I am an artist.

The air smells of chemicals. Blue paint is in the carpet, and a bucket of dirty water sits on the floor next to a wet canvas. My fingers are yellow. Flecks of green speckle my arms. Purple paint sticks to my hair.

That’s the first thing people notice about me. They see I’m covered in paint and carry a sketchbook with me everywhere I go. But they don’t see my hidden aching. I don’t let them anymore. 

The painting started as a scribble in green and blue marker in a sketchpad held together by a thin spiral wire binding. It started as a face with deep-set eyes and a large mouth. The shoulders were angular and distorted. I don’t know why I made it. Maybe because for me, everything feels like a blur of color and confusion. Because it feels good to be able to show the pain I struggle to share.

If someone asks how I’m doing, I say I’m tired. They don’t see the bruises on my thighs I gave myself because I stuttered in class or collided with someone in the hallways. They don’t see me staring at my bowl of raisin bran, feeling nauseated at the thought of food. I don’t tell them I stayed up trying to see how long I could hold my breath, sitting in the middle of my bed: illuminated by the orange light of the streetlamp across the street, wondering if anyone would care if I stopped breathing.

I take one of the tubes of bright paint and twisted out the last of the green. I smear it across the flat face. I stare blankly at the canvas, letting my hands guide the acrylic with flesh and brush, no longer sure of what I’m doing. The canvas becomes my window一a way for me to express my feelingsーto provide an escape for my emotions. In the beginning it was anger for all the bruises and constant feeling of failure and loneliness. Over time, the volcanic eruption cooled and I was tired. But it was the kind of exhaustion that no amount of sleep or caffeine can cure. I was just tired of hurting, fighting and feeling alone. 

I take a long, flat brush and dip it into the red paint and drag it across the lower jaw, making a red beard. A tired man stares back at me. I call him Mada, Adam backwards. In the Bible, Adam is the first man. But in the painting, Mada is the last man. Alone and forgotten.  

When the paint dries, I take the finished piece and place it between the wall and a chair.

I tried talking about what I was feeling, but I felt guilty. Why couldn’t I handle the depression myself? Why couldn’t I fix my anxiety myself? Why did I have to burden people with something they couldn’t help? I was wasting their time. So I stopped talking. I started painting. 

I am an artist. Art reflects the artist, and my art is my ache. I can’t create beautiful art because if I made a pleasant landscape with sunshine and smiles, I would be lying to myself.