There have been many times that I have picked up a paintbrush, a pen, or a pencil, and I have a blank canvas before me. I have ran my fingers over the texture of those blank slates. I just stare at it. Then I squeeze my eyes tightly together and let out a frustrated sigh. I push away the canvas, put down whatever I was holding, and just put my forehead against the cool wood of my desk. How pathetic is it that after being raped at 16, it has taken me 16 years just to be able to get to this point. I haven’t drawn or painted since I was raped. Before this last year, I couldn’t even pick up a drawing tool without shaking. Art was my passion once. I won art contest after art contest. I won awards for my art, I was noted as one of the most awe-inspiring up-and-coming artists. It was so easy. It was so natural. I didn’t know how I did it, I would just see things in my mind’s eye and I could bring it out beautifully on paper or canvas. After that rape, I have never recovered. I lost my talent. I spent 16 years hiding away from it. Only now can I even get this close without getting an anxiety attack.

I just miss it. I have so many beautiful colors, and textures, and images in my head. I want to share them with the world. They’ve only recently come back. Before, there was just a lot of sadness and….blackness in my head. There still is a lot of sadness, but there are some really beautiful and freakish things growing out of those ashes. My therapist told me to sit in front of a canvas every single day with a tool in hand. I doodled a couple things here and there, but just cartoon characters or shit that a 6 year old could draw better.

I am scared of it, too. I don’t know what will come out. I find myself crying a lot these days. I find myself sitting and staring at a wall often. I find myself quite lost in a lot of dark feelings. A lot of hurt. A lot of broken trusts. A lot of abandonment. I have lost five people within the last 6 years, two family members, 2 lovers, 1 best friend. I am not good at grieving. I am not good at allowing myself vulnerable moments. I am worried that my art would be a pressure-relieving pin hole that all of a sudden bursts open like a failing dam. All of the shit that has been swelling up inside of me may just come out. I know I won’t survive it. I see others trying to come inside and support my cracking, but I push them out. I seriously don’t want anyone near me anymore. I don’t trust any of you.

Aside from my art, my writing has been awful. I can’t get through a single poem. Everything is just fucking dead. My dreams at a career, my ability to be independent, my dreams at being better than what I was born into, my dream of giving back to others. It’s gone and over. It sucks to have made it this far and then failed because I built my chance at success on the words of other people. I take full blame of course, for being so stupid and trusting. Had I made smarter decisions, I would have made vastly different decisions in a past that is now far gone. I don’t know. I don’t have a next step. I don’t even want to wake up in the morning. I have nothing to look forward to. My life has no purpose…except maybe getting these images in my head out onto a canvas for you to see, and feel.