Journals are kind of strange.
I’ve kept a journal since I was made to write one for grade 10 English class. I was fifteen. My teacher said that we could mark parts of it private, and he wouldn’t read it. He lied. I know this because he put encouraging remarks on the heartfelt teenage angst that I had marked as private. I had lamented about my small breasts when other girls had wonderful, beautiful breasts (oh, 15 year old me, you silly girl!). I remember feeling conflicted when he handed the journals back and I saw that he had commented on these private thoughts: vacillating between outraged embarrassment that he’d read it, and thankful for the kindness he had put in it (I seem to remember some inappropriately appreciative comment about my long legs, and the observation that I was really smart and kind and that the size of my breasts didn’t matter one bit. He was right, of course). I came down on the side of gratitude. I appreciated his kind words more than I was outraged by his breach of trust.
Since then, I kept paper journals, many many of them, before I had a computer. And I now have thousands of pages of personal thoughts that live in documents on my hard drive. There is always a place for me to go to write random things out. And I do that a lot.
I rarely read back on them. Sometimes I want to remind myself of something, to validate a feeling, or to clarify it in my own head, and I will go and search for some elusive memory, no longer surprised when what I read doesn’t match the shape of what it has become in my head.
Too often, though, what I read makes me sad. My journals are relatively balanced with happiness and not, but they are where I pour out sadness in great detail. Not because I am a sad person in general, but because I need to get those thoughts out of my head, *especially* if they are spinning around and around and I can’t get rid of them. They spill onto the page in a kind of stream of consciousness, and if I read them later, it’s like a rewind button and I’m back there with a kind of intensity that never ceases to surprise me.
I’d love to pretend that it happens because my writing is so amazingly good that it elicits this response, but the truth is that once things are dealt with, I put them in a drawer and forget about them. Opening the drawer in my mind is one thing, but reading about what’s in there with the excruciating rawness of the moment is an entirely different thing: It’s an assault on my senses, it throws me straight back into the middle of those emotions.
There is not really a point to this except that I was going to write a post about casual play, about why the D/s and the chemistry worked with bambi for that short, bright and shining time that we had together when I always say that I can’t do casual play. I went and looked back on my writing around then to jog my memory, and we were so sweet with each other that it made me suddenly sad. I lost the will to write about it in the sadness.
Maybe another time.