The Afterlife of a Journal
why I've always thought I should destroy my journalsp and what I think now
Issue #36/ Welcome to Good and Beautiful Things, thanks so much for joining me in this space.
My first memory of keeping a journal is from the seventh grade. Like most girls that age I had the kind with the little lock and key where all of my precious and rare thoughts felt safely hidden away from the world. Safe, that was, until my mom broke the lock and read every page and I got in some serious trouble. Let’s just say, I don’t remember starting another journal until college. (I forgive you, Mom.)
It was a friend in college who got me into journaling again. She would take a basic Mead journal, collage the front and back with words and pictures taken from magazines and then cover it with clear contact paper. Drawn in by her creative process, I decorated my first Mead journal and over the next four years - many, many more.
The practice of journal keeping has ebbed and flowed over the years. Sometimes those lined pages provided a refuge of sweet release. Other times I stopped for long periods because I got tired of myself. Tired of what felt like whining, of saying the same negative things year after year. I felt like I was collecting only bad thoughts and memories and if the journals were discovered after my death they would paint a slanted picture of my life—leaving out the good and beautiful, and I knew that wasn’t the whole story. I’ve even considered leaving instructions for my husband to comb through my journals and systematically redact anything that might leave the people I love with a bad impression of me.
Excavating the Past
A podcast I listened to this weekend got me thinking about my Dad’s years of dementia and I went looking for a journal from that period of my life. When I started looking for the journals, I realized that my fear around these tomes wasn’t just about what other people might think of me. I’ve also been afraid of going back to the places and feelings recorded so viscerally on each page.
Could I revisit the moments that stretched me and sometimes broke me and still survive the experience? Or would those memories catch me like quicksand and pull me under?
Even as I write this I’ve come to realize that it’s less the paper and inky words that concern me, it’s the risk of bringing the past back to life.
I’ve yet to find the journal I originally went digging for but in the two I’ve read through so far, I’ve been surprised by what I’ve found.
The first journal was from the year I began dealing with anxiety and chronic pain (2017). Rather than the passages reading like a person trapped in a dark place (I was in a dark place, of that I’m sure) they also held the truths that God was gently offering me during that time. As I turned each page I could see the me of six years ago, the me with a scalded heart and also the love of God showing up to hold it.
The other journal I found was from 2007. In 2007, I celebrated my thirtieth birthday. For context, at the time I had three children, ages seven-years-old and under. Due to some concerning behaviors exhibited by my Dad, we’d moved him to our city earlier that year. We didn’t know then that we’d just kicked off the timeline of his six-year spiral into mental illness, psychiatric wards, and dementia that would last until he died in 2012.
I don’t remember most of my birthdays but I remember certain details of my thirtieth. My husband had planned a surprise party.1 While we were at the party he disappeared and I went looking for him. I found him outside on the phone and asked him what was going on. After some hesitation he said, “I didn’t want you to find out until later, when your party was over, but your Dad is back in the psych ward.”
Honestly, it’s been a hard milestone birthday to carry around.
This weekend, in one of the journals I found, I read a different account of that same birthday. A memory from earlier that same day.
August 29, 2007
“A moment I don’t want to forget. Today is my 30th birthday. I was rather grumpy today, having my ‘special day’ consist of scrubbing the floors and the bathroom. I was short with the kids for no good reason and even I knew it. And my sweet, sweet kids - instead of continuing to be grumpy back at me - decided to go make me cards and then make a party for me in their room.
They asked for balloons and streamers and a cardboard box, all the time claiming that they weren’t doing “anything” or that they were just making a SuperWalmart in their room. When at last they surprised me (fully, innocently believing that I didn’t know what they were doing) with the party, they had a craft planned, had tied up all the streamers, and made the confetti, thought of games, and made a cake. It was precious and their sweet and forgiving love is priceless.”
It almost feels like I need a moment of silence here to honor the gift of this short passage in a journal that I had often considered burning without any real knowledge of what was in it.
I’d forgotten this memory completely. And I’d only held on to the hard one.
I had imagined my journals as places of darkness that might swallow me up if I dared dip a toe in. Instead my journal had gifted me with something beautiful that changed the texture of the memory I’d carried around for seventeen years.
Do I now believe that beauty and goodness is all that awaits me if I continue to go journal diving? I’m not that naive. As I collected all of my journals from around my closet, I opened a few randomly. Just a few lines in and my feet were sinking into the mire of the past and the ghosts were rising up. I closed the books for now. But I do find that I am more curious and less fearful about what else might be tucked away.
For now I’m going to hold the gift of my surprise party, not the one that happened later that night, but the one thrown by three thoughtful little kids who saw their mom was having a bad day and decided to do something about it.2
What is your experience with journaling? I’d love to hear about it in the comments.
(This journal dive inspired a follow-up post which you can read here.)
Blessings from the Guest Nest,
-Aimee
I told my husband about the journal entry I’d found and asked him what details he remembered about my thirtieth birthday. I mentioned that he’d planned a surprise party for me and his response was, I guess that was before I knew better than to plan a surprise party.” Yes, husband, and thank you for knowing better now.
It’s lovely that I found this forgotten memory of my kids, a day when they were gracious with my grumpiness. I could have just as easily found the entry that described the day they spent planning to run away (for real), storing up their lunch and snacks so they’d have provisions for the trip. On that day their response to my grumpiness was not a party, it was an exit strategy.
Thank you for this, Aimee! It's made me realize how attached to my journals I am. My whole life, since I was old enough to write, is contained in these notebooks and one my favorite things to do is go back and read them. As far as others reading them after my death, I was always of the opinion that if they didn't want me writing about them, they shouldn't have pissed me off. 😁 But now, after reading your post, I'm wondering if my inability to even imagine destroying my journals is a form of clinging to something, and that my existence is only affirmed if I have my writings about it. Wow, this gives me a lot to ponder! Thank you!
This makes me think about Beth Moore talking about her instructions to her children for her journals. I’m not sure I would want my kids to read, but I’m also not sure I wouldn’t?
I’ve gone back to some of my old ones, looking for clues as to what was actually going on. But actually - back to Beth - I have never heard someone describe that experience of having sanitized and over spiritualized your life, even to yourself, so well. I wish for my own sake that I had a real record of things early on, but I can see how hard I was trying.
It’s painful to look at some of those places though, I agree.