Burnt Journal

Motivation does not come easily anymore. Dragging myself from troubled dreams and fitful sleep has developed into a battle no one wins. Once I am up a quick look at the bed provides the first painful reminder that I am alone. From here it can only get worse. Five short steps, a turn of the knob and the water begins to cascade from an oversized showerhead purchased for the pleasure of the woman who once cherished the little things I did for her. The water washes not only the soap from my hair and body, but the nightmares that have filled each erratic night of sleep these past nineteen months.

A uniform that has almost become a part of me since starting work over five years ago hangs in the closet. I couldn’t find another way to arrange the clothes different from the way she had, otherwise I would have. Down the steps to the worn carpet on the first floor; carpet laid after a burst water heater destroyed most everything, and finally replaced the day our oldest daughter was born. White walls with no pictures stare blankly at me as I make my way to the kitchen. The tiles adorning the floor stretch around the breakfast nook, into the dining room and finally end in the bathroom with a small patch visible in the pantry. The tiles became our first major purchase after moving in. Fights ensued shortly thereafter due to a disagreement of who should install the tile, and in the end it was me who labored for weeks to ensure that each one be placed precisely in the correct location. As beautiful as these square pieces of porcelain turned out, no joy can come from them now.

It has been nineteen months and the house that I have called my home for almost ten years has emerged as a prison. Everywhere I turn produces a thought or memory of a time spent with a family that has moved on without me. All the years raising three adorable children, attempting to make a home for ourselves have turned into lonely nights and empty rooms. The place I once called my castle, my place of refuge has transformed into a place of desolation, a place that knows no laughter, no happiness, only pain and sorrow. Everything changed in one moment.

I went to work like any other day, but when I came home only silence greeted me at the door. The furniture that once occupied the living and dining rooms had gone missing. Rooms previously lit by warm lights, now provided only the dark emptiness that would eventually envelope my soul. No tiny footsteps echoing through the halls, no children running up to me, jumping on me, begging me to play with them. Franticly I attempted to reach my family. I called every number I could think of with no answer. After almost four hours of frenzied phone calls to friends, relatives and anyone who I thought would know anything; I received a one word text. “Goodbye” appeared on the screen of my phone.

The reality of her permanent departure penetrated me to the heart. No amount of pleading or begging would get her to return to our home. I fought the urge to cry as my father had always instilled in me. “Real men don’t cry son.” His words filled my head as I tried to maintain my composure. I closed my eyes and I could see the first time I ever laid eyes on my wife, I could see her smile on our wedding day, I could see my children being born and the knowledge that they weren’t here any longer overtook me. I sobbed uncontrollably. I climbed the stairs to their rooms and saw empty beds. I couldn’t hold back the tears as they streamed down my face with each moment of their lives filling my vision. How could I act as if I didn’t care? My life now lay in pieces too numerable to comprehend.

More and more questions began to fill my mind and I was overwhelmed. I managed to find the bedroom that I once shared with the only woman that would ever bear my last name. I couldn’t bring myself to sleep in the bed, so I pulled the comforter down, curling up into a ball, lost in my own misery, and I finally fell asleep.

I purchased a small black journal shortly after that day. I would write down any thought that found its way onto paper. For months I poured out my soul into this vessel. I took it with me everywhere since so much of our lives had passed in this city. I carried it through the custody hearings. Words flooded the pages throughout the divorce proceedings, and when I lost nearly everything I held dear, I buried myself in my writings begging for solace.

The house would be the last remaining possession that tied the two of us together. In the beginning I had fought to keep it, but my financial well being required me to let go. The house, no longer a home, would become someone else’s beginning. The memories made in each room would be someone else’s memories; the dreams we had would die in that house. When the sale went through I unexpectedly received a check for $20,000. No amount of money would ever make my life whole again, and I would willingly trade it for an opportunity to live my life once more with my family; alas, this was not part of the bargain. The money was gone before it was even mine. Lawyers, bills, and deposits made that money disappear like a hole in my pocket, and still the black journal remained.

After nineteen months of transcribing every emotion and thought of self-degradation I relinquished my burden. Not because I no longer had anything to say, but because I discovered the person who started this memoir had emerged with a new vision for life. I looked back through the pages and saw a man filled with regret and anguish. It’s true that writing in the journal for those nineteen months had provided me with a way of escape from the storms meant to destroy my life, but I didn’t want to live in that past anymore. The realization that this former life had come to an end allowed me to finally move on.

I went home from work that day and burned every single solitary page of that journal, leaving behind nothing save a small pile of ashes. Tens of thousands of words transcribed in a small black lined notebook, detailing the worst imaginable despondency and rejection, now reduced to dust and memories. The pain from those days will never leave, but I refuse to let it define me! I experience, I learn, I mature, and I march forward into the unknown without malice or remorse, leaving behind a piece of my life, the silhouette of a burnt journal.