretty sure he’d want to be bugged about anything concerning you. I’m going to check in with you tonight to see where you’re at.”
We ended the call and I let out a long breath. I loved my best friend, but sometimes she pushed me when I didn’t want to be pushed. Just because someone thought they knew what was best for you didn’t make them right. Sometimes we had thoughts and feelings locked away from everyone that if they knew, they’d understand why we couldn’t yet do what they wanted us to do.
Art might have been like air to me, but my greatest fear was that breathing again might cripple me. Art had a way of unlocking the parts of my soul I kept even from myself. It took a strong woman to confront those kinds of buried truths, and I wasn’t sure I was strong enough at the moment.
* * *
I remember the first day I realised art was my therapy. Sixteen at the time and working through my grief over losing my father, I’d locked myself away every afternoon after school and painted. I’d shut my friends out, but I hadn’t missed them, and I’d actually discovered I needed time with myself to heal. Some people needed to surround themselves with others to get through the hard parts of their lives, but I was the opposite – I needed to go within.
Mixing colours, playing with different techniques and allowing my soul to wash itself over the canvas had been my saviour.
After my conversation with Cassie, I’d left the café and headed home. I wasn’t sure I’d drag my paint out, but I’d sit in my art room and think. Maybe I’d journal. I’d at least go in there, even if only to be able to tell her I’d done what she’d asked. I didn’t want her harassing Scott with this. Not when he needed to be focused completely on Storm.
My art room sat perfectly organised and tidy, nothing out of place. Scott had cleared out his spare room when I’d moved in so I could set myself up in here, but I’d hardly used it. I eyed the bookshelf that held my paints. So much beautiful colour in one place. Moving to the bookshelf, I picked up a tube of turquoise and unscrewed the lid. I squeezed the tube and allowed some paint to escape onto my finger. I then reached for one of my art journals and swiped the paint onto a random page.
My body stilled as I stared at the page in front of me. I’d expected a rush of inspiration or a feeling or a thought or something. Anything. Instead, empty taunted me.
Make it stop!
I don’t want to feel this way anymore.
Stepping away from the bookshelf with the paint, I moved to the desk and dropped the art journal on it. I yanked the chair out and slumped onto it. In frustration, I reached for a pen and began scrawling random words and sentences onto the page with the swipe of turquoise across it.
Why do I feel so lost?
Blank.
Suffering.
When will this end?
What is wrong with me?
Hope.
I will get better.
I feel like I’ve lost myself.
A tear splashed onto the page and another one sat on my eyelash. I didn’t wipe them away. They needed to fall. I need to fall.
I put the pen down and flipped to the first page in the journal. Settling back into the chair, I began to go through my art and read what I’d written. This was the last journal I’d worked on before I had my miscarriage so it held my most recent thoughts.
Over the next hour, I devoured not only this journal, but a few of my other ones. When I was finished, I pulled my legs up so my feet rested on the chair, and wrapped my arms around my legs. And I let the tears fall.
The woman who had bared her soul in those journals was not the woman I was today.
How did I change so much in such a short period of time?
That woman had confidence and faith and belief.
I have none.
I’d been going through the motions of life since my miscarriage and had been so consumed by the daily grind of life that I’d forgotten to live.
Where do I even start to find myself again?
I shoved the chair back and stood. God, I was seriously annoying myself with the back and forth of emotions. This couldn’t be healthy for anyone. Could it? Raking my fingers through my hair, I blew out a long, pissed off breath.
I wanted to scream.
I wanted to kick something.
I wanted the madness in my mind to stop!
Stalking back to the bookshelf housing the paints, I grabbed as many tubes as I could hold and carried them back to the desk. I then opened my art journal again, picked up a paintbrush, and painted.
I had no idea what I’d paint – I simply let the art take over and allowed my soul to spill onto the page.
Hours passed.
I didn’t stop to eat.
I kept on painting.
Vibrant colour filled my pages and at some point, I moved to canvas.
More hours passed.
I moved to the floor of my art room.