I have all the journals that I have ever written in my old bedroom in my parents’ home, including the ones that were covered in Winnie the Pooh stickers that are filled with nothing more than unsent letters to my then best friends asking if we were, in fact, best friends and, if they were, would they like to come over to my house for a sleep over.
The scratchy handwriting of a novice writer soon transforms to one that is a grown up mix of cursive and print with frivolous worries and thoughts similar to the sleep over invitations of my youth.
Worries about starting middle school, high school, college, and peace corps.
Rambles of nothingness that had to be put down on paper so that I could fall asleep.
A precious little book has always been near me, knowing its hiding place easily placated my jitters and wiped the tears from my eyes.
But when I lived in Zambia, when I encountered true problems, heartaches, fears, and pains, writing no longer was something that made me feel better. And now that I am home, I still can’t face my thoughts in written form.
Instead of healing me, writing reopened the wounds. It was easier to push the memories out of my consciousness than to put the memories on paper.
Why would I want to relive the difficult days that I had been through?
Why would I immortalize those memories of loneliness or troubles?
It became easier to forget.
Will I regret not documenting two years of my life? Will I one day in my old age yearn to remember clearly my home and my life as a young 20 something?
Will writing ever become soothing again?
For the first time in a very long time, I have no journal, diary, or precious book hidden under pillows or in shallow desk drawers and I am not sure what to think of that.
If my pens are not bleeding in precious pages, then what is bleeding?