The Swear Jar

I got off the phone with my sister around 12:05 PM. My sister is eight years older than I am and lives further south, off the coast. Most people say we look alike. Some have gone as far as to say we're twins. I don't really see much of a resemblance but I guess that's because I'm not really looking at our physical traits. I guess I don't see the resemblance because we are completely different people, even though we're sisters. We're close, as close as sisters are, but we don't really know much about each other.

We don't usually talk much, but lately we had been texting a lot. I decided to go down the coast for a visit, so I called her up to let her know I'd be driving down that afternoon after work. She seemed psyched to hang out and even made plans to go out to dinner at my favourite Chinese place. I was psyched too. Mostly for the drive. Driving relaxes me, although I do "suffer" from road rage. But there really isn't anything as perfect as driving down the coast, listening to your favourite music.

When I got down there, my sister was still at work which meant I'd have to wait until she got home. I decided to wait for her at the coffee shop across the street. I walked in and memories rushed back in from when I used to live down there. Happy memories mixed with sad memories fuelled my depression that day. I sat down and asked for some coffee. I lit a cigarette and tried not to let myself get flooded by the memories that hit me when I crossed the threshold of the coffee shop.

I looked around as if I was stuck in some kind of time warp. Every little thing looked the same as it was years ago. Except for one thing: there was a swear jar at the counter. It sparked my curiosity so I asked the owner what that was about. The owner told me that he put the swear jar there to work as a sort of tip jar. He told me that the typical tip jar always got "forgotten" but the sewer jar... well, the swear jar was magic! He told me that, at first, he thought people would tell him to fuck off if he made them put money in the swear jar. But they found it fair and quite appropriate. So, anyone who swears will have to drop twenty cents in the swear jar. It's a tip jar that keeps people civil, he told me.

Eventually, my sister got home. I waited for her about an hour. The swear jar stuck to my mind. I asked her if she ever had to drop money in the swear jar - she told me she doesn't go there often. I wondered if that meant "yes" or "no".

Since we were going out to dinner, my sister decided to dress up. She listened to Madonna while doing her makeup. It took me back to when we were teenagers. Except this time, I was still and wasn't dressing up. I'm just not a girly-girl anymore. I watched her get ready and expressed my opinion - "Yes, yes. You look great". She finally decided she was presentably hot, and we made our way to the restaurant.

We talked about how much fun we used to have, how I am no longer a "fun" person. She doesn't get depression. It latches on. It takes over. It twists you up inside but you can't feel anything. Everything loses colour, sounds get distorted, anxiety sets in. It's crippling, and you exhaust yourself just trying to keep it together day in and day out. But she doesn't get it. No one does. Depression is like a ghost scratching at the back of your head. But she doesn't know what that's like, so she doesn't understand. I just let her talk and just agree with her. I tell her I grew up and like different things now. It's not true, but she finds the answer acceptable and changes the subject. We drink wine, talk about boys, have coffee, pay the check, leave a tip (no swear jar available) and go home.

That night I slept like a baby. When I woke up I couldn't remember if I had any dreams which is unusual because I always have strange dreams which wake me up during the night. I smile... and stay in bed for a few minutes longer just savouring those few happy seconds when you wake up and depression hasn't set in yet. I get up and get ready to make my way back up north. My sister makes some breakfast but I just have a piece of toast. I thank her for the nice evening and the nice chat, grab my overnight bag and walk out the door.

As I walk out of the building, I think about how I try to connect with her but don't really know how to let anyone in. Is it because it would be pointless? Is it because I don't know who I am? Or is it because I hate myself? I'm not quite sure... maybe it's all those little things. I put those thoughts out of my mind and found myself back at the coffee shop. I decided to have coffee. As I bring that nice fresh cup of black coffee deliciousness, I burn my tongue and I yell - FUCK! I felt the quiet stares quietly trying to make out my next move. I reached into my pocket and dropped twenty cents in the swear jar. As soon as I did that, the coffee shop was alive with sounds again - background noise - and I finished my cup of coffee (after blowing it a few times to cool it down).

As I drove back home I kept thinking about that damned swear jar and how it became such a big part of a place I used to be part of too. The swear jar seemed more relevant than I ever was. I felt small, but I smiled. Sometimes, people don't matter as much. Sometimes, what brings people together and has them interacting is more important.