Trying to journal
I came back to blogging after really a short time. I felt this magnet or force that made me want to create. Or perhaps to release. So then I decided to try Day One again. I still have an active subscription. There are things I thought to write. Feelings. Goods. Bads. But it does not work. It seems fake or phony after years of doing it every day. I did discover a few things about it all or me. I’ll share them.
- Journaling became a negative force in my life with moods, relationships, people and places. I found instead of exploring and discovering I was creating negative feelings.
- These negative feelings led me to then not being happy in real life. It was like thing 1 above became a horrible truth and this thing became real.
- This all came to a head recently. This thing seemed to take over and the diary became a self fulfilling prophecy of feelings. Then the Khmer family started asking what was wrong.
At this point I knew something had to go. I could not live with the terrible combination of all the things. Like a weight or a sentence on me. So I took steps. I decided to delete all the journals. Almost 8 years in total. I deleted 4 years of blog posts. All this seemed to contribute to the weight.
Alin started asking what she had done. She felt bad I had to care for her. She has meds she takes which I don’t think she did before. They all cause relief and perhaps other problems. She had a secret through. Another medical issue I did not know. Finally she told me. I was a little upset. We decided to take care of this after we go to Vietnam. Simply not enough money to do it all. This one thing lay hidden in her soul for a long time.
So all these little and big things were written in the journal. I delved into them. Dissected them. Hated it. It was like life just stopped but the journal continued. It felt hateful and spiteful. The words came out ripping and tearing. Leaving raw feelings behind.
Well there seems to be a next. There is blame and feelings left over. Alin blames herself and worries. I feel still teetering on some edge. The diary is gone and won’t come back. It had this evil quality for awhile. Like my soul had this sad and depressing part which found its way to words. I can’t find blame. Or responsibility. Or credence. Or the desire to write like that again.
Looking back it seemed self destructive and sad. Like the outlet found exposed so much. So little. I turned here because perhaps others have found similar things. No instruction to fix. Or over think. Or find fault. Even though she asked this morning,
Is it my fault honey?
Fault. A terrible and swift weapon that swings down. Exposes us all to merciless self judgement. Tears us apart like this morning. Resurrection is not putting fault down. There is no diary anyways to contain that feeling. Emotion.
I just look across the table and we still are not like before. Without the diary I live on. I write here. Expose my inner and outer faults. Let you all see that life is not a 500 character limit mastodon post. It moves on. We do too. It just takes more moments. She’s quiet. Consumed. I’m tired. Somber.
And that’s what is next. So I can’t journal. I can write here. Show you these little parts. Let you see it is not sunshine and smiles. Life is not meant to be. I’ll go back to the apartment. Go on a slow walk. Take some steps. See a block or two.
Let the journal fade to its history.
Thanks for reading. That felt good.