How Chalkboard Paint Saved My Life.

The year is 2014. I am a 20-year-old, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed university student experiencing love and dickmitism so intense that to this day, I still don’t have words for it. We would ignore several friends and family suggesting that we don’t move in together because it’s far too soon and far too foolish. Within one week of co-habitation, we would break up and spend the remainder of our 8-month lease falling in and out of love and each other’s bed, blind to how toxic the nature of our relationship was — too prideful to effectively communicate. 

Let’s backtrack to a time before everything went sour and south. When we found this house, I was thrilled. It was technically my first house and it was everything I could’ve ever wanted in university – affordable, a decent size and the landlord was an absolute gem. Before moving in, my best friend came over to help me make my room feel a little bit more like home. We assembled my bed while dancing around the room to Tove Lo, Iggy Azalea and Bobby Shmurda and painted my wall with dazzling periwinkle chalkboard paint. 

Originally, the intention of using this paint was to help keep me accountable. I had deadlines written out, reminders to drink water, grocery lists and anything else tacked onto my overflowing university plate. I figured if these things of importance were staring me in the dace every day, there’s no way I couldn’t dominate my undergrad. And, I was right, it really did do wonders for me. 

But, as the semester progressed, I found myself struggling to stay afloat and on top of that I had no place to seek refuge because my relationship was in shambles — my home a war zone. I was experiencing heartbreak in the worst possible way and I legitimately couldn’t escape it because the culprit who’d ripped my heart out of my chest was living right down the hall holding it hostage. I spent weeks alone in my room, crying, feeling like the world has ended, vowing to never love again. Then one day, my friends decided enough was enough. No more sulking and tolerating disrespect and mistreatment. We went out with danced with boys, we drank, we laughed, and they held me when I cried. I thank my lucky stars from them every day.

After countless, Palm Bays, glasses of Girls Night Out and an evening spent dancing my ass off at Trappers, something shifted. It’s almost as if I remembered who I was (I don’t suggest getting drunk to find yourself), the girl that never needed a guy to feel validated. Every single day for the following 4 months, I woke up and wrote one thing I loved about myself or a quote that made me feel strong. It kept me sane and don’t tell anyone this, but even when I would make the stupid mistake of spreading my legs for him again, I would sometimes glance over at the purple wall for reassurance during sex. 

That entire year was an absolute disaster and I spent years attempting to breach the trenches of that horrific relationship, but I will never forget the love and self-esteem I cultivated in that little room or mine. Words are like weapons, and they were my greatest defence when someone I thought I loved wanted to wage a war.