For years I have kept journals. I suppose that they have been to sort through thoughts, to vent, or to recognize when I am circling around the same issues or feelings. (Maybe to try and not be as much of a broken record to my girlfriends in times of turmoil!) The intention has been, at times, to somewhat document my life and feelings, and to make record of my thoughts and experiences. There has been some feeling that maybe my kids would read them some day and really SEE me as I am and know me as a woman and a person, and not as their perception of me as their mother. (However, knowing that cursive writing is no longer taught, and I only hand-write, they may all be in some foreign script that will be illegible anyway).
I have had points in my journaling where I have censored myself in case someone read them and would be hurt by my words, but then I realized that if one were to read my journals, they can swallow that bitter pill as their penance for going where they were not invited to go! Then there have been times I’ve censored myself due to the thought of the kids reading these eventually, but that ended because I am a person, and they are people, and some day you do realize that your mom had feelings and thoughts and sex! and many many human things that are absolutely nothing to do with you.
I also had to retire a journal, years ago, because I realized that it was just angry and bitter and all the bad stuff. That the whole book contained only the times I was mad or upset, and none of the good. It became this flowered bright pink leather book that was filled with anger and resentment and not a true reflection of the whole picture, and the layers of life that made up my reality. I have journals that are hardly used and span years, and I have ones that are cover to cover in weeks. In the first year after my separation, I filled multiple volumes and most are probably depressing and obnoxious and best left for mature audiences.
I have made empty promises to myself to keep gratitude journals or to write daily, or note living experiences and record my life, but mostly, despite spanning 25 years or so of my existence, my journals are sporadic and tend to be used in times of unrest. The last entry in my current journal was just over two months ago, and it’s not like nothing has happened, I just have not felt compelled to write any of it down. (Likely that is good and speaks to the happiness and contentment in my world). I can only imagine that the generally optimistic and loving side of the person I feel I am is hugely contrasted by the sad or overly contemplative version of me reflected in my journal pages; and my kids maybe shouldn’t have access to them after all!
One writing thing that has helped me a number of times over the years, and seems like silly direction that you would hear from a counselor as ‘homework’ (and dismiss), is writing a letter that you’ll never send. I hadn’t really thought about it until recently, but I have used this technique multiple times in my life and each time it truly has brought me some peace and allowed me to let go of some unsettled thoughts or words that I needed to say.
Sometimes I’ve let friends read them, or sent the message out to a good friend as though it was sent to the intended person, just to run the course, and purge the words like some dove being released into freedom, rather than be held in the cage of my mind. I have written a letter to a boyfriend who cheated then ghosted, 20 years before “ghosting” was a thing. I wrote a letter to a best friend who dumped me when we had a disagreement, and would no longer speak to me or take my calls. I wrote a letter to a man who was not good for me and who I knew I had to not let back into my life. I wrote a letter to a person I cared for but had to let go of, but wanted to tell him how much he meant to me.
I’m sure there are probably more. But each time, it has been surprisingly cathartic. It made me realize that there really may be no closure sometimes and maybe no vindication or ability to express upset, hurt or love to someone, but the action of introspection and realizing what it is that you would want them to know, or understand, is the real medicine. Potentially, even when given the opportunity, we can never actually make someone understand our pain, love, hurt or anger and maybe that’s okay.
Maybe the healing isn’t in having the other person understand, but to have ourselves understand, and to truly think about why we want them to, or what it is that we even hope to gain by having them know what it is that we want them to know. Everyone has their own experiences, emotional maturity, biases and all of the other fallible human traits that make us potentially unable to ever truly understand each other anyway, does having that one last interaction really create closure? Or would it only be closure if we got to explain our side and the other party was like “Oh my God! You’re right, you’ve always been right and I completely SEE you as you are. I totally get your pain/love and I’m willing to not defend or justify my actions in any way”… (Not likely!)
The vindication, I feel, is being able to fully express our side and our thoughts and say it like they were all ears; open and willing to hear it; to say all the words and thoughts and not to be interrupted, corrected or thrown off on a “well, you never…” tangent. So for these reasons, the unsent letter is the perfect act of self care and forgiveness. It is about giving you the peace and power; writing the end of the story you’ve been telling yourself so that you can close the book.
I haven’t felt any need to write an unsent letter in a long while. I haven’t felt a lot of need to even journal (and perhaps I should be doing that for the sake of how on the edge of their seat my children will be someday in reading them! *sarcasm*). Maybe I should even start to get camp about it and open with “dear diary”…. or maybe I’ll just keep it as it has been and be glad that I haven’t had anything to “vent” about….
Periscopecake 