"To be honest" is the absolute mantra that I use when recording my thoughts in my journal. I have rarely been shy about allowing others to read what I write, and very rarely have I chosen to disguise what I write for the sake of hiding truths. I would rather someone I love to read exactly what I'm thinking and feeling so that they are not left in the dark. I would rather someone that I love to have access to my soul than wonder about what it is that I'm harboring in my thoughts. Writing the words isn't the hard part, words come out of me l like water from a spout, but there does seem to be a problem at times when people (those few brave enough) read what I wrote minutes, hours, days ago, and they have or take issue with what it is that I happen to be feeling - - should I have lied? Should I have been deceptive? Should I have hidden the journal away? It's not easy to hide over 130 books. Even if I wanted to hide the latest journal from any and all eyes to read there would be no reason to do it. I am nothing if not transparent. Sometimes brutally.
My brilliant, wonderfully intuitive son-in-law Brandon ("Brandola") once quipped to me that if he were to ever come into the room where I am writing, and he sees me with my head down, eyes fixed and pen flying at 100 miles an hour, he knows I'm really upset about something and won't bother me. He does however admit to having gone back to the table where I laid the journal down so he could read whatever it was that I was writing because he wanted to be sure to be aware of whatever it was that was coming down the pike. He said that way he would have been prepared for it had I been angry at him; he could better fix a problem before it grew out of control. What insight! He's still with us after more than 11 years, so yeah, he's a keeper. He gets me.
My former husband, a man I have very few amicable words for, was not so marvelous as my Brandola. There was a day, a dreadful and incredibly hurtful day in 1997 when my ex decided to rape my soul before pouring gasoline over it and setting it on fire before the world. Not only did this man read my journal, and find out exactly what it was that I was thinking of him and what I believed he was capable of doing, he (while I was working) collected over 12 years of my life's writings in over 160 notebooks, and he burned them in the hearth of our home just before my birthday - on my birthday he presented me with a box of ashes and with an incredibly evil smile stated that my writings weren't strong enough to keep the flames at bay. Twelve years. We had only been married a little over 9. He had no right to take from me, from my children, from my legacy, the recorded writings of my heart. Words such as "wicked" and "evil" are deceptively mild for the type of person who would cause such agony to another person simply because of pride and ego. Many insults I have consumed, but I have never recovered from that scarring.
Today, my journals are no longer written in composition notebooks. I have taken to going to the local Mardel store to pick up a fine soft-covered book with enough pages to last me about 3 to 3-1/2 months of writing on a daily basis. I wake up, I walk the dog, I make coffee, I write in my journal. Nothing and no one will disrupt my morning schedule - - it is what it is, there will be dog walking, there will be coffee, and my pen will be my weapon, my friend, my recorder, my judge, and often my jury. There is a disorder called hypergraphia in which a person feels the innate need to write; they have no control over it really, they must write. I am not quite that bad off, in other words, there is no physiological reason behind my urge to pen my thoughts, but there is of course a mental order (not disorder) to the cause and there is an emotional order as well. I want to restore the many years I lost to hatred; I want my children and my grandchildren to know exactly who I am, who I was, and who I loved.
I'm not going to lie, I may write something really nasty about someone and I may call them names, berate them, let the world know I want to string them up by their ballsack, douse them in honey, and allow the wildness to take them. I am fully capable of extreme descriptive antidotes that I would want to see (only in my mind at that time) happen to said individual, but nothing I write would be something I would carry out in the real world. I am by nature capable of anger, but not unjustified harm. Jesus is my Lord, He keeps me sane, my pen keeps me balanced, allowing the poison to drain from me in buckets at times; creating a peaceful teeming of restoration of my soul when needed. God did a great thing when He made journals. He knew there would be people like me who just couldn't live without them.
If and when I die I have decided to allow Laura access to my journals but with the strictest of guidelines and promises not to destroy them. Should she ever feel the need to publish them for prosperity or profit, I would hope that she would be kind enough to share her proceeds with her two siblings; I think she would be amicable to that. Reuben would probably put them in boxes and store them in the attic never to be seen again. Caity's kids may be interested in them later when they lose electricity and have no internet to use; they can get a good laugh at how crazy Gramma was; did she really mean to say that about so-and-so? Yeah, she did. That's what she thought on that day at that time. The good news is, and I tell my best friend Jeannie this all the time, if I write something bad about you one day, you should go back the next day and see where I took it back. If I haven't taken it back in a day or so then you know it really is your fault, and you need to apologize.
Words have consequences, don't they? The old nursery rhyme "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me" is such a farce. Words do hurt. Words do mend. Words do separate, and words do bring together. Words can be the only thing that a man or woman have to share between them. Words may be the last thing someone has of another person. Words may be the first thing that a person shares with another person. Words are eternal even when they are forgotten. Even when they are burned. Words are too precious to destroy; but worthy to be revered.
When my Grandpa Edwards was passing away he took a minute to tell me that I didn't need to bother looking for the perfect man to marry because the last one was going to see Jesus that day. He may have been right. Words are given and taken back. Words are etched in our hearts and on our tombstones. The only regrettable words are the ones never recorded or spoken.
Photo credit: Jude Stringfellow
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