*Insert A Witty Title About Brushstrokes*

Someone once told me to make a list of what I like to do and do it.

It took me a while, but I've started painting. Not regularly, though. I paint when I'm bored or just really feel like creating.

That's what I did today.

I used to think that painting (or creating) was therapeutic. Making things with my hands, watching things come together, art; I thought that it would make me feel better, and happier because I was making something out of stuff that are basically nothing on their own. That's the general idea, isn't it? When we say art therapy, we expect some sense of release and relief. We expect to be better off than when we started. I know now that I was wrong.

Today is my day off and I didn't want to read biopsych so I decided to paint instead.

I was relatively cheery these past 2 days. Everything seemed funnier and brighter. So when I picked up my paint brush and unscrewed the lids off my tiny paint bottles, I was expecting to feel even better at the end of the process; happier and a lot less bored.

The first page was nonsense. Just colours... not even nice colours. After that, I painted a cat silhouette. Then a ram. Then the TARDIS (which I ruined with a badly painted quote). I continued with a few other things.

Throughout the painting process, I suddenly felt lighter but darker. At first I didn't get it. I definitely didn't feel bored anymore, but I didn't know what else I felt.

Once I painted my last thing of the day, I laid back and started to think.

I wasn't bored anymore. I had worked that restless energy off. But I wasn't happier. In fact, I was less happy than when I started. I felt a little gloomier, sadder. And I didn't understand. Why did painting and creating make me feel so sad? It was supposed to do the opposite.

I kept thinking about it.

And then it hit me. Art didn't suddenly reverse it's effect. No. Art did exactly what it has always done. It stripped away my shell. With each brush stroke, I let my guard down. As I completed each painting, one more brick was removed.

Art revealed my core. It took everything away - the mask and the defense systems - and left me with the harsh reality of what I was really feeling. The sadness and the gloom. I was forced to face my waves. Apparently, I wasn't actually as happy as I thought I was. I mean, I know that I wasn't exactly chirpy and completely content. I guess I just didn't want to face the amount of 'sad' I have in me right now.

In hindsight, this is not all that surprising. I was putting on a mask and it worked well enough for me to ignore the tiny slivers of grey creeping through. I just laughed a littlelouder and smiled a little bigger to block it all out. Everything got ripped away when I started painting, though.

I won't say I feel better now but I know that I feel less fake. I suppose that's all that matters, really. Being real with myself.