A Journal

Random #3 - A Hobby That Became An Obession

Gloria: Konichiwa!! This time please let me bring one of my random writing to you~~ I finished this a month ago, but I kept on editing.

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Ever since I was diagnosed with depression, I knew that I was destinied to be an artist. My dad suggested I draw, to let off all the feelings - negative or positive - through papers, brushes and pens. It didn't work at the beginning.

    The gloomy clouds inside my heart nearly suffocated me and there were only blotches of paint and haphazardly drawn lines on the papers. My depression was hanging by a thin thread, too fragile to hold anything. I wanted so much to smile and laugh along with everyone but something in me crushed my heart into pieces.

    In one of my worst times, I overturned and destroyed all the drawing equipment then threw a massive tantrum. Or at least my angry self did. My inner self watched on horror as I shredded paper , ripped canvases and smashed paint bottles.

    Dad stormed in through the door, but he stopped dead, watching me silently as I ruined and wasted our money and resources. I didn't understand why he did that; instead, I became even more hostile: kicking, pulling and tearing harder. Eventually, my rage faded away and he caught me when I blacked out.

    When I woke up, I noticed brand new brushes, markers, pencils and drawing materials on my study desk. The quality was amazing and every inch had been lovingly crafted with skilled hands.

    I lifted my head and saw my dad smiling warmly from the doorway.

    I continued to draw.

    Gradually, drawing became my best friend. School became easier and I didn't have to rely on anybody anymore. I had escaped from the shadow that had haunted me day and night, and at long last, I could smile and laugh with my father without me feeling I had a burden on my shoulders.

    I graduated from Oxford University with a Bachelor's Degree, and my parents wept euphoric tears. Soon enough, I was accepted by Oxford University Press and my parents once again thanked God. I sat at my desk every day sipping Cappuccino and did the work that I liked to do. I'd been wanting to be a publisher since I was tiny. However, because my work took all my attention, I began to draw less and less frequently.

    When I visited my parents to celebrate my 20th birthday, the house was silent. Keys clanged against each other as the wind swept past my ears. The torn tartan curtains collapsed to the ground in a huge mess.

    Strangely enough, my parents' coffee machine hadn't been touched and the toaster was as cold as ice. Newspapers lay scattered on the couch; that was quite different from the neat but dusty stack normally found on top of the fridge.

    I pushed open my parents' door, crossing my fingers mentally that nothing bad had happened. However, my heart broke the minute I stepped into the bedroom.

    The sheets were pristinely made and ironed, but my dad just lay there, unmoving. I will never erase that memory from my mind: his closed eyes and his strangely peaceful expression. My mum - kneeling by the bed - turned her tear-stained face to me, then hugged me tightly. Inside, I bawled with her, though I was immobilised.

    She sobbed into my chest unceasingly, hands clawing at my suit. Her dreadful screams and confounded words echoed painfully in my head. Nausea overtook me and the hollowness in my heart swallowed my body...I thumped to my knees, then hugged my mum back and howled with her.

    At the funeral one week later, it was all black clothes and white waxy faces, every one of them with puffed red eyes, clutching scripts and flower bouquets. The sun was too bright and cheerful for me and the decorations from someone's wedding were still scattered on the ground.