This hutch has a certain sentimental value to me. This is the hutch that got me started with Annie Sloan chalk paint in the beginning of this year. It started harmless. The funny thing is that it started because I didn't have the money for new furniture, but my living room was in dire need for a make over, and this piece was so ugly and damaged that I wanted to toss it and replace it with something new.
However, money was an issue. But with a living room full of adorably shaped furniture, painting furniture came to mind. A quick research online, and I learned that Annie Sloan chalk paint was exactly what I needed. No sanding required, the people online said it was the best paint ever. Easy to use.
Mind you, I was never one of the crafty sort. Crafting actually used to give me severe anxiety attacks. So I ordered my first set of Annie Sloan chalk paint from "The Shabby Shed" and started on a dark evening in January.
This piece was ugly as the night. So given it had the highest urgency for some make over and was also a "nothing to lose" kinda piece, dark scratched oak with doors, I started taking out the doors and the hardware and filing up the holes from the hardware with wood filler. And than I started painting...
A few days later, I couldn't trust my eyes. Did I really create this?! Me, the adamant non crafty, non creative person who blocked off all attempts of friends and family to get me into whatever kind of creativity? Seriously?
That was the moment my addiction was born. From that moment on, nothing was safe anymore from my paintbrush. And my house started to change more and more by the week. Given I work during the week, I have only the weekends to paint (can't deny that I did a few rounds of painting at 3am in the beginning, though), but aside from my house changing, it also had a great side effect: it was extremely relaxing. Exactly what I needed, going through a rather tough time. But the painting was what grounded me. It was like meditation, and I'd find myself grabbing my painting supplies whenever I was stressed.
And my house more and more became like the cozy place like I wanted it to be. It finally became a home. With every stroke of the paintbrush, more bad memories were erased. The house didn't look anymore like when the trauma took place. It looked brighter, airier, more cheery. And this helped some nasty memories to fade.
At this point, I can hardly remember the old set up anymore. Which is a good thing. Plus, I was finally good at something, so it helped my self esteem on top of it. I painted the past away.
