The List
The art workshop was a stepping stone back to myself.
I'd signed up for it a few months ago as I began backing away from the gravitational pull of the abuse I was living under.
Breaking free from Earl was a mental and emotional tour de force I was still reeling from.
Facing the aftermath of the relationship, however, wasn’t the constant surge of triumph and relief I’d thought it would be. Instead, I lurched back to life confused, lost, and fearful.
The workshop had given me hope, but now the prospect of making my way to the museum felt so overwhelming I only went because dad reminded me how much I’d looked forward to it.
It was a collage-based project but I didn't follow the rules that were meant to make the process random. I brought my own pictures hoping to see myself in a new light. I cut a smiling photo of myself into strips weaving in a quote about a past version of me being proud of who I’d become.
I could say it in art but not fully to myself.
I wasn’t breathing underwater anymore but I was barely breathing. Daily tasks that involved being outside turned the five-four-three-two-one grounding technique into an emotional GPS.
Within a few weeks my state worsened as I struggled to get out of bed and make meals for myself. There would be no denying that depression was upon me, no way of avoiding a hospital stay but the IV treatments worked their magic and I got to be with my parents for Christmas.
I thought of the last time I’d felt joy purely for myself.
I remembered the warm day I’d gone to the museum alone. How the seafoam-green rooms and view of bright summer-ready leaves swaying gently through the windows felt like drinking a tall glass of water I hadn’t realized I thirsted for. I looked at the pictures of the artist at work and thought of mom, the pictures I’d taken of her paint-speckled hands one summer. I bought a postcard of the white fireplaces the sculptor was known for, sat by a small fountain to tell mom what I’d seen.
As I walked home, guilt caught up with me. I felt so selfish for enjoying something while Earl was having another soul-crushing day that I tucked my joy inside like a slip under a heavy hem.
It didn’t matter that I hadn’t been outside the home-to-store perimeter I had stuck to for weeks. If my limited amount of energy on any given day meant either cooking or going for a walk. I stayed inside and thought of how glad he’d be to have something nice to come back to. I wanted to give him everything I could even as I felt myself swirling down the drain of the kitchen sink.
In my almost-childhood bedroom I decorated a page in my journal with my favorite colors. I wrote things I want in all caps across the top and started a list for the life I was determined to create for myself.
