I’ve been relatively good at keeping my journals for the past ten years. With the exception of 2 I lost. Which I’m bummed about because it documents the loneliness I felt after I had moved into my last apartment. 10 years of journals meant I had documentation of my three rapes. 10 years of journals meant I wasn’t crazy and it had happened. 10 years of journals document my meeting my biological father and closing the chapter on trying to establish a relationship. 10 years is the ever so long accounts of my mothers emotionally abusive ways and my families way of scapegoating me.
Why did I keep them so long?
Partly, to establish I wasn’t crazy and that it had happened. That I did meet my sister with the same name as me.(Whom I don’t like) That I did stay 7 years too long with an abusive man, that I did finally put an end to an emotionally abusive friendship that went on for way too long. Through these diaries I documented my uncertainties, my fears, my loneliness, my rage, my guilt. I talk about my feelings following an abortion, about my distrust of men, and my wondering if things would ever get better.
I keep them in a cool suitcase from the 60’s and it sits on the top shelf of my closet. The thought of what do I do with them has finally come up after I started working on the decoration of my apartment and utilizes every space I have effectively. I started to wonder if my diaries were wasted space and if they had served their purpose. What did I want to do with this information now? Did I want to make a book? Did I want to post them on this blog? Did I want to burn them as a celebration that I made it past this difficult time in my life? Did I need further proof that I wasn’t crazy and that all of this really happened? I don’t know how to answer this.
I have experienced abuse, trauma, I have escaped death, I have overcome loneliness, I have found myself free of bad friendships, and I no longer have a relationship with my mother. I said goodbye to my fathers both biological and adoptive, and I recognized the abuse I experienced was not my fault. I no longer felt it was. I spent my childhood and teen years to adulthood self soothing saying to my self while I shook, While I had anxiety attacks,while I cried I would say “You’re going to be okay”not really believing this but I had attempted to instill hope in myself.. No one around me ever said those words, no one ever told me that pain didn’t last forever or how I was contributing to my own sorrow. Depression is a constant battle, it’s something I may have for the rest of my life, but it does not mean I should allow or keep people who are unhealthy for me in my life.
So, I’m brainstorming what do I do with this information because I feel like I’m right at the beginning of a long awaited happiness…