Contemplations

A Story by Megan Skaff

This is an Ekphrastic Non Fiction Piece inspired by a mixed media created by Shannon Frewaldt.

As I look into the soul of the painting, I find myself getting lost in what I see to be a journey of enlightenment. Colors and smudges turn into mixed emotions, confusion. Life plays itself back starting with where I’ve been, ending with the unknown of where I’m going. I am forced to see the beauty in every mistake I’ve made, and the selfishness behind every selfless act.. Life is a canvas, splattered with bright colors that become blurred with the greyness that life throws at us. All our canvases come out differently, but we stand and watch as life paints it for us.

I am four; sitting on the shoreline with my dad. Watching the blue tides crash against the sand and swallowing the seashells. Back then it was so easy to find the beauty in every simple thing. The moment he reached for my hand to walk me across the rigid sand, I knew everything would be okay as long as I never let go. Baby pink glazes the canvas of my life, serenity.

I am six; riding up the hospital elevator for the thousandth time in this short six-month period. Mom is crying; an evil shade of blue throws itself on this canvas of my life. How is she going to pay the bills when this Lupus finally consumes my dad for good? How does God steal someone so precious from a family of three little girls who barely even got to know him yet? I find myself on the shore with God, he reaches for my hand to hold, but I let go.

I am ten; already lost in the madness of this world. My canvas has been painted, spilled on, and painted over again. The texture is rigid from all the layers ruined. Only ten years old, and living everyday with a dad who is okay one minute, then hospitalized for weeks the next minute. Life is cruel, and I prefer to live as an outcast, why get attached to anything when it can be ripped from you at any moment of any time. All the pretty colors that used to be splattered and splashed on my canvas are consumed by a blur of grey, sadness.

I am fourteen; my first day of high school. My sisters have set out on new life journeys leaving me behind at home. I am alone. My best friend becomes the bottle and the pipe. I journey off into a land where pain doesn’t exist. This land allows me to hide from life, to hide from people, and to hide from myself. The sad thing is, no one notices. No one realizes how high I am, no one realizes I can’t even walk straight, no one realizes that there is no one inside me. Parents are too busy fighting, friends are too busy with their own lives, and I don’t even exist. I start fading away from the canvas.

I am sixteen; the pipe and bottle aren’t enough to take the pain away. Not enough to take the focus off of a forgotten soul. I resort to the blade, the blade that digs so deep into my skin that even to this day you will see nothing but those scars on my body. How does a girl hate herself so much, that when she puts the blade to her skin it doesn’t even take an ounce of courage to press down, it just comes natural. I watch the blood run cold down my arms; so smooth like when I used to sit on the shore and watch the tides hit the sand line with my dad. That’s all I think about. The blood is the tides, and my skin is the shoreline. My canvas bleeds red with hate.

I am eighteen; arriving in the doors of my first treatment center. I am numb; I don’t give two f***s about what happens to me or my life. All I can think about is how I’m not going to get my pill fix tonight. But that’s alright, because I have a plan, and I won’t be around much longer to suffer through the withdrawals. Sixteen days on detox locked in a box like I’m some sort of animal. I’m not allowed to go the bathroom on my own, because they know I’ll puke up every last bit of food in my body. They take the nightlight out of my room after finding the shattered bulb used to slice my arm into shreds. Counselors don’t bother to look me in the eye and try to get through to me, because the way they see it, there is no one inside. No one listening. But inside there is a girl, a girl screaming, begging for help. But no one listens to her, no one cares. The canvas is splattered with every possible color mixture in the rainbow, emotions running wild.

I am nineteen; no longer alone. After completing my fourth treatment center, I believe I have found myself. I have buried the blades, the pills, the weed, and the bottles. That is the past, not where I am going. I am now enrolled in college, and have found a passion for helping people much like myself. My dream is to become an addictions counselor in an inpatient center for adolescents, so I can pay the new life I have been given forward. I look at my canvas and can’t help but smile.

I sit on the shoreline with my dad and contemplate the dreams I had but never pursued, the relationships that didn’t last, the fear of becoming who I once was. The tides crash against the shore, taking the sand and seashells back into the water. Beauty. Pure beauty. I look at everything with such a new perspective. My canvas has been splashed and splattered on and ripped apart. So many layers of paint, the texture completes the work of art. My life, no matter how fucked up it may seem, is a work of art. My canvas has smudges of every color, blurred with grey. But where I stand on the canvas, a sort of clearness breaks through the colors, a new beginning. This is my life now, not my past. I have found my serenity; I am at peace with myself. I have found love, compassion, and beauty in things I never thought possible. And when times start to get rough, I find myself on the shore of the beach, holding my dad’s hand, refusing to let go.