Gets darker with sadness

When I was in high school, my art teacher, Mrs. Higgins, pulled me aside one afternoon. She asked me if I was ok. At which point, I burst into tears. I'm not even sure what was going on in my life at that time, I just know I was a depressed and angry teenager. After confiding in her and she telling me the normal "we were all there once" speech, I had know, how did she know anything was wrong?

Art was my favorite subject, obviously, and it made me so grateful and relaxed when I walked into that blissful art room. The moldy smell of clay soaked rags, old brushes, the bite of newly opened paints that, for just a split second, made you feel life a fresh start was about to begin. All of it! The lameness of the construction paper to the stink of slip pot: I loved it all! The art room was where I smiled.

I get goosbumps just thinking about it. Smiling there for a moment writing, but it's fading....

Therein lies my point:

Mrs. Higgins noticed something was wrong because my painting suddenly got darker.

Right now, as I battle with strong depressive feelings, I wonder if my writing shows it getting darker.

Boy, do I miss that art room and I've give anything to be sitting back in that stupid stinky little disarray of creativity.

It made me satisfied. Not exactly happy, per se, but satisfied.

Where did that feeling go? Despite my mother in law's tremendous drive for cleanliness satisfaction, I get nothing. Nothing at all. That's why it's so hard to understand my point of view. I'm nothing like that. There's no satisfaction in cleaning. It's just going to end up messy again.

Sigh.

I feel like I'm speaking like Eeyore.....

Alright. Well. I guess I'll go then...