Discovering My Voice It was nearing the conclusion of my ninth grade year when the dark abyss of depression consumed me; Anxiety and sadness masked my cheerful demeanor. One of the few activities that could still bring a genuine smile to my face was art. It had been a long day of dodging small talk and forcing smiles when I decided I would spend lunch in the art room. “Where are you going?” Miss Moss the English teacher stopped me in the hallway. “The art room, that is okay, right?” I replied, tapping my thumbs nervously on my thigh. She shook her head at me disapprovingly for skipping lunch, however she allowed me to pass. The door to the art room clicked as I pulled down on the handle. My heart rate slowed as I observed the paintings on
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Sheldon asked as I searched for my drawing in the pile of artwork located on the table at the front wall of the classroom. “I am. . . I am here,” I replied. I was absent from school more often than not; It was no secret that I put myself under too much pressure and that it made me sick. “What about you?” I asked after a slight pause. “I am. . . here,” I frowned at him as I gathered my supplies and found a seat at one of the tables in the back of the room. Mr. Sheldon had lost his wife to cancer a few weeks prior. I admired his strength, although beneath the surface I could tell he was grieving by the weary expression in his eyes. I felt we had an understanding of one another, for he was avoiding his grief by teaching, and I was avoiding my depression by working on …show more content…
I sat there for a few minutes studying my drawing closely. I did not understand why my drawing still looked wrong, I began to doubt my abilities, and in frustration I questioned why I even try to create art. Then, I realized how tense I was and took a few deep breaths; I began to re-draw the eyes once again. Still, the lion appeared afraid, not on the prowl ready to hunt. I finally forfeit and decided to call it done. I added a few final highlights with my eraser before signing it with my name and date in the right hand corner. I studied my drawing for a few moments longer to insure I was completely finished. I decided I did not care how technically correct it was. My lion had the appearance of sadness and I felt sad, my drawing communicated what I could not put into words and that had more meaning in that moment than
Sheldon asked as I searched for my drawing in the pile of artwork located on the table at the front wall of the classroom. “I am. . . I am here,” I replied. I was absent from school more often than not; It was no secret that I put myself under too much pressure and that it made me sick. “What about you?” I asked after a slight pause. “I am. . . here,” I frowned at him as I gathered my supplies and found a seat at one of the tables in the back of the room. Mr. Sheldon had lost his wife to cancer a few weeks prior. I admired his strength, although beneath the surface I could tell he was grieving by the weary expression in his eyes. I felt we had an understanding of one another, for he was avoiding his grief by teaching, and I was avoiding my depression by working on …show more content…
I sat there for a few minutes studying my drawing closely. I did not understand why my drawing still looked wrong, I began to doubt my abilities, and in frustration I questioned why I even try to create art. Then, I realized how tense I was and took a few deep breaths; I began to re-draw the eyes once again. Still, the lion appeared afraid, not on the prowl ready to hunt. I finally forfeit and decided to call it done. I added a few final highlights with my eraser before signing it with my name and date in the right hand corner. I studied my drawing for a few moments longer to insure I was completely finished. I decided I did not care how technically correct it was. My lion had the appearance of sadness and I felt sad, my drawing communicated what I could not put into words and that had more meaning in that moment than