It feels strange reading these back, how much space there is around the words. How much insight I have now. And how there’s little detail on the actual abuse, just snippets of old memories that I don’t think of much anymore, but many of which ruled my life for a long time.
I think that’s the key. I’m so different to who I used to be, that person was such a mess, that I’ve forgotten what happened. I still have leftover trauma, but through the writings I’ve kept all these years, I’ve been able to put it into words, process it, and move on.
And each time I write about it, my ability to put thoughts and feelings into words becomes better, and the more I can get out at once.
The real record of what happened is in these scatted old journals, not in my head. I knew the journals are what got me through my first depression. I guess they helped with the abuse. The poetry too. And all the surrogate mums; having someone who believed me changed things in ways I’ve never really thought about. I could fill another journal with the things that helped me recover, and the struggles I faced along the way that, at the time, seemed impassable. Maybe I have already, in books I’ve since forgotten.
The words here have little punch to them, because the thoughts they hold are floating and free now, like the space inside a bubble. I don’t need to prove anything now. I don’t need to fight for a piece of myself.
I wonder if I should tidy this journal up. It was only meant to be a long-form offshoot from another private journal, a place where I could catalogue some of the darker things, like how boy was an offshoot of my main journal too.