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When I was a kid, I could color for hours. I could be a little Type-A about it; if I went outside the lines, I would often rip out the page and throw it away, and I may even have yelled, “I hate coloring!” while cursing my imperfection.
But that was a lie—I loved it. So it was only a matter of time before I way lying on my stomach in the living room, humming the Gummy Bears cartoon theme song, and trying again for a crayon masterpiece.
Years later, in my early twenties, I did the exact same thing in my living room while my boyfriend (at the time) played video games. I remember thinking we were both regressing, but I didn’t care.
We’d each battled depression before, and were always on the lookout for something to numb the pain. I don’t think we consciously realized it at the time, but that’s exactly what we were doing right then, in a far healthier way than usual.
There was something so calming about doing these mindless, childlike activities, free from the burden of our usual stresses. Bills were piling up, neither of us had a career path, but for that short time, our minds felt free.
In my late twenties, having lost touch with my colori…