Some time ago, on some birthday, maybe in high school, Val gifted me a "Happy Jar." The Happy Jar is filled with scraps of paper of memories of ours. Many movie quotes, phrases that were said during times we hung out that, instantly upon reading them, make me laugh and take me back to that very moment. It was one of the best gifts I've ever received. I pick up the Happy Jar from time to time and read through them. It doesn't really matter my mood when I pick it up: I know I'll go through it and come out of it feeling nostalgic. Sad with sprinklings of gratitude for the best friendship. 

I think of Val putting this gift together. Laughing to herself as she's writing down these little memories on the scraps of paper (our handwriting is so similar!). I love the idea of putting together a Happy Jar for two people. Sometimes I wish I could do it for the world. A Happy Jar to go looking for when times are hard and even when they're not. When times are hard in life and when times are not hard in life, that's the greatest challenge, isn't it? To go in search of the stuff that fills us up even when we don't think we need it. 

I forget to reflect when things are seemingly good, when things are "great." I forget to honor the life I've been given: what has changed, what hasn't changed, what I've been through, what I haven't been through. I forget to add to my own Happy Jar. And then when things are "bad" I'm on empty, starting from square one, back to the beginning of the race, with no idea how to jumpstart my own healing process. But if I didn't just ride the wave of the seemingly good, I'd have these scraps to carry with me through the seemingly bad. 

I think about healing far too often because, as I've mentioned in another post, I am obsessed with assigning times to challenges. When I'm sick, I google how long the flu typically lasts. At work, I love deadlines. I time my workouts. I'm disappointed in myself if I don't reach 60 minutes (I'm working on it, ok?)

And so, emotional healing is something I'm fascinated by. Time does not exist here; not even an approximate one. I am an empath and a highly sensitive person. When people I care for go through a hard time, their healing process becomes a top priority inside of my mind. Because I do not have a timeline for them, I create lists in my mind: check on them, talk to them, will they need to do this? Will they need to do that? How are they? I hope they reach healing soon. But the truth is, this is their own Jar to fill. Their own Jar they will fill, in time, unknown to me. 

Naturally, we are all committed to filling the Happy Jars of the ones we love. We won't ever fill it without the help of the person it belongs to. In due time, we'll add our own scraps. I've created a separate jar because of Val's gift, it's called my Jar of Honor. In it, I've added scraps of moments of sadness, like a day I felt completely inferior to the world around me. I've also added scraps of motivation, to hold me accountable to aspirations I've had, like publishing a chapbook of poetry. I also added scraps filled with friends going through something, like depressive episodes or moments of being burned out. 

I'll open my Jar of Honor when things are seemingly great and when things are bad. It will serve as a reminder of the ingredients of my life. The ebb and flow. The stuff that makes it worthwhile, and rather beautiful. It won't sit next to my Happy Jar, but it will be just as important. I hope the world fills both of theirs, in whatever form their jars come in, in whatever name they choose to give it. 

"The world spins. We stumble on. It is enough." 

Time is of the essence, even though I often pretend like it isn't. As I get older, I reflect on how time has changed the way I think about things. Perspectives can alter our judgements, of course, and perspectives change, as you get older. Wiser, maybe. 

There's so much talk about self-care now. Maybe social media has made us even more aware of it. Maybe that's a good thing, but maybe it isn't always a good thing. I remember being in college when the topic of self-care and mental health really became less of an afterthought and more of an entrance and an exit into any conversation. About work, school, about life. I chose grace so often, trying to practice what was swarming my news feed. And then I found that too much grace held me back, that it impeded the very act of what self-care was supposed to do: make me better. 

I'm no stranger to struggles with mental health. This time of year, I become so aware of it because my past taught me to be incredibly self-aware of it. Time has shown me that there isn't a one size fits all when it comes to self-care with mental health struggles, and I worry that the internet indeed paints it this way. This past year alone has taught me that I can no longer surrender to the prescriptions that articles and social media fill for us. I have to concoct my own recipe or I will have a hand in my own disaster. And this is very much what I want to avoid. 

For me, it isn't useful to slow down. It isn't productive or helpful for me to succumb to slowing down. When I see the darkness of my past struggles and old worst days begin to find placement in my body like a familiar virus, I have to speed up. I have to tell myself to get up. To get with it. To learn something new, to listen to an educational podcast, to go for a walk, to dance to music in my living room at midnight, to cook myself a healthy meal, to sweat for an hour (or two) at the gym, or to pour my entire being into my work. This is how I self-care. And for the last year, it has worked. Self-care, for me, is keeping busy. Self-care, for me, is holding myself accountable. Holding myself to a higher standard. It's convincing myself that I run faster than whatever is trying to chase me. 

I've had flashbacks of a COVID 2020 quarantine this past week. I worked from home all week due to construction at work. I tried to be optimistic about it. I reasoned with myself: I won't be as depressed as I was during quarantine because I can go places. I can sleep in. I can go to bed a little bit later. I can play with my routine. I was wrong. I was foggy all week. I dragged myself out of bed and I dragged myself to the gym, which is my favorite outlet after I leave work. I was drained, for no reason at all. From working, sure, but otherwise, from doing nothing. This made me realize I need routine. I need challenge. I need to be aware of my needs in stimulating environments so that I can continue to fulfill them. I was mixing my home, my sanctuary, with my work. I was slowing down. I needed to speed up. 

As I write this, I continue to reflect on my college days, and even before. My days as a teenager when I carried loads of darkness on my back and could never figure out how to get rid of it. When it became a topic of conversation, I thought I finally had the answers. Do this, not that. Slow down. Breathe. Take time for yourself. This ultimately left me standing completely still without any direction, any hold on my struggles. I was still beating around the bush, wondering why, if we're all aware of it now, why all this advice isn't working for me like it's working for everyone else. I realize now it's because the information we seek, though readily available, doesn't mean it's going to fit us, as individuals. It's just like when I was in 10th grade and Googled: "how long does it take to get over a broken heart" and whatever answers came up had very little to do with my actual healing time. Self-care isn't a one size fits all. I'd like to request a return for a complete refund on what they've fed us and instead, write my own prescription. 

I think back to 2019. When my best friend in the entire world passed away. I go through the emotions of how it felt losing her often. That pain, it still stings the same. I cradle it now. I sit with it and I allow it to sit with me. I ask myself questions like: "What would she say to me if she were here?" "Would she be proud of the person I have become?" I have become the kind of person, in part, that we both needed when we were younger. That maybe we wished we were. I let strength take the reigns, but I also let vulnerability have its moments. Both are equally as important. 

Something in me has changed. Maybe it's because of grief, maybe it's because of growing up, maybe it's because it just simply had to. I think back to 14-year old me. I sat in darkness most of the time. I unraveled not so much in fear, but in hate, and in exhaustion. I defend myself from fear because this is so often what naysayers rely on, the idea of fear. People with mental illnesses aren't drowning in fear; I, at least, drowned not in the unknown, but in what I did know: and what I didn't like of what I knew. I grew out of it, yes, I have learned much about life. Maybe, again, it's because of grief, or perhaps even other experiences that have brought me to hold onto the light so much longer than the darkness.

Something has changed, indeed. For years, perhaps two decades of my life, I tripped over insecurities, sadness, unrequitedness, hate for myself, and quite honestly: hate for others. I tripped over it, swallowed it whole, and dined on it. I numbed it with blending in with the background, silencing every inch of myself to try and feel what others were seemingly feeling: satisfaction. And then I lost my biggest cheerleader. The one person who fed off of my personality. I think after years of numbing, of self-medicating, and then losing someone so instrumental in my life, and self-medicating all over again, I entered my own renaissance. A renaissance of change, of allowing myself to sit wholly within myself, to feel who I am, to somewhat accept these pieces of me, to somewhat accept that sometimes I'm cracked open and it doesn't feel good, but trusting myself enough to know that it will feel good enough. Something has changed. I sit, I conquer, I move on. 

Val has been gone for 5 years. That's 5 years of not wanting anyone to replace her. That's five years of jealousy when I see two best friends talking about their love for each other or acting it out. Five years of hearing best friends complain about their best friends. That's 5 years of waking up some days and asking myself if I forgot what her voice sounds like, or the feeling of her ashy yet baby-skin soft cheeks. That's five years of remembering where her birthmark fell on her leg. Five years of missing the girl who told me I was the prettiest girl in the room one drunken night at a club and knowing I'd never hear that kind of crazy compliment again. 

It's five years of this and that. God, I remember everything. My memory is a fault. Maybe. I miss her so much it sends a shock through my system when I say the word "why" out loud about anything, anything at all. I want to tell the world about her and tell them it's OK: I'm OK, let me talk about her. Let me unravel my thoughts. Let me word vomit all the things the girl too good for this world for was. Let me do it, I will be ok! 

It's 5 years of now knowing. Now knowing, something has changed. That Val saved my life. She saved me. She pushed me to be exactly who I am today. She saved me from myself. From whoever the darkest moment of my life had formed me into, she changed me. I just wish I could have saved her too. Us, saving each other from ourselves, together. I miss her. 

Five years have gone by. I haven't forgotten anything. I just forget to say thank you, sometimes. Thank you for not making me sit. But I would still take it all back to sit with you one last time. 

Something has changed. The brevity of dreams, of cold comfort for change. I rely on that now. And it's ok. 

I miss you. I'm ok. Thank you.