in things i never thought would happen: i turn 46 today.
i’ve officially survived 45 years on this planet.
the last month or so has felt like an intermission, a half time, a full performance review, a save point, a big ending. i’ve been at home, alone, at my desk, deep in hermit mode. headphones in, world blocked out, stacks of journals on every flat surface.
to know me is to know that i always have three things on my person at any given time: a journal, a book, an emergency joint.
there’s been a lot of responses over the years. the book usually gets an eye roll. the emergency joint makes friends. the journal though- the journal is most often a point of contention.
is that like…your diary?
do you, like, actually write in it?
what are you even writing? who cares? that’s dumb. who’s going to read that? what are you, some kind of snob? isn’t that only for teenagers?
the number of absolute imbeciles that have so clearly and loudly and quickly declared themselves NPC that i don’t even have to acknowledge the existence of? GLORIOUS. thanks for taking the trash out for me.
my journals have literally saved my life over the years, so off is the direction and all the way is how far you can get to fucking.
when i was in the middle of a domestic violence marriage headed for divorce, my journals reminded me YES, it is that bad. NO, you’re not making a big deal out of nothing. YES. you are in danger. NO, you’re not lying to yourself.
when i was going through *all the death* my journals helped me stay sane.
when covid hit and i was locked away in a 400sq foot apartment, alone, for way too long…journals.
i can’t lie to myself. it’s hard to listen to other people, there’s always a loophole or an explanation or a reason they don’t *REALLY* understand. but it’s hard to ignore myself. hard to tell myself i’m wrong. hard to argue with someone who’s never, ever, wrong. (for the record, i initially typo’d “wrong” and almost let it stay in for the irony, but, alas, the never being wrong thing…)
journals have helped me track memories during times when my brain wasn’t doing the job. journals have helped me track growth and progress and change.
heading into my 46th year, my guides asked me to go back and dig through my journals, the last two years specifically.
and i did.
whew.
you really can’t lie to yourself.
the last two years have been a doozy.
the only things that stayed the same in the last two years: my car and my credit card debit.
everything else changed.
i changed my main job and added a second job. two years of 6 days a week.
i changed apartments. a whole year with no dead bodies.
i tried a partnership. good news: i still know how to leave a toxic abuser.
i let go of old friendships. when people show you who they are, believe them.
i gained new friendships. when you’re the most yourself, you’ll find the right people.
i let go of stella. is she really gone if her hair is still woven into every sweater and blanket?
i changed hairstyle. the mullet phase was…whew.
i changed jeans. I CHANGED JEANS. may another pair of skinny jeans never smother my ass or strangle my calves again. praise be to the old navy straight leg denim gods.
those are the bench markers. the milestones. the visible moments captured on page.
more than that, more importantly to me, the things you couldn’t see or measure.
i’ve worked hard on my mental health my whole life. from my first counseling appointment in 1994 til now, it has been learning ways to figure out my brain. how to make it work, how to understand it. i’ve been to countless therapists in the last 32 years. the life coach that had a mental break down. the dude that couldn’t be trusted because he tucked his jeans in his boots. the gal that ended up using me as a therapist when her husband had an affair. the gal that saw my process for working through things, asked to use it with other clients, then quit and wrote a book. it’s been a lot of looking to others, reading articles, researching, digging for answers.
one thing that stood out the most in the last two years is the shift between that looking to others for answers and finally looking to myself.
re-reading through entries i could see and remember the times i was struggling the most, those times i was looking for answers. podcasts, tiktoks, apps, articles, influencers, anything, everything. there were entries of quotes and blurbs and other people’s ideas. where were mine? where was MY voice? where were MY experiences and thoughts.
and then i saw myself intentionally shift my writing to asking myself. i caught myself. then me saw the same thing now me is seeing. then me looked at the tools and experiences i already had, and used them. then me knew to start asking myself. as a second part of that, i could see the shift of writing FOR MYSELF instead of writing like someone someday might find it. i don’t know if i can properly explain that filter. my own journals, filtered. my own thoughts. my own experiences: filtered. because someday someone else might read it. anyone that’s ever kept a journal knows that thought. anyone with a sibling has probably lived that nightmare in real time.
but here? now? mid 40’s? alone in my own damn house?
they became even more _MY_ journals. because, if someone else did find them:
a) good luck reading my handwriting
b) so what?
what do you mean so what?
I MEAN, SO WHAT?
if someone else does read it, either they’re an asshole who violated your privacy or they’re someone you trust. so, either way, SO WHAT?
and i started writing to myself. having true, honest conversations with myself. not hiding potentially embarrassing things. not glossing over hurtful things. not leaving out names or specifics. not vaguebooking myself (dear gods, my swiss cheese brain cannot handle any vaguebooking. I WON’T REMEMBER.) not dialing back extreme things. not dismissing. not shaming. not editing. just. writing.
i let all the voices out. i let the mean teenager voice out. i let the scared voice out. i let the angry voice out. i let the kind voice out. i let the judgemental voice out. i let the shameful voice out.
i let them all have their say. i let them all contribute to the conversation. i learned to recognize the voice based on the handwriting. yes, my handwriting changes for each voice. i can’t explain it, but holy fuck is it fascinating.
oh, anger is here. oh, fear is here. oh, trauma is here.
i can tell by the handwriting which voice is leading the charge and that has helped me learn how to respond to whatever comes out.
oh, the angry teenager? well, she’s mean as fuck, but she’s not wrong. she makes some solid, harsh, right to the point thoughts. let her rant, get it out.
fear? how small can my handwriting get. you’re scrunching down pretty hard and gripping that pen pretty hard…maybe take a minute to look into that. what fear is it? is it real? how can we address it? you’re safe now, take a deep breath, now, look at it again.
the newest one? a handwriting i’ve only run across twice so far? trauma. letters and writing so stretched out it basically looked like a bad ekg strip. emotions that so badly wanted out but were so hard to get to the page. even on the page they didn’t want to be recognized. ooof. girl. that one caught me hard. i was able to make out enough of an entry to get the general idea/experience i was referencing, found the one other example of the handwriting, connected the two traumatic themes, presto, blammo: hello trauma. now when that writing shows up i can approach whatever thought it’s communicating with more care. more tools. more intention.
by talking to myself openly and honestly, i was able to recognize a new piece.
from my own journal. from my own thoughts.
THAT’S INCREDIBLE.
ask me how i fucking feel about that for $120 an hour assholes.
through all that processing, through going back and reading things, i was able to make connections, see how things played out, put puzzle pieces together. i saw real time follow up’s and resolutions to things.
oh, that card pull in june warned me about sneaky people, hey look, july is when i had to remove some old friendships. big changes ahead- boom bam: new jobs. what do you mean trust my intuition and don’t let people convince me otherwise? oh, that is in fact, NOT my sweatshirt and it DOES very much have everything to do with us.
i was able to see all the beautiful things i’ve manifested in my life. my birthday intentions and how they played out over the year.
i could track the times when things felt strange or off and what followed that. how many times in the last 2 years did music and clothes and energies feel off? oh, when was that? oh, so i should just know in august that imma hate everything, every year.
going back over two years worth of journals was not an easy task. it took me several days and so many joints i had to empty the ashtray twice.
it was confronting that i had really glossed over how bad the partnership was from the jump.
it was confronting the ending of friendship that hadn’t been mourned properly.
it was confronting my own behaviors and patterns that had kept me stuck.
addressing choices i had made and red flags i had intentionally ignored and taking ownership in the results.
it was comforting, frustrating, funny, sad, encouraging, joyful, grateful, so many different things.
most importantly, it was complete.
i reviewed everything right up to the present. i watched all the game tapes. i reviewed all the footage. i covered all the footnotes and addendums.
if i haven’t touched it by now? let it go. if something new comes up? i have the tools. i have the lessons. i have my own research archives for fucks sake.
half time is over now.
and now, page 2.
welcome to 46.
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