Everything I Loved

The most important things in life aren’t things. But sometimes they are.

I wasn’t going to write anything about sadness or bad things that happened to me; I don’t want to be a “complainer” or someone who brags about how hard they have it. The truth? My life is easy. My life is wonderful. Seriously, I have not had to deal with half the things many I know have had to go through. 

But sometimes sad things happen, and I am learning more about this person I am living with—myself—and I know I was meant to write. Maybe I was in charge of golden scrolls in Heaven (sorry super weird), but writing calms and comforts me like running does for some people. Maybe that’s why I’m not fit; I chose to write. And nap and stuff.

Now to the sad story.

After 12 hours of sweatpants, gas stations, tow trucks, and the slow-baked heat of the West highways, I got to my apartment after dark on Sunday.

Backstory: The ceiling above my apartment room fell through because of some leak or water damage. All I knew was my stuff was damaged and everything I owned was piled in some room somewhere.

Walking over dusty concrete floors and giant fans, I found my way to my room—or ex-room—and saw nothing. Just nothing. (Yes I’m really building this story up stay with me). I won’t go into everything, but just put on an episode of Hoarders and throw in that smell from those creepy Febreze commercials (minus the Febreze) and you have my situation. Most of my stuff is fine. A lot got wet.

The maps on my walls are no longer there—the first of many symbolic disasters in that room. You can figure that one out. 

But I never knew how much I loved books until yesterday. Because that was the sad part—a library of books morphed and wavy, folded and drenched by the flood. A library of books I marked and underlined, hoping one day to put in my own bookcase in my own home. I am more sad about the memories of the books—I know I will buy the books and read them again, and that may be the blessing out of all this, but I also know now that books are much more than ink and binding and words. Words are so much more. I cried more for the memories of learning from those specific books than I did about the books themselves.

The books were the first things I went to, and in the mess of books I grabbed one—a faded red notebook.

I was 16 years old when I wrote my first letter to him—my future husband. Since then, I’ve written letters to some magic mysterious him. I wrote about my days, my hopes about who he could be, my dates, and yes, even my crushes. I wrote about the things I had to offer and the things I wanted from him. I told him how much I loved him even though I had never met him. (Yeah I got crazy with this book). I gave my heart to him in writing, and five years of it displayed different attitudes and handwritings and experiences.

Yesterday, I held five years of childishness and naivety and romance and pink and hope and hope and hope in my hands. I held five years inside a flattened notebook, flooded and steeped.  For some reason, this drenched, destroyed notebook was a metaphor or clairvoyant forecast for my life: You don’t need that notebook, Jenna. You don’t have anyone to give it to. And you never will. (Wow dramatic I know) And recently, my thoughts have mocked me too: everyone has someone, keep writing dating blogs, you're so...fun. Just travel the world, go get your Master's, oh being alone is so...fun. 

Being empty handed showed me that I really just felt empty hearted. 

I piled up what I needed and moved to South Jordan, where my grandparents recently finished a brand new home. They're letting me stay there for the next few weeks until this apartment gets finished. I cried a little on the ride there and started telling my mom that I have no reason to be sad. 

"My life is so great—I don't need to be crying over little things like this. I am alive and I haven't had any hardships and this is so small." 

In the middle of my rant, Mom says, “You know what? It’s OK to be sad. Something really sad just happened, and you can’t discredit that. It doesn’t matter if you don’t have cancer or some tragic thing. Your sadness is still important and it still matters.”

So even if I'm empty handed, empty hearted, I am never empty. I feel like I've learned so much this past year and I need to write down everything. I owe it to the lessons I've learned to remember them. The most important things in life are more than what happened to me. This really wasn't a big deal. But it also was. Some of the books I picked up had almost ironic titles: The God Who Weeps, Les Miserables, and Finding Peace in Our Lives. I like the last one the best.