The demise of a makeup addict.

Some believed it would never happen.  Like a cockroach, they thought my makeup addiction would out-survive us all.  For a while, I believed this to be true.  Then, as if awoken from a dream, I one day began to see things clearly.  Makeup, while a fun expression of one's self, is a complete waste of money.  The marketing is just far too good, making you think you need all these new limited edition colours, when really, you already have them, because they've just repackaged and renamed ones from two years ago.  And you probably didn't even need those, since you already had something similar enough from the regular collection, which you probably also didn't need, since, HELLO, you're never going to wear that colour.  Ever.  Don't lie.  You know it's true.
I was worried that if my makeup addiction dissipated, there would be nothing left but a hole in my heart, a place I would forever associate with my love of makeup and what could have been.  I worried that, without such a girly obsession, I'd become too masculine, doing only a martial art in your spare time can have that effect on you.  I worried.  I'm a worrier.  Says so in my horoscope.  My worries were irrational, since, regardless of what I'm doing with my spare time, I love glitter and fairies, and that will ALWAYS make me girly.  But the hole?  In my heart?  It's been replaced, in a BIG way.  After the passing of my mom, I had some rough days, days when I didn't see much point in anything I was doing.  What's the point when you just die?  I kept thinking about both possible scenarios: knowing you're going to die, or not knowing it and death coming as a surprise - I know, really healthy thinking, right?  I was consumed by this really dark presence, and all of a sudden, something magical happened.  I started drawing.  I hadn't drawn in years, but always wanted to start again, I just couldn't.  It was like my writer's block, I'd face a blank sheet of paper and feel petrified.  But miraculously, all of a sudden, I was attacking that blank piece of paper, drawing all the time, and feeling great!  In fact, it was the only time I COULD feel great.  And so I didn't stop, and haven't stopped.  I have this silly idea in my head that my mom is responsible for this.  She was a wonderful artist when I was a child, and we all always thought she would have been a working artist if she'd been born to another life.  She wasn't able to follow through with her talent, but here I was, randomly drawing following her death.  There's something magical about that, if you ask me.  I feel like she's given me this gift, and I don't care if I only ever draw in my art journal, the feeling I get when I'm painting is better than any notoriety actual "artists" get.  While the rest of my life may be falling in ruins around me, I'm at peace with a pencil in my hand.  It's my zen place.  I've finally found it.  :) Giggle.