PILLEY: An exercise in gratitude

“I think it’s more of an exercise in gratitude,” Ali said. We were at Speak for Yourself, the spoken word poetry group I’m in, and someone had pointed out how sad the writing prompt about saying goodbye was. Ali reassured us that it was not meant to be a sad prompt.

I immediately wrote about my childhood dog, Jazmine, who is now sick with cancer. I wanted to thank her for all the times she sat next to me in the car as I shuttled from my mom’s house to my dad’s house and back, for the times she slept next to me even though I was a brat. All the times she was blissfully unaware that she made me feel less alone. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” I scribbled into my notebook as we finished up our poems, each eager to listen and share. “Exercise in gratitude” echoed in my head as I walked away from the meeting that night. I had a lot to be thankful for.

These past four months have arguably been the worst four months of my life. I spent the first month of the semester feeling disassociated entirely from the world around me, from the Boston I once loved. “I need to find my sea legs,” I told myself over and over. I kept waiting for the day that everything would click and I would suddenly want to resume my life again. I’ll spare you the details, but I have never felt such overwhelming and paralyzing sadness in my entire life. I eventually got help and bit-by-bit I have gotten better — I’m still getting better.

Hardship is a tricky thing. I found myself more reserved, less involved, less me than ever. I only wanted to sit in my room and not interact with anyone. I wrote column after column about beliefs I held with fierce intensity but that I couldn’t seem to grasp anymore. Care, kindness, confidence, embracing yourself — all things I thought made up a good life. All constructing an image of who I wanted to be, who I used to be. My actual life was far from this.

We so quickly hide our struggles on social media, in our day-to-day interactions, in our columns, in a foolish attempt at thinking that things will just get better on their own. The people who love us most see through this, while they also know admitting you need help is a battle within itself. Getting better is a journey you have to start yourself, but you’re not in it alone.

I think now of all of the people who I love and who love me, “in-the-know” or not. All of the ways we care for each other from extra long hugs to dumb jokes to encouraging words to refills of coffee. My support net spans states and time zones, and I can’t feel anything other than grateful. The kind of grateful that sits in your chest, chokes in your mouth. I didn’t know how to tell my roommates that they helped me keep darkness at bay or my friends that their laughter made me feel normal or my dad that his reassuring words helped me get out of bed or my mom that every time she answered the phone, I felt like I could breathe again. To them, I owe every word written, every shower taken, every assignment completed, every beautiful day spent feeling just a little bit more than okay.

My struggle is not unique. We all face different battles more nuanced and difficult than the last. You can never truly know someone else’s pain. Maybe that’s why I write about believing in kindness so fiercely, caring so deeply. It’s because I know the importance of a good friend when you need one. The voice that saves you from impending doom with a simple, “Hey, want to get breakfast?” or “Can I call you in five?” These small acts of friendship are anchors, pulling me out of a spiral and back into the person I want to be.

So reach out, send that extra text, invite that extra person, check up on the people you love. It’s lame and it’s cliché, but you never know the weight your actions could carry.

We are who we surround ourselves with. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.