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I was losing motivation in things I used to once love.

I remember those days when I used to paint ardently. It was therapeutic for me. There wouldn’t be a single day when I wouldn’t paint. I was so sure that it was meant for me. Pastels and paint bottles lying around my room all day made me happy and content even though it made my room look so shabby. I still remember those rainy days when I used to sit by my arched windows and paint endlessly, the scenery in front of me, light drizzles falling over the green fields and high-spirited children running around over the nicely trimmed grass. I used to feel so overwhelmed by my own description of the paintings I used to work on that I didn’t know where to stop. I simply loved painting as it seemed to be an indispensable part of my life.


I wouldn’t say putting a hold on my painting was a sudden change. It never happened overnight, as some people put a full stop to certain things in their life because of heart wrenching memories or incidents. For me, it all happened gradually and unknowingly. I never realized that I stopped painting. At first, it was because I couldn’t find a subject to paint, then I just simply stopped. It was as if my love for painting was gone suddenly, and I couldn’t explain why. I came up with a million reasons when asked why I stopped painting such as lack of time, busy schedules around the clock, etc. Often, I would tell people that I found new passions that interested me and kept me sane. I never once paid heed to this drastic change in my life until one day, I was rummaging through my wardrobe, and I suddenly came across some paint bottles and brushes. I looked at them for some time, and kept them away to bring in more space for my newly bought books and other things.


My mother started to worry for me. She felt as if I was losing my motivation to do everything. She would constantly ask me about what’s bothering me. The only thing that I could tell her was that nothing was bothering me, just the fact that I felt like doing nothing, and wanted everyone to leave me alone. I preferred spending my time alone, doing nothing, in the dark. I couldn’t help it. I was always in a bad mood, snapping at others and getting mad over absolutely nothing. I would constantly feel tired and exhausted.


One day, I just admitted to myself that I had lost my interest in painting, and there was nothing much I could do about it. Or at least that’s what I told myself. I felt a little lost about it. My mother insisted that I go to therapy so that I could figure out what was wrong with me. I didn’t understand how a therapist could help me become productive again. But, after hurting my mother so much with my lazy attitude towards life, I decided to give in.


The initial few sessions ascertained that it was the right decision. My therapist told me that sometimes, it’s okay to take a break to figure ourselves out. We explored the possible reasons behind such a sudden shift in my behaviour. Whatever she pointed out to me, made a lot of sense. It was as if I was able to understand myself better. I made peace with the fact that I didn’t need to obsess over painting and it was okay to explore other interests too. I started exploring other things that I could take up. I also tried to give some time to completing some of my old paintings. I talked to my therapist about how I was feeling, and felt much relieved after speaking to her. I started doing things that made me happier, and I, no longer, felt the distress I used to feel. I noticed that my therapist helped me restore my motivation.

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