The soundof my neighbor’s Christmas music snaps me out of the horrible memory. “All I Want For Christmas” by Mariah Carey vibrates through the walls, and I can’t help but chuckle. She has played it every year on November first for the past four years.
I stare at my iPad and empty canvases sitting on my wooden desk. My art. My passion. My outlet out of this cruel world…and yet I still can’t bring myself to draw. My art is created from dreams.
And lately, my ability to dream is broken.
It’s destroying me.
Sulking, wallowing, my shoulders droop. I shut the door and head back into the living room. As soon as I reach the couch, I let myself drop dramatically and bury my head, face-first into the Christmas decorative pillows.
Maybe going to Sleepy Coldwater to meet other artists will help inspire me. I think I’ve disappeared from my art for too long. Whether it will help or not, I want to go and get out of the house and do something instead of watching reruns of my favorite comedy shows.
The betrayal happened three months ago, and after that, I tried to take my own life. The affair was one thing, and it turned into a deep depression I couldn’t get out of.
I didn’t feel like I was enough for anything or anyone. I was drowning, and nothing could save me. There were no magic words that someone could say to me to pull me out of it. There was no beacon of light. It wasn’t a self-pity party of one. It was deeper than that. Depression felt like self-destruction, and I couldn’t save myself.
I tried to say goodbye.
But death wouldn’t have me.
I’m still here. Still trying to smile and still trying to live.
I’m trying.
Life keeps teaching me lessons in the worst ways possible. My trust has been betrayed more times than I can count. I’m starting to think that isolation has never been a bad thing. Maybe it’s a way to protect myself. If you don’t open enough to trust, you can’t get hurt.
CHAPTER 2
CORALINE
This was a last-minute trip, but I managed to gather some art pieces together that I hadn’t shown anyone to take to the Holly Jolly Arty Event. Holly Jolly Arty…how festive is that?
I shipped watercolor pieces and oil paintings. I’m still learning how to draw people. It’s pretty tricky getting all the shading done.
After my plane landed, I took an Uber to the nearest restaurant, ate warm, delicious soup dumplings, and spent the rest of the night exploring until my feet hurt.
As I stand in the middle of the street by a black lamppost with a red bow tightly secured around the top, eating a raspberry cheese danish and watching the snow slowly fall around me, I smile. A smile that feels weightless and reaches my eyes and ears. The stars twinkle brighter in the sky here. The people are friendly. There are no cell phones in sight. All the simple feel-good emotions run through me, making me feel like a kid again on Christmas night.
Sleepy Coldwater is a cute small town in the mountains of Alaska. Everyone knows everyone by the way every store ownertalks. There are a few schools, one medical center, one movie theater, and many small businesses. I’ve visited almost every single store deep on the main street of downtown. There’s a cute winter coat store with thick fuzzy socks, called Cozy Fuzzy. A bakery shop called Sugar Plum & Butter that sells cookies, brownies, chocolate-covered pretzels, and strawberries, owned by a retired veteran couple who served in the United States Army. They’ve been married for over sixty years.
I’m in love with this place. The perfect getaway I didn’t know I needed. Maya was right about Sleepy Coldwater. I’m glad I came here over Anchorage, even though the commute to the event is longer than I anticipated. I have a chance to do some soul-searching and much-needed healing.
Today isthe day of the showing. I’m in the backseat of a taxi, with a frozen pink nose, red lipstick, and rosy cheeks, wearing white mittens. Freezing but excited. My depression can fuck off today because I want to be able to remember why I started creating again without that menacing voice in my head telling me that I’m not good enough. I’m nervous yet excited to meet other artists and people who are also passionate about art. I haven’t been to a showing since I found my ex with his hand on my ex-best friend’s ass.
I take off my gloves to send Maya a daily reminder that I’m alive and well. It’s hard to type with them on; next to impossible. I always check in with her and my older sister, Everly. Ev has told me numerous times how jealous she is that I’m in Alaska before her.
Holding my cell phone tight in my hands, my finger pats the screen as I text Maya.
Me:
Have I told you how much I love you?
Maya:
I told you. It’s stunning, isn’t it?
Me:
Yes!
