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!”

24 thoughts on “WRITING

  1. I would have to agree with you. Writing has saved my life and reading others and commenting on others blogs has made a difference. It puts me into a relationship with the outside world.
    Always happy to see your blogs on my emails.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Writing is so powerful. For me, I think it helps me create meaning from my experiences and a narrative that I can live with.

    I always enjoy your posts, and once again, a great photo. Your garden is stunning.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Patricia, here I am again. I can’t help but comment. Reading your post today was like reading my own story. Just last week I demolished the remainder of my past journals that were filled with repetitive pain, anguish, and same ‘ol patterns and issues (my anger was mostly still suppressed). I too was concerned that my son would read them some day after I depart. So. Mine are now gone.

    I also credit my son for making changes in my life too, in my case when he was a little guy. He taught me by example to own my own feelings. One of those times as a 5 year old he yelled at the neighbors for having their music on too loud, I rushed to quiet him feeling embarrassed by his brashness. As I started to scold him, I realized that I too was greatly annoyed by the loud music, something I had not acknowledged to myself still trying to maintain the accepting “good girl” image. Owning my more honest feelings was my gateway to healing and again in my case, that included my anger which I had hidden.

    Thank you again, Patricia. You are really on spot for me. Beverly

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Oh, that issue of not speaking up. An ongoing issue for me, preferring invisibility as if I don’t matter or exist. What a powerful teacher, a child. “Out of the mouths of babes?”
      And no wonder being able to speak up is is issue. Thank you so much for sharing such a story, full of meaning and promise.


    1. Thank you!
      The book was completed and published a few years ago. I didn’t need what was in the journals. (thankfully!)
      What I needed still resided inside of me and poured out a bit at a time, having been corked in tightly all those years.

      Liked by 1 person

        1. Thanks. And hope that if you want or need work, that you find it…
          You don’t have to buy it, it’s all there. Just plug what you want in the search button at the bottom of the page.
          I didn’t write it to make loads of money, but to get it up and out. (though loads of money would be nice!)

          Liked by 1 person

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