THE BREATHINGS OF MY HEART
I had decided that I was NOT going to be “sweet 16 and never been kissed” so I actively sought out someone to kiss before I turned 16. My first kiss was Steve Fordonski and it was memorable but not in a good way. I barely knew him and was deeply disappointed in myself that I would allow him to kiss me. Plus he was an amateur kisser so it was not particularly pleasant. BUT I had reached my goal and when I turned 16 I had in fact been kissed and was proud of myself for reaching that goal and wanted it documented. And so began my journal which I wrote in daily and still write in frequently.
All my life I thought I would save this journal and wouldn’t it be interesting to go back and read it when I am “really old” like say 40 or 50 to see what I was like in my teens and early 20s. However I found that when I did go back and read it, I was in fact quite a boring teenager. There were a few choice entries describing my first sexual experiences but in general it was a lot of “feeling down today”, “Curt Smith looked at me today”, “couldn’t stop crying today” “I saw Joe by my locker today but he didn’t say hello” - you know, the usual female teenage angst. Even more disappointing were my entries during my early 20’s. Although I had a very exciting and life altering job in a neonatal intensive care unit as a nurse, I barely spoke of it. Instead the entries were full of “I wish Jerry would ask me out”, “Rich called today”, “got way too drunk last night” - Although subconsciously I was learning great life lessons, my conscious self was much more focused on parties and men. I find that sad and wish I had had the emotional maturity and wisdom to appreciate the work experiences.
As I continue to read my journal I find that just as my entries are getting a bit more interesting because I am now more mature and am entering the very intense time of my life of getting married and having babies, the entries stop. Very few for about five years. I realize they have stopped because I was so busy raising those babies. Four boys in six years definitely cut down my spare time which I would have used to write in my journal. So once again I lost my thoughts and feelings during some very interesting and formative years. When they pick up again I am going through some difficult times - some depression, restlessness, feelings of inadequacy as my life has been totally focused on my children for so long. These are not uplifting or inspiring entries. These are difficult to read and if you read them you would think I was ALWAYS sad and depressed and lonely when in fact I wasn’t. It’s interesting that at that time I only wrote in my journal when I had something to work through, something bothering me, something making me sad or depressed that I am trying to get over. I’m not journaling about all of the joys of parenting, our new home and my family and friends.
And then there are the entries that take me to the darkest parts of my existence. Those deep parts of my brain that I alone am able to see and that I want no one else to know exist. Those perplexing thoughts that come to me that I am hoping all people have but no one shares with anyone else out of fear that they are alone in these kinds of thoughts. But writing them down takes away their power and so there they are in black and white. The dark unaltered thoughts that scare even me.
I have gone back and torn out a few pages in my journal. I don’t want to remember that I was ever in that state of mind or that I made the mistakes that I did. Or maybe, since I learned so much from those mistakes, I am not so worried about me remembering them as I am about others discovering them and judging me. Mistakes that I alone know I made, that I have learned from and that I have been able to forget or at least forgive myself for.
I am still writing in my journal. I have always felt things deeply and sometimes I just need some place for those feelings to go. I write about what disturbs me, what I fear, what I am unwilling to talk to anyone about. I don’t write in it every day but enough that it would give anyone reading it an idea of who I really am. And now there is a decision to make. Will I make this journal available to others? When I am dead and gone, do I really want someone to be able to read this journal?
On one hand I say NO. These are my memories, not theirs. These are the deepest, truest feelings in my heart, a relationship with my mind, a voyage to my interior, and I’m not sure anyone else should be allowed to go there. On the other hand I say YES. I want them to understand me on a level they may never understand me otherwise.
When my Mom died, she had begun her memoir. I found it in her computer and promptly started to read it. I found it extremely interesting and it explained so much that I never understood. It was only about fifteen pages long and I was so very disappointed when it ended. I looked and looked thinking she had possibly filed other stories elsewhere but none were to be had. How I would have loved to know that side of her that she never let us know in life. Her missed opportunities, her regrets, her life decisions. So, perhaps I should let others know more about me.
My first thought was to lock the journals up and leave a note that they are not to be read by my husband or children but rather opened and read by my grandchildren and great grandchildren when they become adults. I thought being one generation removed might be the answer. If they weren’t quite so close to the subject maybe they would not be shocked or offended by anything I had to say.
But then, when I cleaned out my Aunt’s home after her death I came upon a notebook full of letters my Mom had written to her. She had saved them all. I started reading through them and in general found them rather boring. Then I came upon one where my Mom had written “I don’t know how Laura lives in that house. It is such a pigsty!” I must admit I felt extremely offended. Although I was never the meticulous housekeeper that my Mom was, I did not think our house was that bad. I was angry and hurt. I immediately closed the notebook and vowed not to read anymore. I didn’t want to know what my Mom thought and I didn’t want to be angry with her now that she was gone. And that’s what I worry about if someone reads my journal. That they will read the truth and say “it is not a pearl that we have lost, but a swine.”
But what a beautiful thing to have! The inner thoughts and feelings of one of your own. Maybe someone down the line who happens to get a bunch of my genes will read this journal and say there goes I. Someone who feels misunderstood but then sees that there was someone in the family just like her. Maybe someone down the line will read of my turmoil and mistakes and learn from them and not make the same ones or understand that she is not the only one who makes mistakes in life and that she can forgive herself and still make a good life for herself. Perhaps I SHOULD save it for someone else to read.
I have gone back and forth on this issue but what really made the decision for me was the fact that once I thought there was the possibility that someones else might read my journal in the future, I wasn’t as honest when I wrote in it. I left things out, I watered things down, I edited what I wrote from my heart which really negated the reason for the journal in the first place.
So, I am back to thinking I will destroy it before anyone else gets their hands on it. And I am back to writing with brutal honesty my thoughts and feelings about myself, the world, my relationships, as well as those foreign, dark places in my psyche that scare me and still show up every once in awhile. I’m not yet ready to let go of my journals and not sure when that time will come so Jon and I have made a deal that the day I die, the first thing he will do is destroy my journals. I will just have to trust that his curiosity will not get the best of him before he does.