These thoughts were inspired by a blog I read this morning: http://ptsd-acceptingcopingthriving.com/2015/07/10/freewriting/ And the photo, taken this morning too, as I scuffed out in flip-flops and robe onto the moist lawn, unintentionally scaring away the deer grazing in the meadow…
We moved to this little plot of land almost 11 years ago. Along with us, I brought my journals, an entire large box of them. I had a fire in the fire pit.
I felt my journey expanding. Writing had saved me. I had written every day, sometimes many times a day. But as my journey deepened, out of rage, into love and acceptance, my journals just reminded me of who I was.
If or when my sons go through my stuff after I’m gone, and were to find them, all they would read was page after page of upset and anger. That is not my only legacy. Those pages were splashed with rage. And though it was an excellent way to vent, and helped greatly, it felt good throwing each beautifully bound small book into the fire.
I wondered, what the heck am I doing? All those feelings, thoughts, and possibly important memories? But flipping through before the burn, I noticed they mostly contained the spewing of anger, remnants of what was, and how every-day simple things enraged and explosively frustrated me.
Not long after, when I began the real process of writing, what lie beneath the smoldering rage was repeated traumas, unyielding pain buried deep, and memories I had been forced into keeping. They claimed my life, everything, all warmth, softness and easy breath, that is, until, my gut released them.
My son, now 28, is the one who helped greatly with the entire process. He is the one who said, “Why not write a book,” then added, “I always remember you writing. All those journals will come in handy.”
My stomach lurched, what had I done?
I didn’t mention to him that they were now ashes, and for awhile worried I had a made another huge error. But I calmed down as another part of me was heard from. I had connected to something other than my head, and down there, my gut, my soul, the hora, knew the stories, lived them, where it all began, but where I left off; as if from that point on I didn’t exist. I became a shell of a person, playing a role, pretending. Could I ever get her back?
Chapters began weekly. I didn’t write only about rage, but what was beneath it. Writing all those years in my little special journals, even if it was an outlet for rage, saved me. I still write but on my laptop journal, not on-line, but on my desktop in a word document fully secure. Most of the time when I feel things that deeply, I share them on blogs where I find so much camaraderie, along with warm, positive, supportive feedback.
I feel like Martha Stewart when I say, “Writing is a good thing!”