I Burned All of My Journals

I have made many attempts to tell my story but the words get stuck. I've managed a bit of poetry. In poetry I can be more elusive. The metaphors and analogies pour out but my truth gets to stay hidden. Eventually I will get there but until then I'll just start with what I can.

Like most writers I have journals and pens and random notes scattered all over the place. Every thought or idea or an epiphany that comes to mind, maybe a play, or a song will all find their place on paper. Or maybe one day my words will be brave and spell out my story in all of its glory. But no matter how brave or cowardly or if they are neatly placed on the lines or scattered down the side incomprehensible to the untrained eye, every single thing that I allow to live in my journals, is my own. I give them life and I give them purpose. Each word or phrase means everything and nothing at the same time and I love that I am able to reach something inside of me that allows my brain to make my hands move freeing my soul. This particular incident happened about 10 years ago. I have two kids that are now 13 and 16 so they were about 3 and 6 at the time. My husband at the time had begun the switch from verbal to physical abuse but what's the difference. Anyway, I had a lot to say but would not dare to admit much less write any truths on the matter. I was involved in film production at that time and for several years and story ideas were running through my mind faster than I could get them on paper. Don't be fooled, those stories did not change the aesthetic of my journals. If it made sense, it was meant for the computer. It's such a personal and private thing, our journals. Even if someone wanted to read them they wouldn't understand a word. It's like speaking another language to myself. But when my husband decided to go looking for something to feed his anger and landed on my journals, well he was reading another language. A language that he morphed into his own and that was the first time my words lost meaning. I remember sitting at a meeting with some new director and getting text after text after text of...nonsense but I knew those words. And I knew the sentences and I didn't understand what this intruder was trying to do. Because he was taking my words and making his own narrative with them. He was throwing my words at me like venom. And I felt stupid. I felt empty. It felt like someone was misreading my soul and announcing to the world like his truth was truth. And I felt alone and abandoned and betrayed. And I went home and I burned about 30 journals that dated back to high school. I burnt them all. They had betrayed me and embarrassed me and I stopped believing in myself. I stopped writing. I wanted to but I was scared plus the words went into hiding. Have you ever tried to explain yourself free from a fleeting thought? It sounds ridiculous. He begged me to go to therapy with him. The last act of a desperate man, I had been begging for years. During the hour that lasted a day long session, he went on about my writing and what he read and the therapist looked at me to explain myself. What is this hobby of yours? She said it with such mockery in her voice. I'll be fair in that I don't necessarily know a lot of writers in person but I thought it was a fairly natural practice especially among mental healers. I remember exactly what her legs looked like. I left early . I heard her make a crack "maybe she'll go write about it". He laughs. When did my feelings become a joke?

10 years later I escaped him with my kids. I got a new place and that first night I remembered that I had words that were hiding and I needed to help coax them out because they are important. And just because ignorance had led to insecurity, bravery never went away. The words are still here. This is my first time to give life to that memory.