Amelia had everything- family, friends, a promising future- the sky was the limit. But just like that everything was taken from her. One moment she's planning her high school graduation party the next she's laying on a therapist's couch. It was as i...
"Your Aunt tells me that you like to paint," Dr. De Bara commented.
I've dabbled with a paint brush every now and then, but so what? I never considered it to be a worthy talent, even though my relatives would constantly tell me otherwise. But their opinions on my work never held much meaning to me; and, that was because I knew too much about them. For some reason or another I knew things about each of my relatives. Whether it be a commonly known fact or a deep morbid secret, I knew about it.
My cousin Janet, on the outside is a beautiful dark haired, brown eyed woman with curves in all the right places. No one would guess that this pretty girl has such low self esteem that she secretly slips antidepressants behind her husband's back.
She works as a kindergarten teacher back in New Jersey, and has been married to a guy named Todd for over six years now. The two of them are praised for their flawless marriage, but that's only because people can't look beyond her forced smile in pictures.
What people didn't know was that Todd was a major closet alcoholic who's been to more AA meetings than I can count on both hands. The relationship, behind closed doors, was verbally abusive and mentally merciless. No one knew except for me.
How did I know such things? Well aside from being able to observe people at a highly skilled level, I also have been told that I am a wonderful listener. From the age of ten, people started coming to me to vent about their problems. I was the youngest in the family which gave me a cover. No one would suspect the youngest child to be harboring all of these dark things.
After a while of just nonstop complaining, tears, and hidden secrets, I was lucky enough to escape to a more tranquil hobby. Painting.
The smell of the freshly blended paints along with the clean streaks of the brush, I was able to lose myself in the serenity of painting. But like everything else, all that fresh paint lost its color. Every landscape felt desolate and cut off from the rest of the world. Just like me.
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"I don't paint anymore," I commented.
"Why not? Your aunt has shown me a few of your finished pieces." She stopped to adjust her glasses. "You're quite talented."
"I guess I just lost interest." Ever hear the term anhedonia?
My mother was the one that had sparked the interest in me. She, herself, was an artist with various skills when it came to a brush or a pencil. All it took was the right lighting and the proper position and within minutes she would create a breathtaking scene out of nothing. I would never be as talented as she was. It was part of the reason why I stopped.
"Well I'm sure if you started again you might find that it will help with your recovery."
I rolled my eyes and kept myself from laughing at her statement.
