I have boxes of journals. I have journals sitting on my bookshelves which are mostly blank. I have a journal I’ve been randomly scribbling in since 2003. I’ve been known to write on my refrigerators, mirrors, walls and doors. I have thoughts written on napkins, notebook pages, coupons, post-its, receipts and various other means randomly placed in my environment. It’s great when I come across them. Which is usually when I’m organizing my dresser drawers. I put a lot of these little nuggets in between my folded clothing. Safe and sound. Not to be found. Maybe that’s why I’m so attached to my clothing. My soul steeping amongst the textiles.
I am a lifelong journaled person. I inherited the craft from my great grandmother along with an insatiable thirst for Hollywood biographies. I’ve had this particular blog since 2008. I’d written so many posts but sadly deleted most of them a few years ago. Luckily I didn’t get to the journals, papers and a match. Nor, thankfully, did I own a fire pit at the time. Although I did think of the kitchen sink….. I’m glad I stopped myself.
Why would I do that?
I went through this period where everything was dreamlike. Going through the motions. I had so much shit going on that I felt like I was going to burst through my skull. Prior to that I had an ex go through every one of my journals like a demonic proofreader. He actually wrote notes in the margins, blacked stuff out, re-worded sentences and if there was room he wrote rebuttals. I’ve never in my life felt so violated. But the damage was done. Since then there have been countless times I’ve sat, pen poised over paper, frozen and crying, unable to commit anything to paper. And wouldn’t you know that fucker still tries to friend me on FaceBook once a year.
That single act locked me in a bubble where I truly believed that I had to keep myself and creativity close to heart. It was a final nail in the coffin of my relationship with trust. Which was already gravely injured from years of emotionally irresponsible people floating in and out of my life.
And in this bubble I lived for years until one day I’d had enough. I didn’t want to be on the planet and not enjoy it. I started to go to a psychologist. I started weeding unhealthy relationships out of my life. I started to accept myself and my past. I took the time to get to know me. I started to seek out what scares me instead of running away from it. It wasn’t easy and I’m not done but I do know this:
Recently I have hit a creative streak like no other I’ve known in my life. I’m writing again. I’m sewing again. I’m taking photos again. I’m drawing again. I’m wearing more of my clothing. I’m not hiding. I’m not scared to put myself out there anymore. I feel free and I feel happy. I missed being comfortable enough with myself to be myself.
I feel sorry for that lost girl but maybe it’s better that she remains buried. And maybe there will be a time where she comes out. I do believe we all are different incarnations of ourselves throughout the span of our lives and that each of these characters makes us up as a whole person. And that whole person is what makes each of us unique.
I wish that I had all of the writings I got rid of so that I could read them as my current self. But what’s done is done and if there ever is a next time that I spiral out of control (nobody’s perfect) not only will I stay away from the matches but I’ll shy away from the delete button too!