Several journals cover the bottom shelf of my office bookcase. This shelf is hidden behind a double door.
In the past I hid my books on trauma and abuse. I’ve decided that I need to stop doing this.
I was especially ashamed of a book called “Toxic Parents.” It was so true yet hard to read. I want to look at it again, but I don’t. One day soon I’ll look at it. In many ways, I’ve hid myself behind those two little wooden doors for the better part of a decade.
A few years ago, I decided to pull some of my old Journals out. In the past, I’d take out one, start reading my teenage voice, and slam the book closed in embarrassment. How immature I’d think. Often, in disgust, my mother muttered, “OH immature.” I refused to hear myself, instead attacking myself with my mother’s voice still muttering in my head. This time I told her voice to shut up and listened to my teenager self with compassion and respect.
After posting Journaling; Evidence. Patterns. Truth. I thought more and more about the significance of journaling in my life.
In a sense many of the papers I wrote in school hinted at the abuse. It’s a blurry memory, yet there exists glimmers of complete honesty in those assignments.
As a teenager I sat with my back against the bed, facing the wall less than a foot away. Heavy heart. Tears drip down my chin and onto the open journal. Writing, pushing my pen into the paper with all my force, quicker and quicker until I couldn’t decipher what I wrote. I wanted to tell someone, but I didn’t think I could. After she beat me and/or tore me apart emotionally, I’d sit in my protective corner and write, fearing the door would open soon…
She always went after my journal.
I was afraid to write in it at times
she might see it.
As I hit publish on a post, I have pangs of guilt and fright to think she may one day see I’ve written what I have for the world to see. I’ve altered peoples’ names in the story and will most likely write under a pen name. Part of me doesn’t want to hide behind a pen name, but part of me does.
I lose track of hours and days as I turn each page and listen to my teenage voice. The evidence in the voice creates a pattern of truth. It is a truth at first hard to hear. After I read all of them and type telling entries, I lay them on the bottom shelf.
I’m much further along in my recovery now and no longer cringe when I see these journals. I’m no longer ashamed to hear my adolescent voice. I will share her voice with you.
On the second entry it shows how much I lived in my books. The characters became actual people to me. The characters and their lives allowed me to connect even if through fantasy. At that point in my development I wasn’t able to connect with other kids and I’d never really connected with anyone in real life besides my grandpa. He hadn’t been dead for quite a year when these journal entries were written.
My Journal at 15
November 26, 1995
This probably seems ridiculous that I’m writing in you again but oh well. My mother is driving me nuts it seems like she feels everything she does to me can be hid behind a door with fake smiles and pretending. Wrong, I’ve told Tracy everything, and she has heard it through other people. I despise my mother the way she is. I can’t wait to get out of here.
Side Note-Tracy was a neighbor who lived across the street from me.
Nov 27, 1995
I have finally convinced myself that I am too wrapped up in fantasy. I’ve been reading a series of books by V.C. Andrews. I just finished reading now and I sat there and cried over the last four pages of that book. It was almost as if I had gotten to know them characters personally. Towards the end life seems to repeat itself and Cathy’s Christopher Doll is killed on the highway just as their father had been. Catherine Doll wrote the saddest death note after killing herself in the attic with all the paper flowers. After reading this book, Dear god I just don’t understand what life is worth when all you end up doing is dying and living cold in a grave. It seems like my years of flying and my time is getting easier. I am so afraid my life is going to be meaningless and there’s going to be no one to share it with. I am so afraid the last chapter of life is just around the corner. I am so afraid.
PS. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.