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journal 2 and other missing pieces of myself
So my boss gave me a magazine clipping a few weeks ago. I think it was right before we went on vacation. And it was about this woman who wrote a book about how her mental health impacted her work as a entrepreneur (a word I can't even spell). And we were going on vacation and I needed a book to read, so I downloaded it to my Kindle app and I've been reading it a bit at a time.
When.
All the sudden.
I was OVERCOME with the urge to write my novel. A memoir I started 5 years ago. I went to open Scrivener (the app I'd been using to write and organize my work) and of course it wouldn't open. EEEEEKKK!!! I've lost all my work!!! Turns out it just won't work on my current operating system.
So of course you have to buy the NEW version. Luckily there's a 30 day free trial. I wasn't sure I was 100% committed to writing again yet and I wasn't quite ready to shell out the 50 bucks to buy the app. So I downloaded the free trial and crossed my fingers that it would import my old file. Whew. It did.
So I read what I had written so far. Honestly, I hadn't gotten as far as I thought I had. Hmm. Oh well. I'll just start where I left off.
Here was my initial plan of attack. 5 years ago I gathered every journal I could find from senior year of high school to present. I grabbed some post-it notes and flipped to the first and last pages of the journal. Wrote the dates on the post it, slapped it on the cover, and went on to the next one. Then I put them in order. It seemed like a good place to start. And it still does. I mean what else do I have?
So my Scrivener app is broken down into folders. A folder for each journal. When I stopped the project in 2015, I was in the middle of folder 2: 9/9/2004-2/2/2005. So I go down to the basement and start sifting through the journals on the bookshelf. I CANNOT find journal 2. So then I'm like..."well it must be in my room. I was writing in my room, so I'm sure it's somewhere in there." So I tear apart my room. Or at least the parts where I thought it would be. I found a few more journals to add to the pile...ones I've accumulated since I first began this venture. But no journal 2. I was broken hearted.
I then went back into the basement and started re-organizing the journals because they weren't in order anymore. And I just began to cry. Because there were holes. Massive holes. Years. Some years were journals that were just straight up lost. Some years were journals I burned. And some were years I just couldn't bring myself to write. Maybe not always in years, but at least important chunks.
I have no record of the first time I broke my hip, the horribleness of my breakup with Andy, my entire sophomore year, or the beginning of the fall of 2006 when my life finally completely shattered to pieces. And that's just my teenage years. I have bits. My memory is in crumbs. But the bulk of the story? Gone forever.
And who will want to read a story like that?
Devestation.
Yet I'm still convinced it's a story worth writing.
And I can only hope it's one worth reading.
So I started. I wrote about the loss of journal 2 and just picked up where I left off. Which actually can't even be called journal 3. It's a stack of 17 pieces of paper torn from a notebook and paper clipped together. It's 2 entries and one isn't dated, and I really can't tell which one comes first.
My book is a narrative. It's kind of a summary of the highlights of each journal, interspersed with excerpts from the journal itself. But those 17 pages? I typed the whole thing out. In 2 entries. Flipped them around a few times. I'm not sure which one I'll keep. Or if I'll keep either of them. Or if I'll keep them both.
But the reason I have them in there for now is because it's a reminder. That even at age 18 I wanted to write a novel. I knew I had a story to tell. And at that point my story involved only teenage love and a broken hip.
That girl had no idea.
But I went from typing up those 17 pages and dove into reading the next journal. And the next. And the next. And the next. I read for hours by the fire pit. Then on the couch. And then I said enough.
I can't get too far ahead of myself. I need to have a plan. I can't get sucked into the drama, the illness, or the pain of the past. It's infectious. Almost addictive, those journals. So I think it's a good idea to read a journal or 2 ahead of my writing. Just so I have some direction. But no more.
There's something cathartic about the writing process. Particularly with these journals. I have cried. I mean like boogers seeping through tissues crying. But I have seen and grown to love and care for this girl. Even though sometimes I want to knock her across the head with a 2x4.
I've written more in the past 24 hours than I did when I first began. We're at the first big missing chunk. I'm pulling my hair out trying to remember the highlights and lowlights of a year and a half of hell. Without losing my sanity in the process.
I think a lot of authors write the forward of their book after they have actually finished their novel. And who knows, I might do that, too. But 5 years ago, I started with the forward. And it goes something like this:
“There are moments in which I’ve wondered whether or not the journey I’m about to embark upon is a foolish one. All I have is journals. A lifetimes of scribbles....
The words contained in these journals are sure to shake the innermost portions of my soul. Some are written in pen and others in crayon. My writing utensil itself gave a snapshot of life in those moments. A pen on a good day. A marker when things got rough. A crayon when that’s the only thing they’d let me have....
My life is told in a variety of colors. Pictures. Words torn from magazines and plastered on pages. Quotes that spoke to me.
The pile [of journals] is overwhelming....
I’m troubled. While the pile is large, there are far too few books on the floor of my bedroom.
My first instinct is to run back down to the basement. Sift through more shelves. I’m looking for more pieces of myself. But they’re gone. Perhaps forever.
Maybe this project was foolish after all. Who would want to read a story like the one I’m about to tell? One in which the most pivotal pieces of the plot are not lost, but missing entirely? I can barely stand such a truth myself. What would compel another to take interest in such a tragedy?
But the holes tell stories of themselves, I’m told. Captivating and passionate tales.
The story you’re about to hear is a foreign one, even to me. My memories were stolen from me years ago. These books are all I have and they tell the story of a girl. I’m told the story is a great one. The girl is one I think I’d like to know.
My plan is to read each journal and record my journey through its pages. I want to understand this character and her life. I’d like to see her as she is. Know her. Enjoy her. Get lost in the pages of her soul and come out with compassion for her. Love. Peace with her past and hope for her future.”
Gosh darn it, now I'm crying again. "Peace with her past and hope for her future." I think I'll shell out the 50 bucks after all.
(And start saving my pennies for a kick ass editor, cuz boy am I going to have a hard time finding one willing to wade through this hot mess...)
“This Is Me”
I know I'm a little bit late to the game, but I don't go to the movie theater very often, so I had to wait to see this one until it came out on DVD. We watched The Greatest Showman the other night and I must say that it lived up to the hype. I was thoroughly impressed. There's no need for a spoiler alert because I'm not going to spill the plot. But I am going to share the lyrics from one of my favorite songs:
“I am not a stranger to the dark
Hide away, they say
’Cause we don’t want your broken parts
I’ve learned to be ashamed of all my scars
Run away, they say
No one’ll love you as you are
But I won’t let them break me down to dust
I know that there’s a place for us
For we are glorious
When the sharpest words wanna cut me down
I’m gonna send a flood, gonna drown them out
I am brave, I am bruised
I am who I’m meant to be, this is me
Look out ‘cause here I come
And I’m marching on to the beat I drum
I’m not scared to be seen
I make no apologies, this is me
Another round of bullets hits my skin
Well, fire away ‘cause today, I won’t let the shame sink in
We are bursting through the barricades and
Reaching for the sun (we are warriors)
Yeah, that’s what we’ve become
And I know that I deserve your love
’Cause there’s nothing I’m not worthy of
When the sharpest words wanna cut me down
I’m gonna send a flood, gonna drown them out
This is brave, this is proof
This is who I’m meant to be, this is me”
It's like a fight song to me. I love it.
"I am brave, I am bruised, I am who I want to be, I am me."
It's true. I am bruised. I have been beaten up by life. By people. By circumstance. But these things have made me who I am. And I like me. I am who I want to be.
I am brave. I don't let my bruises define me. I get up and fight anyway. Every day. I fight my diagnoses. I fight the haters. I fight the negative voices in my head. I am brave. This is me.
"I'm not scared to be seen, I make no apologies, this is me."
For a long time, all I wanted to do was disappear. Anything to vanish from the face of the planet. I was filled with shame. Unworthiness. Self-hatred. But no more. I'm not scared to be seen. I don't apologize for my existence. I am proud of who I am. This is me.
"Another round of bullets hits my skin, well fire away, 'cause today, I won't let the shame sink in."
There are haters out there. Lots of them. People who don't believe in a changed life. People who will hold your past against you. People who look for flaws and point them out to the world. You know, the haters.
Their comments and looks used to filled me with shame. They used to prevent my from doing the things I loved. They used to make me embarrassed for my very existence. But no more. They can fire away. My voice will not be muffled. I won't let the shame sink in. This is me.
"And I know that I deserve your love, 'cause there's nothing I'm not worthy of."
This is where the lyrics really become my fight song. For a long time I didn't believe these words. I still have trouble accepting them as truth. They're difficult things to believe. But it's true. I deserve to be loved. I am worthy of love. I am worthy of respect. I am worthy of success. I am worthy of a life worth living. This is me.
"I know that there's a place for us, we are glorious...we are warriors."
I've met a lot of people along my journey toward mental health. And they are warriors. We are all warriors. Do you want to know why? Because we get up and fight. Every day we fight. We fight the haters. We fight the stigma. We fight the voices in our heads. We fight. And our fight makes us glorious.
In the movie, Mr. Barnum fills his circus with oddities. And I am one. I am an oddity. But I don't think that's a bad thing. Oddities are different. They bring joy. They fight for their right to live a meaningful existence. They make the world a more interesting place. They are special.
The world needs oddities. And I'm happy to fill that need.
Because this is me: I am brave. I am bruised. I'm not scared. I'm unashamed. I am loved. I am worthy. I am glorious. I am a warrior. This is me.
Speechless
Well I have the flu and I've lost my voice. I know I blogged yesterday, but I'm tired of sitting around doing nothing, so I'm going to write again. But about what?
Hmm.
I love quotes. They speak to things I'm unable to put words to. And since I literally don't have a voice right now, I figured it'd be a good time to go through my notebooks full of quotes and record the ones that speak to me when things get tough. So...for your reading pleasure...here they are :)
“We don’t seek the painful experiences that hue our identities, but we seek our identities in the wake of painful experiences. We cannot bear a pointless torment, but we can endure great pain if we believe it is purposeful.”
“You can never lose while you’re fighting. You only lose when you stop.”
“There is always a moment right before dawn, when the sun gathers itself for the new day and then it steps into the dark world and everything is so filled with light that whatever doubt there was in that long night is barely a memory and I hope you remember this in these days, because it is the way of all things that the night ends and the light returns. The light always returns.”
“Pain is meant to wake us up. People try to hide their pain. But they’re wrong. Pain is something to carry, like a radio. You feel your strength in the experience of pain. It’s all in how you carry it. That’s what matters. Pain is a feeling. Your feelings are a part of you. Your own reality. If you feel ashamed of them, and hide them, you’re letting society destroy your reality. You should stand up for your right to feel your pain.”
“What is stronger than the human heart which shatters over and over and still lives.”
“I lied and said I was busy. I was busy; but not in a way most people understand. I was busy taking deeper breaths. I was busy silencing irrational thoughts. I was busy calming a racing heart. I was busy telling myself I am okay. Sometimes, this is my busy—and I will not apologize for it.”
“All I can tell you is there are people who see how much love and care and heart it takes to bring your whole self back into the world and we will walk here beside you for as long as it takes.”
“‘You,’ he said, ‘are a terribly real thing in a terribly false world, and that, I believe, is why you are in so much pain.’”
“Sadness gives depth. Happiness gives height. Sadness gives roots. Happiness gives branches. Happiness is like a tree going into the sky, and sadness is like the roots going down into the womb of the earth. Both are needed, and the higher a tree goes, the deeper it goes, simultaneously. The bigger the tree, the bigger will be its roots. In fact, it is always in proportion. That’s its balance.”
“It is being honest about my pain that makes me invincible.”
“Come to me whole: with your flaws, your scars and everything you consider imperfect. Then let me show you what I see. I see galaxies in your eyes and fire in your hair. I see journeys in your palms and adventure waiting in your smile. I see what you cannot: you are absolutely, maddeningly, irrevocably perfect.”
“Now and then, when the world becomes too much, I see the wind and rain and lightening flash in your storm eyes and then it passes and for a moment I see you wonder if there should be an apology and how do I tell you there is only the wild and vast heart of you and there are those who cannot see what that demand, but I am not one of them.”
“Courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day, saying, ‘I will try again tomorrow.’”
Why do I like these quotes so much? They're not necessarily motivational. And they may not be inspiring in the traditional way. You may, in fact, view some of them as a downer. But to me they speak truth. Hope, even. They're real. Raw. Authentic.
A lot of them speak of pain. Scars. Sadness. Darkness. Life is laced with these things, after all. It's these things that drive me to seek out quotes, in fact. When I don't have the words to express these deep feelings of despair, it's comforting to know that others do. It makes me feel less alone. It reminds me that it's all part of the human experience. And I am, above all else, a human.
But these quotes also speak of happiness. Fight. Purpose. Love. Courage. Life is sprinkled with these things as well. It's easy to forget these things in the midst of the darkness. That's why I love these quotes so much. They blend the darkness with rays of light in a realistically elegant way.
They're realistic. With a hint of optimism. And I call myself a realistic optimist. So I guess it makes sense, eh?
Well that's it. That's all I've got. What about you? What quotes inspire you when times get tough?