When I was in middle and high school I kept journals in spiral notebooks. I filled them with lots of poetry, mostly angst-ridden and hostile stuff, lists of my imperfections according to others, and letters to people explaining why I did what I had planned to do.
I still have some of those notebooks. When I open their yellowed pages it's painful to relive those memories. There's that saying about time being a great healer but I'm not so sure about that.
Certain moments you take, burrow down deep, and try to keep buried. I don't know if you ever really forget those times when you were hurt so viciously and purposely by people close to you. You may not dwell on them daily but those memories still exist.
Writing what I do is part of the freeing element of those younger years when I was all wrong. Then, I had to keep my writing hidden under the bottom drawer of my desk.
Now, I write freely at a venue that anyone could stumble across, if they knew where to look. It's dangerous to be so open when at any time those parental figures could find and read this. I'd love to be able to say to my parents that I write this thing called a blog, people read it, and some of them even enjoy it and look forward to my new posts.
I'd love to say that to them, but I won't.
The reality is that they wouldn't read this because they think this writing of mine is silly, frivolous, and stupid. They travel the world wide web only to snare information about Las Vegas, Iraq, and my siblings. They wouldn't dare search for anything that has to do with multiple sclerosis or with me.
Maybe that's okay. You can't change people or the past.
I can expose my messy stuff to the light of computer monitors. I can write and not hide it, even though I don't post my real name (or my picture anymore). I still have journals which I hope no one reads because I was fairly wild for years after I left my wasband and waited for my divorce to be final (and for several years after that).
I have a personality that is somewhat bent on self-destruction. Growing up in their atmosphere led to the belief that I had to find a way to disappear.
Years later I can now see that I don't have to cease to exist because someone else isn't happy with me. I can just pick up a pen or type away on a keyboard and let myself come pouring out. I don't have to hurt myself or change myself because I'm all wrong.
I may not be perfect, and there are parts of me that I want to change, but I am not all wrong. I'm just not anymore.
Certain moments you take, burrow down deep, and try to keep buried. I don't know if you ever really forget those times when you were hurt so viciously and purposely by people close to you. You may not dwell on them daily but those memories still exist.
Writing what I do is part of the freeing element of those younger years when I was all wrong. Then, I had to keep my writing hidden under the bottom drawer of my desk.
Now, I write freely at a venue that anyone could stumble across, if they knew where to look. It's dangerous to be so open when at any time those parental figures could find and read this. I'd love to be able to say to my parents that I write this thing called a blog, people read it, and some of them even enjoy it and look forward to my new posts.
I'd love to say that to them, but I won't.
The reality is that they wouldn't read this because they think this writing of mine is silly, frivolous, and stupid. They travel the world wide web only to snare information about Las Vegas, Iraq, and my siblings. They wouldn't dare search for anything that has to do with multiple sclerosis or with me.
Maybe that's okay. You can't change people or the past.
I can expose my messy stuff to the light of computer monitors. I can write and not hide it, even though I don't post my real name (or my picture anymore). I still have journals which I hope no one reads because I was fairly wild for years after I left my wasband and waited for my divorce to be final (and for several years after that).
I have a personality that is somewhat bent on self-destruction. Growing up in their atmosphere led to the belief that I had to find a way to disappear.
Years later I can now see that I don't have to cease to exist because someone else isn't happy with me. I can just pick up a pen or type away on a keyboard and let myself come pouring out. I don't have to hurt myself or change myself because I'm all wrong.
I may not be perfect, and there are parts of me that I want to change, but I am not all wrong. I'm just not anymore.
5 comments:
Hi Weeble! I have been keeping a spiral notebook journal since about 1999 to collect my health issues. For some reason, I have kept them all, and they came in handy recently when I had to compile loads of paperwork for disability. I was able to go back in time to capture all the dirty details of my health decline over the years. Unfortunately, going back and re-reading all these journals was incredibly depressing. But I was also amazed at how I continued to work and function through all the miserable feelings, discomfort, and deep depressions.
I'm glad I maintained a written record of my health history, but I really don't want to ever read them again. I need to look and move forward. I'm still working on that...
Joan, I also have done the same thing with all my health issues. Started it out in a journal and then went to a full-on binder which houses all my test results and appointment info.
I've found this to be a valuable tool as I visit different doctors. I also keep sheets for major doctor appointments listing my current meds, any changes since my last visit, and my current concerns.
Maybe I should blog about that one of these days! LOL
Thanks again for stopping by to read and comment. It's so nice to feel connected to others through this cyber world of words.
Weebs
I too have kept notebooks for years.
It is so strange to me but I can always find a way to say, "You are beautiful and worthy just the way you are," it's just much harder to say to myself. Neverthless, I will say to you, "There is nothing wrongbmnmirz with you and there never was. You are truly amazing just the way you are."
Wow. I'm really sorry it took me so long to get over here, being terminally lazy can really be a drag. I enjoy your attitude and writing. I think we could be friends. I love the term "wasband" so true and I too gave up trying to be what others wanted me to be.
Thanks again for all the comments. It's nice to know I'm not alone in my feelings!
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