Home Decorating and Me

om with just a few different items; brighten it, darken it, make it seem bigger, ore warm, more inviting, more modern. The possibilities are as endless as the bins and shelves of throw pillows in Old Time Pottery. However, the time when décor mattered most to me is when I was recovering from depression.
When I was a little girl, the walls of my room were painted “heffalump” purple and I had brightly colored Scooby Doo bedding.

 

Everything around me was somehow both soft and bright at the same time, pleasant and youthful. As I grew, so did the number of posters from J-14 magazine, until around the time I reached high school. I was suddenly possessed with reinventing myself, with throwing out the old and welcoming in the new. The only issue was that I, like many other 14 moody-year-olds, wanted to reinvent myself with copious amounts of black. This wasn’t an issue initially. My walls were blue but my bedspread, my sheets, my area rug, my pillows, and my curtains were all black.

Décor allows you to relax in an environment that is a reflection of yourself. Eventually, when I actually became depressed, I began to spend more and more time withdrawn in my room, with the sun-blocking curtains and the dark décor. My room wasn’t a safe or comforting place, it was where I turned into a little recluse. I lost sleep because I would just sit and work at my desk, unaware of where the sun sat in the sky, surrounded by only my drab pillows and my four walls. I reached a point where I would struggle to do my schoolwork or even stay awake while sitting down at all. I lost interest in my art and in being with my friends and family, even though my sister was soon going to be in college. I tried to change myself so much when I first redecorated my room that I lost who I was, and I was too tired, buried in my black bed, to find myself again.

I still remember exactly what the day was like when I wanted to get better.  It was a Sunday, partly cloudy, and wonderfully cool. My parents had taken me out to go searching for our annual garden-fillers. I had been feeling better and I realized, arm deep in a palette of begonias, that I was happier here, in this public place, than I was in my own space, my sanctuary. I begged to change my walls, my bedspread, my curtains. I threw out those sun-blocking drapes and I never looked back. My walls changed to a soft blue, my curtains a soft, sheer white, and my bedspread was now covered in beautiful ivy, watercolor gray, soft and delicate and light, and complimenting all of the new plants that I could now grow in my room, from the same ivy on my bedspread to the dense and incredibly happy friendship plant that became so big I had to move it off of my window sill in only a few weeks.

I know that my depression was not cured by a change in décor, but I know that letting in a little light, having a space that comforted me, from the walls to the bedspread to the verdant guests on my window sill, helped me to let go of my depression and move on. I love to have people in my room, to let them see my plants and all of the books that make me happy, proudly displayed on the shelf. I love to settle myself in a space where I can work and be inspired by the art that hangs on my walls and the peace that I feel inside when I’m alone and the sun casts bright orange shapes on my white bed, and everything is bright, and everything is okay.