Art

Recently, my dad stopped by my house to drop off a couple of boxes full of things from my childhood. It was primarily drawings I had made and coloring books I had filled. 

As I picked up one drawing from when I was about seven, judging by the date, I couldn't help but say,

"I wish my art had been encouraged."

The drawing was good, and it made me sad that I was never allowed to take any sort of art lesson, class, or be involved in any sort of arts program. My parents never encouraged any of my strengths, my ability to read far above my grade level, my artistic talents, and they certainly never gave a shit about my severe, life-affecting, crippling anxiety. Caring, noticing, and effort was never apart of their repertoire.

I stood there with the paper in my hand and felt a regret for the loss of time and unfostered ability.

With a scowl, my dad barked,

"You had crayons!"




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