Holy Freak

There's this conditioner that I started using 7 or 8 months ago.  It's one of Herbal Essence's Naked collection things.  It has a pump so it lasted me longer than conditioner usually does.  So long that the bottle made it's way to Tennessee with me.  But then it started to run out to the point that you couldn't pump but you could swipe your finger in it to get some out.  So I bought new conditioner, and they didn't have the pump kind so I got the regular kind and it has a slightly different scent.  I started using only the new one but kept the old one around because I knew there was still some in there that I could get out on a morning when I wasn't rushed.  I finally got around to scooping some out and realized that the scent brought me straight back to Provo circa February 2014.  It wasn't a good place.

Today I opened up my art box.  I was looking for paint to make some signs.  In the box I found my art journal.  I started it in February.  Opening it... freak.  The smell.  The words.

I was a freaking mess.  How did anyone in Provo put up with me?  Why did no one push me to go to therapy?  All I did was listen to The Weepies and cry.  And try not to throw up.  It was cold and dark and I didn't like it.

I don't fully believe that in order to know joy we must know pain.  Just as I don't believe that the presence of broccoli makes me realize how good chocolate tastes.  But there really is something to be said about where I am now and where I was then.  The juxtaposition between looking through the box for paint to make something out of my joy and finding the way that
I handled my misery.  Part of me thought, "burn it" as soon as I saw the book.  And yet another part of me thought, "hold on to this--the chances it'll be that bad again are dismal, and this will remind you of that."