Dirty Little Secret Keeper

Every year my mother buys me a notebook of some sort for Christmas. When I was younger, they were accompanied by books about my changing body. As I got older, they were just given alone.

I didn’t get to meet my mother until I was 8 years old. It was a long wait, spending time with the woman who gave birth to me, and then my paternal grandmother, both of whom constantly zig zagged me down the metaphorical highway of my development. Like a figure skater warming up by dancing from one end of the ice to the other. Rather than being safely buckled into the back seat of an award winning mini van, boasted for it’s safety, each covered me in the warmest blankets they had and put me in the basket of their bicycles as we rode down a highway in the snow together.

My mother, the one whom my soul chose long before I was born, kept giving me notebooks. She knew how much I loved to write. She told me to journal my feelings, that it would be extremely helpful for my healing process.

But even though they say the 3rd time's the charm, I did not ever easily believe a word that came out of her mouth. Why should I? Mothers can barely care for themselves, let alone me. I learned that lesson 2 times over. Both my previous mothers had left. I didn’t want to say goodbye again so I just chose not to say hello this time. Quite brilliant if you ask me.

Letting her in would just be another example of how hard I make motherhood. I was skilled at breaking that unconditional love that mothers and grandmothers are supposed to have. I thought it was made of steel, turns out it’s dried mud that can easily be washed away.

A unique and new brand of motherhood she would bring to me I assumed. Of course the sick and twisted part of me who had learned pain could be enjoyed if it was the only choice available wanted to see her particular brand of mothering. But I was tired so I just kept that door shut. It’s exhausting unintentionally breaking down bonds that didn’t even exist in the first place.

I remember vividly being 4 years old and my grandmother carrying around a little black notebook where she would write down everything I did that she didn’t like. She was keeping track of me. I knew what notebooks were meant for; they collected our innermost flaws and secrets. It’s best to just keep those inside the corners of my mind where they were inaccessible, I thought as I grew. I’d rather be a mess inside than rinse everything away and admit to how dirty I was.

I thought of journaling like it mimicked the place where all the dirty shower water goes. Everything collected there. Writing my feelings down meant unless I kept my notebook on me at all times, and had the luck not to lose it, my dirty bathwater was on display for whoever wanted to wade through it.

But then one Christmas mom gave me a small book. It was black, had an elastic band attached to protect the pages inside so the book would not fly open, and a ribbon to mark my place.

Was I going to let this one collect dust, be used for scrap paper, eventually recycle it in one of my middle of the night cleaning frenzies? I couldn’t. It was the classiest, simplest book I had ever received. It welcomed me.

I often longed for things that were too far fetched to experience. I craved a mentor, someone older than me but not too old; if they were wine it would still be too soon to bottle, let alone open them. I wanted a safe place to go, that mentor’s house. I would come in and have my own special spot and be alone among their cozy and eclectic furniture. They would check in on me, make me something with weird herbs that I had never heard of from their garden to drink. They would be upstairs, far enough away but close enough that if and when I was ready I could call on them.

After settling in we of course would chat for hours about the stars and why there are so many and think about how many there would be if someone tried to count them.

This notebook felt like that space. I still wasn’t ready to journal my true feelings, but I had an idea.

My 5th grade teacher recommended we always carry a small notebook with us in case we thought of ideas for stories. That I could do. This notebook was finally the perfect size.

I learned quickly that I could hide my feelings and emotions in stories. If anyone were to read my notebook and ask me about it, I could say “oh yes that’s just a story I’m working on!” The book began to be filled with half sentences and words and names of people I had heard that I had liked for characters.

I filled the notebook quickly and considered filling another one. I felt weird without it, like suddenly missing a finger when you were born with all ten.

I put the notebook on a shelf. I decided one day that if I needed ideas for a story, I would just pull it out and start to write.

But, it turns out truth is stranger than fiction, because one day I stumbled upon an Instagram ad calling for people to submit fiction stories revolving around a little black notebook, with a grand prize of $20,000.

Maybe that notebook did have some sort of magical powers, the universe dancing around the metaphorical ice with a beautiful plan. Part of that beautiful plan was the day I found I had won that grand prize. It was the springboard into the life I had planned for myself, but pretended was just a story I told myself that would never come true. Just like how you can light a million candles with the flame of just one, I saw what this $20,000 was going to do for me, and how I could make it multiply and expand. The summer camp I’d come to love in my heart but never thought I would build in this lifetime came to life.

Even though my little black notebook was filled with fictitious ideas, I realized all of them were just metaphorical glimpses into my own experience. So I wrote, for the first time, about the pivotal moment in my life where I remember sitting on the lawn in my childhood home. It was too dark for me to be outside. I could see my grandmother in the glow of the hallway light through the unwashed glass panes of our screen door, shaking her head and documenting that I was outside when I should not have been. I can now admit to myself for the first time that I wish she had just invited me back inside, or noticed sooner I had left.

But, that moment inspired a story that was worth $20,000 to someone. I wonder what it will be worth to others as it’s impact multiplies.