Revised. And oh so pretty.

This is the space I occupied when I was a teenager.
I lived in this room when I got married at the tender age of just-barely-nineteen.
When I had my first daughter, this is where we three slept.
And then we moved away, and we grew up, and this space became that of another.
Years and years passed, and this space was used by that other; it took on the impression of said occupier and that impression would remain after they embarked on a new journey.
All fine and well, except that I was tasked with reclaiming this space.
As pictures came down and loads of books and shelves and papers and cabinets were removed, outlines of everything they possessed were present in a black sooty dust like shadows and memories and smudges of history on every wall.
Oh, the unrest!
It needed a fresh coat of paint and my loving touch on every square inch to make it my own once again, to reclaim what was once mine, and to feel comfort and beauty within.
Every other space in the house seemed to take priority, though, and so for four ridiculously long months I have lived in this space that was impressed by another, and impressed by a person that has hurt me to great depths and formed my character in such a way that I will never be the same.
I came to hate this room. I found no comfort in it.
And then Christopher reminded me that there was no shame in asking for help.
And then Patrick helped me.
And I got back on the horse.
I had an amazingly productive week that has, hopefully, set me back on course, followed by a Saturday that involved cleaning and painting and making this space my own, once again.
It has never felt so beautiful in there, I promise you that.
Amazing what a fresh coat of paint will do. xo