(with apologies to Tennessee Ernie Ford)
OK, so we loaded purt near 16 tons of crap in the moving truck and hauled it all out here, and what did we get? A whole lot of boxes left over with no where to put things. I have lost even more closet/storage space than I anticipated, especially since the garage is essentially off-limits until further notice (Eric has just too much
shit stuff in there, and you can’t walk, much less put things away. So this stage of moving/unpacking is very frustrating.
Tomorrow I go cross-town to go pee in a cup for my drug test for the new job. No worries, mate! But I think I’ll skip that glass of wine with dinner tonight just in case.
Yesterday was a huge day for me emotionally. One of the things I found while I was unpacking (in addition to the six? sets of size 8 24″ circulars) was my box of journals from high school and college. They weren’t quite diaries, because I did a lot of brainstorming for my poetry and writing course in there, but they had a lot of personal information in them, especially about the boys I
…knew… dated while I was in college. Reading through them all again took all afternoon (there were nine black and white composition books filled front and back), and brought back a ton of memories. I didn’t realize how much I’d forgotten.
But reading through it again, I decided that I really couldn’t keep them anymore. The only one who could ever even remotely get any pleasure out of reading them (with the possible exception of Bill, who was “fucking awesome”) is me, and anyone else would be at best uncomfortable, if not downright hurt.
Yes, I know all that stuff happened way before my present life and has absolutely nothing to do with who I am now, nor my relationship with Eric. Even so, does it benefit either one of us for him to be confronted with
graphic creative detail of my life back then? I couldn’t see how, and so I wrapped the nine books (and countless hours of writing and joy and heartache and love and hate and adventure and romance and creativity and ohgodi’mgoingtocryagainjustthinkingaboutit) in a black plastic bag and put them in the trash.
And it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.
There was so much of my life in there…but it was my life before Eric and the kids, and that life doesn’t exist anymore. It’s in the past, and I think it should stay there. It’s not that I have secrets from Eric–but there are some things that you just don’t want to know about your mate.
The funny thing is, I stopped writing when I met Eric. Cold. On Wednesday, I wrote my last journal entry. On Thursday I met Eric, and I never wrote anything more in a journal again. Except here.
And I am still leery of writing here. This is (as much as I hate to admit it) a totally public place, and even though it feels like I’m only talking to myself, in fact there could be any number of
lurkers readers out there, including Eric.
But I’m thinking now that I might start writing again…just not so much personal. Writing the personal down is dangerous and permanent…it can be wonderful and fulfilling, but it can also hurt.
And now for a totally unrelated knitting question: Does anyone out there have a pattern for a baby sweater knit with self-patterning sock yarn that they could send or sell to me? My brother and his wife are expecting in January, and I would very much like to knit them a washable, practical, colorful garment.