The desire to write wanes from time to time, my heart and head do not understand each other and I find I am without many words in which to express myself.
Then of course, the space in between the words, all at once blank and I find I’m searching for what I thought about two, three weeks ago. How was I feeling then? What kept me from writing?
During the last month or so, writing has not been my solitude, rather, reading my past journals has. Well, solitude isn’t exactly the right word for this exercise – more like painful, embarrassing silence. You ever read that cheap little journal you once had back in 9th grade? Try reading it. Chances are, you’ll slither under your current karma as I have.
Big chunks of time and I couldn’t find enough lines in my journal to write on. My marriage, wow, such insight, more denial, little behavioral changes. I wanted to change – no, not necessarily change. I wanted to love and devote myself to my husband so deeply, the similar pattern was evident most of our years married. My feelings, philosophy of marriage, the paradox of how I was living my life. I was determined to make life work the way I thought it was supposed to work.
Other big chunks of time, I couldn’t muster the energy to write. Blank pages at the end of 2002…..why??? Where was I then? What happened in the next chapter of my story? Those pages stare at me, I can no longer fill in the blanks, as time has moved a record speed and I am forced to deal with the here and now.
There are a few more journals left to peruse. Staggering in one sense, the signs of depression more clear than I recall, joyful in another; my children, always the light of my life, even when babies, the crying, teething, the tantrums and school days: the thread of love for them continues evolving to this day. I am grateful to have written with the happiness I felt. It was all real. It still is.
Mostly though, I now have this, right here, a new voice, a new place, my own place of discovery. Years from now, I’ll look back, read as I’ve read from past journals, slither a time or two at my cheesy expressions, poetic wanna-be language and Hallmark quips. That is absolutely cool with me. For if not me writing about me, my life, who then?
Get over yourself, C. Just keep writing. And so it goes…..