Claire Donohue

College Essay

22 September 2020

Through the Eyes of an Artist

I laugh as I read this line from my old journal to my parents: “Everyone else looks

amazing and here I am with the flat, pancake-chest and the pregnant belly.” Their expressions

become muddled between humor and sorrow, an accurate depiction of the feelings hidden

beneath my slight grin. It is much easier to giggle at the silly words than to acknowledge the

utter despair stained onto the paper as bold as ink. When my mother says, “That’s sad, Claire,”

as if to ask, “Why are you laughing at your own misery?” I allow the reality of those words to

sink into my skin: I did not write them, my illness did.

I was diagnosed with Anorexia Nervosa in 2017. I spent my time on my feet and in my

head, running and counting how many crackers I was allowed to eat (12). A life-altering

catastrophe became synonymous with a bite of chocolate cake. The difference between me and

most eating disorder sufferers, however, is that I recognized that I had a problem, so I

immediately received help. Recovery was surprisingly smooth, and I spent two peaceful years

thinking I had won the war between my mind and body.

Unfortunately, I was proven wrong last fall after moving from Kentucky to Virginia.

Suddenly, thousands of miles separated me from my friends, my home, and my life. In a world

now so unrecognizable, my eating disorder was familiar. It offered me comfort in a time of

trepidation and acceptance in a community of comparison. Predictably, it lied, and as the air

grew colder, so did the relationship I had forged with myself. Watching myself crumble, it

became evident that 2020 would be an uphill battle, but I would fight until I reached the peak.
 Recovery perfectly embodies the worn-out sentiment, “Sometimes things get worse

before they get better.” The first few months of the new year consisted of countless therapy,

nutrition, and doctors’ appointments, along with the stresses of daily teenage life. Confronting

deeply-rooted fears five times a day and acting fine left me mentally depleted. I found myself in

shards before my mirror, unable to identify the irritable, hopeless, and miserable girl in the

reflection. Approaching my breaking point, I picked up a paintbrush.

I have always enjoyed art, but in middle school I grew more serious about it. I loved

being able to smudge my feelings on the paper, to wander and get lost in the way my pencil

blended or how the watercolors mingled into new hues. I sold my art to fundraise for a mission

trip, gifted it to friends, and turned it into poetry.

This year, however, art has become a piece of who I am. During recovery, I decided to

paint a portrait of my body. Using a grid ensured that dysmorphia could no longer mutate the

gentle curve of my stomach into a “pregnant belly” or my breasts into “pancakes.” Applying

abstract touches and stunning colors allowed me to finally perceive beauty in my supposed

imperfections. With each brushstroke and every canvas, I became lighter, finally able to breathe

again. The more I illustrated my insecurities, the more my perspective shifted. No longer was I

viewing myself through the eyes of comparison and judgement, but through the eyes of an artist;

no longer was I a body, but I was art.

Art has propelled me through my healing process, and it will continue to propel me

through life. It serves me as both a form of therapy and a means to communicate through

creation. I am constantly reminded that art is more than just paint on a canvas. It is more than a

pretty picture. Art has the power to change the world. And I hope that by pursuing a career in art,

I can help people begin to perceive themselves and others through the eyes of an artist— each

unique and a masterpiece.