As I was reading through old files, I stumbled across this blurb I started, but abandoned. I often don’t recall what I’ve written under a particular file. Many of my files start out as journal entries.
Even in high school, I learned to read my journals for patterns in my life. Oftentimes, my words were the truth and there was no denying it. The evidence was there. It kept me sane. Throughout my twenties and early thirties, I’d sporadically try to write in a journal, but quickly abandon it. I just didn’t want to create such evidence. It seemed overwhelming to face and I had grown tired.
After a decade, I couldn’t hold everything crammed inside and allowed myself to write more and more starting with the first episode in California.
March Journal Entry
Two women with similar features. Short nose. Round cheeks. One looks around my age; the other around my mom’s age. They step out of the hot Yoga class as I wait to enter the next class. They chatter about how hard the class is. They smile. I can see the raw, unfiltered love and intimacy between the two. Abruptly, I look at the floor for a minute and then raise my eyes, intently studying Jenni’s painting until I forget the women are there. It hurts just to step outside my door lately.
The abuse hurt physically, emotionally, mentally yet the aftershocks in adulthood are in so many ways the hardest part of healing. As a woman you go through relationship difficulties, career uncertainties, financial stress… In those moments, I really needed a mother. When I see other women connecting and bonding with their mothers, interacting like two adult women the familiar pang of jealousy fills my heart until it feels broken.
I’ve been told that I’m a “strong woman” and “seem fine.” On the surface yes, but down deep I silently wish I didn’t have to be so strong. You see though, if I didn’t stay strong I’d die. There were no nurturing arms to encircle me. No kind, encouraging words that I’d be fine.
I learned to numb myself and go through life with as little feeling as possible.
On a subconscious level, I must have understood that if I allowed myself to feel, I’d drown.
I never learned to self-soothe so I substituted mother pangs with alcohol or whatever was in reach. Over time, I’ve improved and can stay afloat if I show my human side even if through words alone. Yet, I still have days. I go through spells where it is difficult to let myself feel. Lately, I’m teetering on the edge of numbness, but I keep fighting to avoid the numbness, the feeling that nothing is real.
When I numb myself it can make expressing me, even in the written word difficult and at times almost impossible. Since February my fingers haven’t wanted to touch the keys even though my mind screams to let my hands free my mind.
I’m telling myself I must sit down and write so I can release what is preventing my growth. February saved writing files-two sentences, a small paragraph, with a page or more of blank space in between.
I’m transitioning into the next phase of my life and I must keep healing for it to happen…For me writing is much of the healing…I’ll keep writing my truth even if the truth isn’t always what I want to accept because in acceptance truth makes it real.