I spent the better part of a year drowning in watercolors - sweeping shadows in shades of gray brightened only by barely-there pastels. Everything ran together on the canvas, and no matter how I tried, I couldn't find the sense in it. Those were the only colors I knew, and I couldn't even use them right.
Lately I've been dabbling in vivid hues - bold streaks of thick oil conquer my pages. I've used red, green, orange, purple... anything but those drab tones of last year. And with them, I've made real pictures: a sailboat, a horsey, smiling people.
But it's all a bit too perfect, and if you look closely, you can see the watercolors dripping down beneath the oil.
I still fall to my knees in the shower and cry.
I still wake up in the night haunted by my dreams.
I still look at a broken piece of glass and think about hurting myself.
Sometimes I think I use this space to pretend I'm okay when I'm not. I pretend that I'm always happy, that I never want to hide in bed for weeks at a time, that I'm never lonely or scared.
But it's a lie, and I can't lie forever.
The gray is still there. Still fresh. Still wet to the touch.