When I was thirteen I started collecting pennies.
There was nothing particularly fascinating about the small, bronze coins. They were often dented around the edges and so dirty that the engraved year was no longer legible. On top of that, they were essentially worthless. They were only small, invaluable tokens found sitting idle on sidewalks or submerged deep in dusty coat pockets. But for some reason, I was drawn to them.
I'd often heard the expression "a penny for your thoughts" and wondered to myself why on earth anyone would want to receive such a meaningless item in exchange for sharing their ideas. If pennies were indeed worthless, why would anyone want them at all?
One day in late September I was sitting with one of my closest friends. She spent hours explaining her hopeless devotion to a boy who didn't even know of her existence. I nodded my head and offered advice, acknowledging the validity of her issues. When she had finally finished her soliloquy of hopelessness, she offered a gentle smile and placed something in the palm of my hand. A small copper coin. It was here that I began to follow my own figure of speech: "a penny and your thoughts."
Oh, what a brilliant idea! I first thought. Who wouldn't love to get rid of pesky change while getting advice and support? My original thoughts of pennies had been altered. They were now tokens of gratitude that I received for the simple act of listening. I figured that one day, if I saved up enough, all my pennies might amount to something extraordinary.
I began my collection.
It started with just one friend. I'd listen to her troubles and earn pennies in return. I'd keep them all clutched tightly in my palm where the smell of warm zinc wafted up to my head, making me take long dizzy sighs. At first, she only spoke about the boy. But gradually, things began to change.
She talked about how she would never be happy if she couldn't be with him.
She talked about how she was so upset without him that she couldn't bear to leave the house.
She talked about how she was sinking into a steady depression.
She talked about how it felt to not be able to breath.
She talked about how there was no point in getting out of bed in the morning.
She talked about how she was losing the will to live.
Before I knew it, I had enough pennies to fill both pockets of my pants.
So I bought a jacket.
In November I joined social media. I spent a lot of time looking at funny animal videos and five minute crafts, just trying to entertain myself. But one day, I came upon the image of a teenage girl whose arms were decorated in an endless array of slashes and cuts. Baffled by her appearance, I reached out to her. Why are you doing this to yourself? What is the matter? Eventually, she responded.
She told me about the abuse she suffered as a young child.
She told me about her father's drinking problem.
She told me about her parents divorce.
She told me about her best friend's suicide.
I took it all in with consoling words and offered up my support. Oh, I can't imagine what that's like! I would say solemnly. You're so strong, you can push through this! In exchange for my words of encouragement, she gave me a handful of pennies.
But there was still more room in my jacket.
It didn't take long for me to reach out to many other individuals in similar states and ask them what the cause of their sadness was. For hours I sat on my phone and listened to endless tales of physical trauma and sexual abuse and mental disorders. I spoke with girls who starved themselves, who cut themselves, who sought no one out for help.
No one but me. The girl with the pennies.
My jacket pockets had long been filled. I'd stuck coins in my shoes and hidden them in my hair. I'd placed them underneath my tongue where they threatened to slip down my throat and choke the very voice that had warranted the small payment. I taped pennies to my eyelids, both which now hung low and tainted my under eyes with shadows of darkness. With every step my body swayed from left to right due to the weight of hundreds of pennies all kept on my person. I could hardly stand.
Inevitably, I collapsed.
Falling into a heavy heap on the ground, I watched helplessly as the pennies all rolled away from me with high pitched clanks and clunks. Scrabbling I tried to corral them in my arms and pull them back into the safety of my arms. I didn't want to let any single one of them go. This was my payment! These were my pennies! These were my problems!
These were my problems.
It was this phrase that brought me pause. These were not my problems. There was nothing to suggest that they were. They were only small bronze tokens. These were the physical representations of others' gratitude towards me! But that simply was not the case. Unwillingly, I admitted that I wasn't paid to listen to their issues. I was paid to take them. To adopt them as my own. As I lifted from them the burden of carrying spare change, I also took on the burden of their immense problems which dragged me down until my breaking point.
I sat and turned away from the pennies on the pavement. For the first time in awhile, I looked at myself.
My body was battered and bruised. My ribs poked through as hunger ate through my stomach. My arms were pale against bright lines of scarlet.
A penny and your thoughts.
Who knew thoughts could be so heavy.
I don't collect pennies anymore.