There was one box in the shed that hasn't been looked into for a decade. It contains my bundles of letters from family, friends and penpals. Tonight I spent a few hours reading through them and letting the waves of the past wash over me. Admittedly, there were some authors that I don't remember and couldn't place them anywhere on my demented mind map. However, most were familiar and it was a kick to read them. Not only was the content innocent, but the handwritings were familiar again.
That being said, I now have two very large and very ominous cardboard boxes filled with hardbound journals to sort out. I may drown in my own drivel.
Yeah, I did write a lot back in the day. Then my ex began to read them and flogged me with the contents. I stopped writing to avoid the confrontations. It's been years since I've been able to face the blank lined pages with any confidence.
I mean, I used to love to write down EVERY COTTON-PICKIN' THOUGHT or FEELING. I saved EVERY LITTLE SCRAP OF MEMENTO. The journals were so full the covers could hardly close.
To tell the truth, I'm not comfortable going back to look at them now. Revisiting those emotions seems scary.
The important point here is that the journals were the best therapy I could get and I need to get back into that kind of therapy now. (Okay, weisen-heimer, I heard that!)
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