From age 12, writing in my diaries (to 19), was a record of the teen years of that young girl, whom I scarcely recognize, looking back. She was so much happier, more resilient, more productive, more social, more fun, more confident and contemplative that I remember her. Rather, I remember the negatives: the oppressive, punitive parents, the lack of belonging in every group I was in, the avoidance of schoolwork (though I got I good grades, somehow), the disappointments (no drill team) – and yet, three senior proms with three good guys (wearing the same pink dress). 1958-1962.
In the early 70’s, a new mother and home-creator and owner, I explored meditation and Buddhism, and what literature caught my awakening consciousness, though it was a solo time. Tom’s and my marriage was solid, very social and busy. We got involved with Creative Initiative Foundation, quasi spiritual, definitely psychological – a minority of young people to save the world. With a new second baby, the demands of too many meetings, though Tom was thoroughly ensconced (though never a church-goer like I was), I had to drop out.
I didn’t start journaling for several years after – Maybe around 1974, when, with two boys – 1½, and 4 – Tom and I had moved to the country outside of Santa Rosa – over an acre of a lovely house, woods, huge boulders, a sweeping back lawn, a fenced vineyard/veg and flower garden – a haven for growing boys to build forts and tree houses and run their Tonka trucks all over the place. (We had to constantly beware of black widows, and rattle snakes we never saw.)
At this point, the marriage had gone tricky; I’d been forced to leave my dream home in my dream small town with my dream friends and social life, and two babysitting co-ops. To the country where friends were a different species – not comfortable, no babysitting co-ops, nothing in common but neighbor kids, soccer games, HP parties all the time, all the same, all the same people. Tom had promised we’d go back in two years if I couldn’t stand it; I couldn’t, but there was no job back in Palo Alto, and our dream house’s price had increased by 3.5 times in a year.
1974. We stayed there for nine years (I left to live in San Francisco with the boys for seven months, having fallen for a guy I knew was temporary but the catalyst I needed). I came back to Santa Rosa, had a daughter in 1979, and moved out in 1983, to a small house in Santa Rosa where the kids and I lived until 2004.
The best thing about Santa Rosa was a book club of bright, warm women. (We stayed in touch for years after.)
Brian and I met in 1984; he had four kids and four siblings; our life became full of family, which I loved. My kids grew up with siblings and a wonderful Father.
I spent 30 years in a town I never cared for, going through changes in marriage, friends, many jobs, a Masters degree, several months commuting to a Very Good Job in San Francisco.
I also went through a lot of psychological, mental, emotional, physical changes, requiring a continuous dependence on journaling – to make my way through what I was going through; to resolve issues that required endless writing though feelings, assumptions, delusions and ideas; to answer questions that required lengthy processing. I had one exorcism, and years of one-on-one therapy. I ran for miles, and drank wine and smoked with my girlfriends, took JC and State College and exercise classes, ate out, saw lots of movies, and read many books - and transported kids from the country to schools, games, parties, friends, lessons - constantly.
After the EST training, in 1976, I put behind me the Perfect, Capable, Socially Acceptable, Hard-working Perfectionist with the aim to be Authentic, not knowing at all yet whom that might be. I spent years saying what I felt, thought, meant instead of the “right” thing. I also behaved in a manner that was way outside the acceptable family-of-origin values (though not unusual for the times). I explored and decided yea or nay what was right for me. (Ultimately, that reverted, with a solid marriage with Brian, into pretty much how I was raised, living the values and ethics I taught my children.)
But these years were tumultuous and my only base was writing it throughout. I continued to journal through ups and downs with Brian, working them out in the quiet. At 70, I began writing with the theme of The End Game, focusing on changes mental, emotional, physical, spiritual. At 80, I continue but sporadically, noting what I’m doing in- and outside home, and recording physical changes; especially going through the years-long grief of losing Brian, communing with him, chatting with him. Painfully hyper-sensitive, I distance myself from the world’s goings-on; my heart aches; gratitude-journaling is only a band-aide.
I write a lot about dying and death, acquainting myself with those realities. I find myself becoming friends with them. Over time, fond friends.
What have I found in journaling? Myself: daughter, woman, wife, mother, friend, co-worker. By the time I finish writing, and I don’t stop until then, I am spent, unloaded, freed of whatever real or imagined burden had made me sit down and pick up my fountain pen and journal of the day.
I have a few dozen journals in boxes tucked away. I’ve asked my daughter to have a bon fire of them when I’m gone.