So much of writing is reading, researching. This week, I've been poring over my own archives as I cobble together an outline for the next book. My own archives include twenty-one years of journaling--not straight through, not always consistently, but there is something to show for every year between then and now and that is something. I've done this before--going back and perusing. But never all the way through. Never in this place in time, and so it feels all new again. And alongside all the journaling are poems, which at times reveal more than we intend.
What was once an amusing exercise now feels notably more emotional. To read back through all of these versions of self, to walk the path while knowing where it goes(or where it doesn't)...I am overwhelmed with what remained and what changed. All of it. I am both embarassed and intrigued by my youth--my rambling telling of it, how some things were given play-by-play and some were too full to recount it. Instead, I would just say "it's too much for me to put in words," or "I'll never forget this night but trying to get it down feels like it will ruin it." The funny thing? Many of those unforgettable nights I can't remember. I look for clues. Sometimes my past-self leaves them--stray dialogue, a code word. From 18 to 20 I stayed mostly transient--at one point my home was on a friend's couch. This is a painful period to read. I try to take it in while leaning on the comfort of now, but honestly reading requires a lot of breaks to bring me back to the present. I am stunned by the things I do not say more than by what is written. I remark waking up sore, but never dare mention my then-boyfriend hitting me the previous day, leaving a shoeprint bruise on my thigh. I do not mention my own emptiness, nor my need for help. An outsider might read over this time and think I was just a young thing with my head stuck in the clouds, ignorant and irresponsible. I do not write about fearing for my life. About the alcoholic I shared a bed with, how cleaning up after them and answering for them sucked everything out of me. I gloss over it with insomnia and rhetorical questions.
There are also wonderful things to remember from this time. Nothing is ever all one thing, is it? In the midst of the chaos I called "truly living," I stood behing so many microphones, on so many stages. I traveled for my love of writing. I formed friendships that still go strong to this very day. I had moments I wouldn't trade away for the world. And, in turn, there are things I still wince while reading--hurt I caused that I cannot undo, hurt lost to history yet stuck like stubborn seed in my hippocampus.
I'm already starting to think about what happens after I finish my next project. It seems irrelevant, but to consider it now is soothing to me. After I'm finished I want to delete what I have archived. For decades I held on to keeping it, a file cabinet remaining in some room I have within. I saw it as proof, as necessary, as a part of me that I couldn't fathom letting go of. But now, the thought blazing neon above all else: I don't need it anymore. Where does this feeling originate--this need to remain protective of the distant past, to maintain space for it? Is it simply a part of being a writer, an archivist? Even as a young thing in middle school, I held onto objects for the memories attached to them. I couldn't make sense of having lived it being enough. I needed proof. I needed something to hold, to see, to keep. How else could it have happened? Am I worried about disappearing?
I don't need it, or want it, anymore. The points on my line are the points on my line. Getting rid of the archive isn't going to change that. The memories will and will not fade--this is what happens with time, and that's okay. There are new ones being made. I am getting older. I have changed, am changing. Younger me would not recognize this version, I'm sure. I find solace in that. Back then, I wrote so, so much but kept even more close to the chest, a secret. It makes me sad. It also leaves me feeling immense relief--I don't have to hide anymore. I don't have to have proof. I don't have to hang onto any reminders of living. I'm here. It's enough.
What was once an amusing exercise now feels notably more emotional. To read back through all of these versions of self, to walk the path while knowing where it goes(or where it doesn't)...I am overwhelmed with what remained and what changed. All of it. I am both embarassed and intrigued by my youth--my rambling telling of it, how some things were given play-by-play and some were too full to recount it. Instead, I would just say "it's too much for me to put in words," or "I'll never forget this night but trying to get it down feels like it will ruin it." The funny thing? Many of those unforgettable nights I can't remember. I look for clues. Sometimes my past-self leaves them--stray dialogue, a code word. From 18 to 20 I stayed mostly transient--at one point my home was on a friend's couch. This is a painful period to read. I try to take it in while leaning on the comfort of now, but honestly reading requires a lot of breaks to bring me back to the present. I am stunned by the things I do not say more than by what is written. I remark waking up sore, but never dare mention my then-boyfriend hitting me the previous day, leaving a shoeprint bruise on my thigh. I do not mention my own emptiness, nor my need for help. An outsider might read over this time and think I was just a young thing with my head stuck in the clouds, ignorant and irresponsible. I do not write about fearing for my life. About the alcoholic I shared a bed with, how cleaning up after them and answering for them sucked everything out of me. I gloss over it with insomnia and rhetorical questions.
There are also wonderful things to remember from this time. Nothing is ever all one thing, is it? In the midst of the chaos I called "truly living," I stood behing so many microphones, on so many stages. I traveled for my love of writing. I formed friendships that still go strong to this very day. I had moments I wouldn't trade away for the world. And, in turn, there are things I still wince while reading--hurt I caused that I cannot undo, hurt lost to history yet stuck like stubborn seed in my hippocampus.
I'm already starting to think about what happens after I finish my next project. It seems irrelevant, but to consider it now is soothing to me. After I'm finished I want to delete what I have archived. For decades I held on to keeping it, a file cabinet remaining in some room I have within. I saw it as proof, as necessary, as a part of me that I couldn't fathom letting go of. But now, the thought blazing neon above all else: I don't need it anymore. Where does this feeling originate--this need to remain protective of the distant past, to maintain space for it? Is it simply a part of being a writer, an archivist? Even as a young thing in middle school, I held onto objects for the memories attached to them. I couldn't make sense of having lived it being enough. I needed proof. I needed something to hold, to see, to keep. How else could it have happened? Am I worried about disappearing?
I don't need it, or want it, anymore. The points on my line are the points on my line. Getting rid of the archive isn't going to change that. The memories will and will not fade--this is what happens with time, and that's okay. There are new ones being made. I am getting older. I have changed, am changing. Younger me would not recognize this version, I'm sure. I find solace in that. Back then, I wrote so, so much but kept even more close to the chest, a secret. It makes me sad. It also leaves me feeling immense relief--I don't have to hide anymore. I don't have to have proof. I don't have to hang onto any reminders of living. I'm here. It's enough.
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