My quest to re-read all of my journals from start to finish continues. I am in the middle of reading #18 out of 38. This particular journal is one of the most compelling. It’s the one that needs to see the light of day the most. It covers the period of time when my mental illness and self-injury was close to being at its worst. I wrote in extensive detail what I was thinking not only when I wanted to cut myself, but while I was actually doing it. Even back then I knew that writing about it was important because nobody in my life knew why I was addicted to cutting myself. By writing my exact thoughts, I wanted people to understand what was going through my mind. And while this was written many years ago in 2001, it is difficult to re-read my words even after so much time has passed. I have gotten into the habit of reading one entire journal per day, but I am finding it difficult to get through this one. I began to tear up reading it yesterday. Today I could only read one entry. I’ll get through it eventually because my reason for re-reading my journals is one that I hope to share with the world soon.
One side effect of sorts, from reading journal #18 and those that came before it, is that I am simply in awe of the fact that I am the same person who wrote the words in these books. In fact, today at work I had a moment of bewilderment at this thought. As I walked down the hall of my building I reflected on the fact that I have a fairly important job where I work. I’m coming off of earning my Master’s degree and being a school principal. I am married to the man I had only just started seriously dating in journal #16 and I’m living in the house that I refer to many times in the early entries related to dating my now husband. The contrast between who I am now and who I was when I wrote those early journals is astounding. What’s also incredible is the fact that I don’t remember many things from those first two years of college when these latest journal entries were written. The severity of my mental illness at the time made it so that I don’t remember much. So reading about my life back then is also surprising. I just don’t remember doing these things. People were concerned about how much I drank and while I remember getting drunk with my roommate a few times, I don’t remember that it was ever a problem. It’s almost fascinating in a way to see what I was like then. It’s also disturbing. I don’t like what I’m reading because honestly, I don’t like that person. How could my husband have stayed with me through all of that?! I’m beyond grateful that he did though. I don’t think I would have gotten better without his enduring love and support.
Speaking of getting better, I can look back and make comparisons all day and marvel at what a horrifically different person I was, but the thing that is truly miraculous about it, is that I did get better. The person I am now, who is writing in journal #39, is mentally strong. I don’t cut myself intentionally anymore because no matter how difficult life has been over the past three years, I know for sure that I never want to go back to how I was when I was 18 years old and experiencing the true horror of deep depression. The reasons I cut myself back then, do not exist now. Eighteen year old me didn’t want to go to therapy back then because she didn’t think it would help. She thought writing in her journal and taking medicine was enough (even though she never took her medicine regularly). Forty-two year old me just started therapy because I know how powerful it is and I know I can’t overcome the trauma I experienced on my own. And I would never let my mental health medicines run out and go without taking them. We are not the same person. And yet, I don’t think I would be who I am now without her. She endured the harshness of mental illness so that I could enjoy adulthood on the healing side of it. So I could be successful in the career I felt destined for. So I really could marry the man I said I was going to marry when I wrote about our first date. I don’t think those things would have been possible for her if she hadn’t suffered and ultimately struggled free from her own mental confines. I want to thank her. And I think the best way to do that is to tell her story. She knew then that writing about her struggles would help somebody one day. That’s my mission. Stay tuned…
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