Before I ever typed a single sentence on Medium, I was an avid journaler. From the time I was completely single and living alone until this very moment, I have kept a journal.
I wrote in it most nights for years. And years. I would pour the poison out of my being as the ink filled page after page. It was one of the most cathartic exercises I ever did to heal All. The. Things.
Starting out, I tried several of the journaling advice books. I invested in The Artist’s Way and other ‘how-to’ books hoping someone might give me some insight to baring my soul and hoeing out the sludge. But not one of them was very useful.
I found what worked best for me was to just sit down and write.
It seemed to work a lot like my therapy sessions with my beloved therapist. For over seven years — I would point my car in the direction of his office — feeling basically ok. My mind a complete blank as to what I wanted to talk about — most days. I would hit the restroom, read People magazine in his waiting room, and hang out waiting for my turn on his couch. Then as we sat down — me on the couch and him in his chair — something would just click. And like Pavlov’s Dog — the shit storm which had been My Life bubbled up and began to emerge — one trauma at a time.
The same thing happened whenever I picked up my journal and my pen.
As the years went on, I became more selective about my journaling ‘tools’. I chose spiral bound journals which were easier to lay flat and write on in bed — where nearly all of my journaling took place. I only got journals with lines. I liked the structure of that. The way the pages looked — it kept my less than stellar handwriting in place and made the whole mess legible — just in case I ever wanted to read all the shit pouring out of my soul. And lastly, the pen. Black ink only — nurses get twitchy writing in anything but black ink — it’s our training. And I invested in decent pens because very few things pissed me off more than globs of ink when I’m trying to pour my heart out on paper and SPLAT — mood completely lost.
I kept all my journals. All these years. Until last week.
Then I tore out the pages and destroyed them. Every. Single. One. Except for my current one.
I didn’t even read them. I just let them go.
I know I’m not that Human anymore. Thank Goddess.
As I destroyed each page — I blessed the woman I was at the time, I thanked The Universe for the courage and grace to grow and morph into who I am meant to become, and I let go of My Past.
The Hurts — the ones I received and the ones I inflicted. I forgave all of us. Every single soul who crossed My Path.
The Traumas — all the closure I couldn’t get because the people who needed to explain to me are long gone. There would never be any answers to the Why of it all. I set that gently down.
The Missteps — all the paths I thought I should have taken — learning only by living Life — there are NO wrong turns. Your true path is always the one you are on right Now.
The Lessons — especially the ones on replay. I stopped. I pushed paused and walked away. I found I learned more in stillness than I ever did in chaos.
It was way easier than I thought. To let it all go. To destroy the journals of nearly ten years of My Past.
Because — I’m not that Human anymore.