The art of letting go

Last Sunday night I challenged myself to be BRAVE. Not the loud in your face kind of courage that the world seems to applaud when it goes viral on Instagram posts. 

But the quiet bravery. The one that requires a strength no one can visually see most days. But that must be felt in your core.

The task set at hand was a long time coming. I’d been holding on to something far longer than necessary. Twelve somethings it would turn out to be. And three hours of tearing and ripping and trying not to shake and cry and scream all at once.

Last Sunday I tore up my journals. Over 3000 pages documenting scary moments that I would never have imagined, yet actually lived through.

And in doing so, I hoped to free myself from the weight of carrying around visual reminders of a nightmare that I still re-live often in my sleeping hours. But maybe, just maybe, the process of destroying these journals would also sever the link that tethered me to my past.

Maybe I would finally be free to move forward.

But like many good stories, to understand how I got to this place where destruction allowed me to rebuild my life, we have to start in the past. 

Once upon a time, I kept a diary filled with all the usual childhood nonsense. Dreams and hopes. Frustrations and confusions. The normal part of small human trying to make sense of the world. It held my most private precious thoughts. Secrets of my still forming soul, and the trials and tribulations of my heart. 

I was an imaginative child, but the diary held my truths as I learned and grew. It was a special space, safe to pour out my thoughts.

Until it wasn’t.

I can’t remember exactly when I realized my diary was being read. But I do remember the words that came out of my mother’s mouth contained thoughts of mine that I had NEVER shared with her. 

She was NOT a safe space. 

And so to hear my words repeated as weapons against me was frightening. How long had this invasion of my privacy been going on? And was she the only one privy to my internal musings?

Soon I learned that nothing was safe in this space SHE called a home, a space I began to think of as labyrinth filled with active mines to be navigated carefully around. Or boom, it all blows up in your face, and as your heart bleeds out you’re told “it’s fine, it’s fine, nothing has happened.”

It was around the same time I learned how to always smile in public, and never let anyone see me cry. Because tears, a releasing balm for that which wounds us, could also become ammo used against a child. 

“If they see you crying, they will think something is wrong with us. And then they will separate you and your siblings. Is that what you want? To be responsible for breaking up this family?”

So I learned not to cry. And I didn’t cry for many years, at least until recently. (Some days now I feel I cry too much.) I also stopped writing.

Until, long out of that household, I began writing again. This time, I was certain my thoughts were safe. But lovers and ex’s took offense at my private stash of musings - seen by no one (I thought) other than me. This was before I wrote publicly or professionally. And yet, they felt they had a right to EVERY part of me, and soon I discovered no part of me was ever safe from scrutiny.

So I paused on the writing. It didn’t matter so much as many of the journals were already long gone - destroyed by the very men who claimed to love all of me. As long as I did as I was told, and lived up to the fantasy expectation of whoever I was with at the time, I was safe. My own thoughts and needs and desires and hopes, tucked away in the corners of my mind, but never on the written page.

Time has a way of passing whether we document it or not. And while much lives on in our memories, or etched into scars on our bodies, there are times when a written history would be helpful.

To remind us of moments long past. Of laughter and joy. And lessons you hope to never have to repeat.

But since my memory seemed fine, I decided to live without the written word documenting all these moments. Until one day, someone asked me a question about my past that I couldn’t answer.

It was an innocuous question. A “where was I when” type of inquiry.  Only when I reached into the depths of my brain, there was…nothing. Not an “I forget”, just nothing. A completely blank spot where an entire block of time should have been.

Perhaps this wouldn’t have been cause for alarm. Everyone forgets moments of their lives. Only I have one of those memories that retains details and can visually picture entire experiences from start to finish as though watching an instant replay video.

At least I did have one of those memories. 

Because after this first incident, I began to discover more holes where entire blocks of time should have been. References to things I should have known - cultural details from the time period I grew up in - were gone. And to make matters worse, when I tried to remember, my body started to react in unpredictable ways.

Shaking.
Vomiting.
Losing appetite for days.

I wrote about this before. On my birthday post from this year. (You can find that piece here: sleeping-in-your-birthday-suit.html ) 

But the long and short of it is that our bodies are miraculous entities. And when the trauma of certain experiences became harmful, my own brain decided to hide those memories until such time as I could safely process them. 

And that time has started recently. Which is terrifying and gratifying to know that years of my life is not completely lost, but somewhere in the depths of a mind that wants to protect the little girl I was, and help the woman I am today.

But what, you may be asking, does any of this have to do with last Sunday night, and tearing up of 12 journals?

If I was to ask any of you what major event happened in 2020, I highly doubt that anyone would fail to mention the global pandemic that shut down the world. I too remember it. Vividly. Quarantine and losing my business in one fell swoop, led me to start writing again. It seemed like a harmless past time. After all, who would ever see the journals I was keeping now?

And with the memory issues I was now aware of which left gaps in my past, I did not want to lose ANOTHER block of time in case the whole world went insane, and not just my personal microcosm of it.

But I also wanted to journal about hope and love. Faith in humanity and the beauty of the world. 

These were not to be the lost meanderings of a mind suffocating, but the roadmap to help myself keep a belief in life’s joy. Writing became a way to stay connected to my present self, and a kudos to my future self to see how far she had grown.

And so it was, until I left the northeast and traveled south in search of work in one of the few cities that seemed unaffected by all the shutdowns. It was such a hopeful venture, until a chance encounter led to one of the most terrifying experiences of my “remembered” life.

My writings, my lifeline to myself and my thoughts, became a weapon against me again. To the point where someone dictated to me what to write in them, as proof he could control even my future perceptions of my experiences. 

Yes, you read that correctly. Someone actually stood over me to tell me what to write in my own journals, as proof that he could control even my private thoughts.

Now if you are still reading this, and have looked at any of my recent posts on social media, you know that I am long past this horrendous experience. 

I am safe. 
I am healing. 
I am creating a new chapter of life that is steeped in love and surrounded by supportive, kind, people. 

But in the in-between time, as I finally extracted myself from that situation, and moved to yet another new state, I wrote and wrote and wrote.

At first it was fear driving the writing. 

A fear that one day my brain would not want to process this experience and would hide the memories from me as it had already done with portions of my life. 

Then it was an exercise in exorcism. 

Getting this experience out of my head, and then detailing other experiences of my life which also were horrific as though they were a roadmap to that pinnacle moment of terror. The idea being that, if they were out of my head, the memories would no longer haunt me.

It never worked. I still have nightmares, although less plentiful than before.

I remember nights where I wrote for hours. Occasionally interspersing the scary with motivational quotes as though the cliched pithy phrases would help soothe me as I documented every detail - conversations, setting, even what I was wearing when.

As each journal was finished, I stuck them up in the back of a closet. Perhaps to read as cautionary tales of what to watch for so it would never ever happen to me again.

But really just to get them out of the way, so I didn’t have to see them. Because as cathartic as the writing was, it didn’t heal the wounds. The scars still hurt.

Recently, there has been a lot of joy entering my life. At heart I have never given up my view of the world as a beautiful space, a kind place, a playground for love and happiness to exist. 

Yet even with the joy, there has been incredible moments of sadness and terror. Because the triggers from that “before” time still exist. And seemingly innocent moments remind me of things I wish I could forget.

I’m determined though. To move into this holiday season with a sense of lightness and joy. Thus I’ve asked for only one thing on my “gift list” - time with those I love. 

So with my partner away at his lover’s home this weekend (we are poly, more to come on this topic although you can read bits about it in past posts), I decided it was time to let these chronicles of past trauma go. They were weighing me down, and had served their purpose in the writing of them.

I thought I could do this on my own. So I put on a favorite shirt (which used to be my partner’s but he has outgrown from trips to the gym), lit some candles, and brought out the journals.

And it was then that I had a minor panic attack discovering there were TWELVE of them. Three thousand pages of intricate details, and just me with no fire to burn them in, or shredder available. It was late at night. 

I began to tear the pages out and rip them to tiny pieces. I tried not read them, but like the cliche of the train wreck, I couldn’t look away. My courage faltered. And then I remembered the old adage that being vulnerable IS a kind of bravery. 

I picked up my cell and called a dear friend. Told her what I was doing, and asked for help distracting me so I wouldn’t read every word and re-live things I wished I hadn’t lived through the first time around.

Thank you Universe for friends who pick up the phone. Who ask no questions and say “I am here”. I hope to always be one of those too.

Three and a half hours later, it was done. In theory. I should have been relieved. 

But the next morning I woke with fear. That tearing up the words had freed the nightmare people from their pages and that they would suddenly show up on my door to do worse to me than before.

I wanted to run. My beautiful space felt like the walls were closing in. My partner was due home to his place, and although I wouldn’t see him until the next day, I knew we would text and talk. How could I tell him what I was experiencing without sounding like a crazy person?

There’s a happy ending to this story. 

I didn’t run. I did clean up my space and clear out anything no longer serving me - clothing that was too big, things I no longer used. I sent out text messages to friends, my partner, my community. I posted on my Instagram story about this experience.

And I learned that letting go, like everything else, is a journey. Scars don’t fade in a moment, but those who love us don’t expect them to. 

There’s a lot going on in the world right now. There will always be things well beyond my control. But in my tiny corner of it, there is also a lot of beauty and joy. And I don’t want the trauma of my past to poison the incredible present and future I’ve been consciously creating.

I know I will still write in my journals. And perhaps some I will keep. Or not. 

And I also intend to keep writing publicly now and sharing with all of you. Maybe this is a bit of self preservation. Because once it’s out on the internet, what I say, will never truly be erased. Plus I don’t want to hide what I think or feel anymore. 

But I also have this dream that, by sharing my story, someone out there will feel a bit of hope that there is always a light to be found in life, even in their darkest times.

However sometimes to see the light, you have to let go of whatever blocks it from coming through.

Sending out much love this holiday season. Thank you for continuing to read my posts. I’m wishing each of you the courage to let go, of whatever prevents you from moving forward to a beautiful tomorrow.

xoxo
​Tink

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