I have kept journals from the first time I felt an emo thought. I used them to vent in a way I thought was more healthy than holding all the teenage angst in. Each journal is a volume of ridiculousness following my melodramatic story.
My first journal starts around age 14 when my first month-long boyfriend gave me one for Christmas and then broke up with me a few weeks later. I wrote in that sucker every day contemplating the reason he did not loveth me anymoreth. Except I did it through poetry. Bad poetry from a heart broken 14 year old.
“I find myself drowning – in letters never written,
I let myself remember – kisses never given.”
What does that even mean?
Then there’s the journal in which I chronicled the drama of my 16 year old self’s relationship with a 25 year old. He loved me! He loved me not! (Illegally, I know.) The detailed scrawlings of our hours long phone calls, and the 13 break-ups we had over the course of a year.
I had a pager in that journal – I had forgotten all about those things.
“You attempt to romanticize my pain by reassuring me that you loved me at one time or another.”
Haha – I wasn’t lying – ridiculous.
I have a ‘not a girl-not yet a woman’ journal in which I grapple with how “mature I am” (ha) compared to other teenagers. There’s accounts of my struggle with sexual assault, self-image, the product of a four year long crush and contemplations of my future.
“Having to face the realities of my own bullshit just wasn’t enough for me. I have infinite words of frustration and confusion on the tip of my tongue.”
Are you traumatized yet?
Fast forward to the ‘Oh shit, I’m pregnant’ journal in which I fret over completely screwing up a tiny human being with my inadequacies as a soon-to-be mother. Also included are the first few months after my daughter’s birth with pages full of wonderment and shameless adorations of my love for her.
“I am a belly full of life and an undiscovered love. I am swollen with happiness and an unknown joy – yet simultaneously drowning in fear and self loathing. I fear I will fail as a mother. It is frightening to imagine an unselfish life but how BEAUTIFUL to imagine a whole made from two parts that share a love more infinite than any other feeling that presently resides.”
Last night I stumbled on my ‘widow’ journal – which I started 2 days after Mr. J passed away. It is crammed with drunken scribbles, poems, letters to him, confusion, disbelief, guilt, and love. There are inserted pages that I wrote on my typewriter. The whole thing is a pretty ugly project. I’ve never let anyone anywhere near it.
I’ve been pseudo blogging for 8 months now, and the one thing I rarely touch on here, and most times in my ‘real’ life, is the loss I faced. Partially because it is a part of my life that I am too afraid to share, and partially because the entire situation was such a clusterfuck, I never thought I’d be able to make sense of it out loud. In doing so though, I’ve kept myself from healing – and from sharing. I’ve taken away my own voice, which might not only help me, but possibly another person feeling the same way. Life isn’t always black and white. Neither is love. Neither is death.
“I still have not been thoroughly convinced he is gone – not sure if I ever will be. I know what I saw, but the hunt of even the possibility will either heal me, or one day commit me. Everywhere I go, everything I do. He’s there.”
Part of my plan for 2011 is to be a better human. In every sense – mentally, physically and spiritually. I need to face my hurt, and my demons – share my joy and utter hopes for the future. So, as this little site is my current journal – I’m going to be more open, going to share more.
For Christmas, my friend Andy bought me a new journal; bright red, leather, and completely empty. With a life so full of love and joy I can not wait to fill the pages.
To a new year!