When I was about 10 years old we
had to make a journal. You know
construction paper, three hole punched and tied with string. Our teacher told us to take it home, the only
grade was making the journal and not whether we wrote it in. She stated flat out she did not want to see
it. The journal and what went in it was
ours.
So I took mine home and tried to
think of things to write. Back then I
thought it was cool that I could write whatever I wanted and no one would read
it. So I proceeded to fill the pages
with every curse word I could think of.
I still have that journal and it is amazing how easy those words were to
spell and write. Even today my mouth and
writing take off like a drunken trucker.
However, at age ten the flowed and it was funny, forbidden and no one
was ever going to see it.
I hid my journal on the top of
the shelf that sat on my dresser. I am
not sure why I hid it because no one was supposed to see or read it but I
thought “I have a younger brother so I had better put it up”. On top of my shelf was perfect, who would
think to look there and if they did, it said “Pam’s Journal – Private keep out
or else!” Well somehow, for some reason
my step-mother found it and read it. She
didn’t quietly put it away. She sat on
my bed waiting for me to get home and flagged it in front of my face. Telling me how humiliated and horrified she
was; who did I think I was; where did I fucking learn to use words like that
(yes that is an exact quote); and she stood up, threw it on the floor, told me
she was disgusted with me and that I was grounded to my room for a week.
In 7th grade our
English teacher wanted us to keep a journal.
Again, with the promise that no one would read it but in this instance
we were given catch phrases and all she would do was check to make sure we were
writing. I sat in class and couldn’t
think. After class I just sat there and
cried. She couldn’t figure out what was
going on. Through the sobs, I told her
what had happened at age 10. She said,
you have to do this, it is part of the curriculum and I promise I won’t read
what you write. I got sick with strep
throat and my assignments were sent home.
This included my journal. This
teacher had lovingly written me a note that she had not read anything but
wished I felt better and had started the next five pages with the topics the class
had done while I was out and she hoped I felt well enough to write. The weekend approached and I came out to
dinner to find my journal on the table and my step-mother shaking her head
saying she thought that this issue was resolved and that what she was reading
in the journal was just stupid and wrong and I had no right to discuss matters
that happened in the house with anyone.
Through my tears, I tried to explain, it didn’t matter. She kept the journal (I have never seen it
again), what I do know is that at school on Monday the teacher kept me after
class and said that I didn’t need to write in the journal again and that
instead she would give me a writing prompt based on whatever reading assignment
we had for that week and I was to spend journal time writing on that and turn
it in to her. She also added that if I
could not finish it, I was to leave it with her and could work on it the next
day. At the time, I didn’t
understand. Today, I realize that my
step-mother probably called the school.
I still can see that teacher’s sad face, full of pity, in my head.
When I turned 14 someone gave me
this beautiful Japanese covered journal/diary.
I hesitated but decided to use it.
However this time; I was going to hide it. I wrote in it off and on over the course of 3
years. I hid it too. My stereo had a framed bottom and it went
under there every night and I carried it with me anytime I left the house. At some point, I hid it away and just found
it three weekends ago. If my step-mother
was shocked I had written “Fuck” at age 10, she would have had a heart attack
over what was contained in that
journal.
Over the course of my marriage, I
would write when I felt particularly hurt by myself, my marriage, the kids,
other people or my husband. My now ex-husband
saw it as a way that I kept track of all the issues, faults, blames. Once when we were trying to work past
something, I tore out the pages and burned them in front of him. I remember declaring “this is it, I’m getting
rid of the past, and this is a symbol of letting go”. Knowing me, I rambled on for thirty minutes
with my symbolic gesture.
When I had my breakdown in 2014, my
therapist told me to start a journal again.
The anxiety welled up and I explained why. She told me that the journal was to be
different this time. She wanted two
things. One was a pen flowing write
without thinking. Put down your
emotions, thoughts, feelings, fears and everything and just let the pen flow,
if you stop to “think” then stop writing.
The second journal was to be specific.
The I feel…I think…I want… type of journal. As an organized, methodical person, I needed
something so I thought Ok because at that time everything was swirling in my
head and I couldn’t get a grasp on any one thought.
Now let me say, right or wrong, I
have read my husband’s text messages and even emails over the course of our
marriage. Until the end, he didn’t seem
to care and if he did he didn’t say anything and I usually set his
passwords. However, I NEVER read my kids
journals, notes or anything. If I found
a notebook on the table I put it on their bed.
If there was a note to or from a friend, I left it on their desk or
bed. It was not hard for me to not read
it. I would clean their rooms and ignore
anything that looked personal. Why my husband’s
but not my kids? Well from what I can
gather, today, my kids talked to me and when they holed up, I let them have
that time. My husband, he didn’t share
and sometimes, looking at those things was the only way I could gain some
insight into what he was thinking or feeling or who he was talking to. At least that is how I justified it. When he started holding on to his phone like
it was his life line; when he changed passwords, when he put security codes and
alerts on things, it was not an alert that I had invaded his privacy but an
alert that he had something to hide.
Sitting here today, I think it was a little of both. How much life would have been easier if we
had discussed the issues together with some compassion, but we didn’t. He had so much to hide. I did too, but I didn’t write it or text
it. After 27 years there are still
things about his childhood I only have bits and pieces of. He would hide when he went out and where and
with whom. He would hide money. He would hide his emotions and many other
things. I’d love to know why, not that
knowing would change anything. I keep
thinking my first clue on how he handled his thoughts and emotions was in 1990
when we moved in together and his mother was coming to visit. I found out the day she was arriving that he
had not told her we were living together.
We had been living together for three months and his response was “she
didn’t ask me”. He just doesn’t and
didn’t share; he doesn’t and just didn’t share many things. I felt and to this day still feel like I wasn’t
worthy of his life or sharing of it. I
want to say I shared, but what I did was vent or ranted about my feelings,
looking for justification, acceptance and validation. I over-shared and when I hid things it was
because I knew the look, comment, or step-mom shame that was going to
come.
Before the final move out I found
out that the journal I had been keeping, he had read. His words were that he was “horrified” over
what he had read. I was “horrified” he
had read it. His excuse was that I left
it on the table so he just figured I meant for him to read it. I went back to trying to hide the journal
again and then eventually stopped writing.
I myself had not even re-read anything I wrote, even to this day. That wasn’t the purpose and I tried
explaining that. The journal was to give
an outlet to a flow of emotions and thoughts and wasn’t meant to be understood,
that it was an in the moment thing. He
didn’t answer to that and even at our last therapy session accused me of
looking in on him and admitted to reading parts of my journal and we argued
over whether he said the entries were “disgusting” or that he was “horrified”. There was no talk of understanding, invasion
of privacy on his part, sharing, I had just been told that my thoughts,
feelings, expressions were horrifying. I
flashed back to the 10 year old journal being flapped in my face while being
yelled at. ***Hint of a lesson learned: Don't read other peoples shit unless it is public; meant for you or shared with you. So if he is hiding his text messages - let him - Karma will come around. Read what is meant for your eyes and if you don't like it move on but don't demean the person who wrote it.
Today, as I write this, I have
not reread my journal from 2014 and 2015.
I have not written in it since the last marriage counseling
session. My “now” therapist knows this
story and said to give up on the journal and diary and write with more
purpose. That I’m past letting the
emotions flow and need to get control of them and that blogging or writing to
an audience will MAYBE help me with that.
I thought great, I’ll try that, I
may have something that helps someone else; I have plenty to say; I can be
funny and insightful. Last night, I
found myself refreshing the blog stats page and being miffed that I had one
follower. No guilt people, really, there
is a point. The point: I woke up at 2 a.m. today and realized that
the “audience” my therapist was talking about was ME.
So do my topics flow? I don’t care.
Are they interesting? Well, I
would like to say I don’t care but I hope they are but I will say I am not
really worried if anyone finds them interesting. Does anyone care what I have to say? Yes, I DO, however, I’m keeping the point of
my therapist in mind that I am the one who has to care. Do they help anyone? Well, again I hope so but I know they are
helping me. So I’m going to keep
writing. You can keep reading or
not. One day the tide of my blog and FB
page may turn but until I figure out what is going on in life, until I feel
like I’ve told myself MY story, I’m just going to keep writing and remember
that right now my audience is ME. Oh and
I’m going to keep dragging anyone who is interested along J
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