I sat there, on my bed, softly sobbing into my pillow. It was one of those days where I seemed to be doing everything wrong. I was having a lot of those lately. The doctor said I was depressed. I believed him, but I didn’t want to.
I was getting up to take the pills he told me to take. God, I hated those pills. They’re not going to fix me. Nothing can fix me. I’m a waste of a person. Why am I even-knock! I looked in the mirror and put on the most believable smile, then walked to my front door.
You were standing in the rain without a jacket so I invited you in. I wish someone would invite me in from my thunderstorm. You saw past my “smile” and asked me what was wrong. I just looked down and shook my head, tears dripping down my cheeks, hitting the hardwood floor.
You asked if I had any paint. Too tired to ask why I pointed to my backyard. Black and white were the colors you came back with. You told me to sit down, so I did. You started painting something in black.
When you were finished you asked me what I thought it was. It looked like a person, so that’s what I guessed. You told me it was a painting of me. I told you I didn’t understand.
“The black destroyed the white wall,” you said. “You’re both the black and the white. You feel black, like space. Like there is nothing inside you. You look like the white. You’re pure and innocent. Now, when I cover this black paint with the white, it’ll appear the same as the rest of the wall until something messes it up.” You looked at me and I at you. “You’re much greater than your mistakes. Then that black inside of you. You just have to believe it yourself.”