I’ve made so many moves over the years it’s hard to keep track of them all. Besides the physical moves I’ve made—from Wyoming to Chicago and various suburbs thereof—I’ve made personal, emotional and relationship changes. It is surprising how much distance one can cover without ever having to take a step.
Through all these moves I’ve carried a trunk with me. It was a high school graduation present from my grandparents. The trunk has been a bench, a footstool, and a table, as well as being the holder of those things I couldn’t bear to toss, but had no need to be out in the open. Journals, letters, cards, old ids, and other ephemera. For the past couple of years it has sat under my desk, home to the garbage can and a laptop that I don’t use any more. I haven’t opened it, partly because I haven’t had anything to squirrel away (e-mail, Facebook and WordPress has digitized much of my correspondence and thoughts); but also because it is full.
In mid-December I dragged the trunk out. I was looking for a notebook, and was certain it had to be there. This happens on occasion. I’ll be seized by a need to find something and I tear apart the house in search of it. Usually, I fail to find whatever Lost Ark I’m chasing; if it were still around I would have found it easily. I’m then stuck with a mess and a heavy weight of frustration that my quarry managed to escape the nets of my organization zeal.
This time was no different. The notebook, and the information therein, was nowhere to be seen. In my digging through the trunk, I flipped through the dozen-plus journals there. They were varied: cloth covered ones bought in a three pack from Sam’s Club in the early 90s, spiral bound ones from Borders, “leather” covered ones, five subject Mead notebooks, even a manila envelope stuffed full of loose-leaf paper. This represented more than a decade of my life: from about 1995 to 2005. There were some random pages from earlier and later, but the bulk of my regular journaling ended shortly after Charlotte was born.
As I flipped through the pages all I read was misery. Every randomly picked page was a chronicle of how desperately unhappy I was. Did I write only when I was upset? Or did I only write of my unhappiness because that’s all there was? I think a little more of the former than the latter, but there was no denying that what I had committed to the pages was unpleasant. I wanted to reach out to my past self and tell her that it was going to get better … in a way. I can’t reach her, though. She is in the past and trying to cast back would only slow down the momentum I have gained.
But I didn’t have to keep carrying the millstone of unhappiness. What did I gain by keeping these journals around? Evidence of my unhappiness during that time? Did I really need it? I had my memories, if ever I wanted to revisit them. Which, again, wasn’t going to help me move forward. I had learned all I could from that time. There was nothing more these journals could tell me about myself.
I grabbed two cardboard boxes and filled them. The letters, cards, notes, pictures and miscellaneous bits and bobs stayed. The journals went. For the first time in years there was room in the trunk. Room for more pleasant keepsakes: love notes from Stephan, birthday cards from my children, perhaps even a letter to my future self, telling her that I am okay. She can let me go and move on.
The first of January I took the journals out to the fire pit and burned them. The day was sunny, if cold, and windy. Despite the helpful nature of the weather, burning a decade’s worth of misery isn’t easy, even when it is bound in paper. You can’t just set fire to your past and walk away. You have to tend to it, or else it won’t be fully destroyed. Blackened bits of paper constantly tried to escape, flying high and forcing me to run around the yard to catch them. Some were still burning and had to be stomped out. I had to open up the journals with a poker to make sure all the pages burned. I got a surprising, and disturbing, insight into just what goes into a book burning.
The whole process took three or four hours. As I worked I kept thinking, “This is who I was, but it is not who I am now.” As the paper turned to ash, I felt the truth of it more and more. I returned to the house cold, smelling of smoke, my hair peppered with ashes. I can’t say if I have completely divorced myself from the misery of those past years. However, I won’t have those words sitting at my feet, their ambient unpleasantness influencing me. And if that isn’t a solution, it’s at least a start.