Journey 2 Zendipity

I use to write in diaries a lot when I was in school. I wrote everything down, very authentically. Mostly because I moved around a lot and didn’t stay in one place long enough to have friends and because I didn’t have someone who would care enough to even read. So I wrote everything down.

Then I got into a serious relationship after high school. Living with someone and I’ve day we were moving things around and they found my memory box. I didn’t think absolutely anything about it. It was just a box with shit in it. My memory boxes were pictures, notes, little memory items, etc. I didn’t think anything bad was in them and they were just my memory boxes. No big deal to have or leave in the corner of some closet.

Anyways, the person I was with at the time went through my memory box while I was at work one day. I came home to my shit all over our room. Seriously, every-where in the room. School notes opened and tossed all over the place, items all over the bed, my journals in their hand. The whole nine.

They lost their shit.

Repeating back to me things I had written, moments and experiences I had shared In there. Pissed about notes from 8th grade, about who gave me some of the items, what they meant.

I was so young and dumb, so instead of thinking they had done something wrong, I believed them. I was wrong for all I had written, for the experiences I had, for keeping cutesy notes that were thrown into a classroom for me, drawing passed from hand to hand until they reached mine in Science. Made me feel… dirty. Not just for experiences but for having thoughts and emotions written. For having any kind of past.

That night, I tossed all my memory boxes in the garbage after ripping everything up in between my hysterical tears. I was so sad and so heart broken over the anger in my home and the fact I had to toss my memories out.

Some of the stuff were dumb but I had school notes from my first crush, notes from the first person I dated, just cutesy shit. Tickets of movies and things I had done in the different schools I went to.

I went to 11 schools before I dropped out my junior year. Those boxes were home to me.

I obviously stopped writing. I can’t remember writing a single thing after that day during that relationship. Eventually I’m sure I did again. Writing is just part of me but relationships later, very similar relationships (I clearly don’t learn fast enough from my experiences) , I was so nervous about writing I rarely did. When I did, I was so unauthentic. I was so scared that one day something I wrote would put me in the ground 6 feet under.

The times I wrote, they would be not even be the surface of how I was feeling or what I was going through. So very limited.

The truth though is that I didn’t even notice!

It wasn’t until a few years ago when I was heading down the stairs to walk my dog that the thought randomly came to mind. I was writing as if someone was looking over my shoulders. That I had this fear inside that was so consuming, that I didn’t even notice that I was not being honest with myself and my journal. Everything I had written up to that point was just filtered version of my emotions.

I made a point that night to genuinely write. To write as if no one would ever see my words.

That night I wrote in such a way, that my soul was moved. With tears running down my face and onto the writing, I was able to exhale for the first time in a very long time. That night, something special happened. I met.. me.

It’s been years and I still struggle to lay it all out when I write but every time I do, every time I am honest honest, authentic , raw and or leave my shame and real emotions on that paper .. I feel like I meet me.