Stories.

Last night I came to the end of my latest journal. I've been keeping them on and off since junior high. Back then, they were mostly filled with "I think Corey Haim is cute" and "so-and-so is so cute, I wish he liked me". And how badly am I dating myself by saying that 1) I had a crush on Corey Haim and 2) he died a few years ago of a drug overdose? Sigh.

Twelve books in all, starting in 19mufflemuffle

There are a lot of pent-up emotions in those books. Page after page of frustration, anxiety, confusion, pain and anger. There are good bits in it as well, to be sure. But for the most part, those journals were the friend I could confide in when I thought no one else cared. They were the stories I told myself, the ones where I was never good enough, that I was never brave enough, that no one would ever love me because I wasn't worth loving. You know, the stories that come from your Shadow Self, that place of deep fear and pain.

Lately, I've been asking myself if keeping these stories is doing me any good. Sure, in the short term, they did. I was able to voice the pain somewhere and that was a good thing. To get it out is better than to keep it in. But the larger issue is, I've still kept the pain. Moving it from place to place as I move, this time storing the pain in the closet because there was no room anywhere else. Am I getting anything out of keeping these stories? Is there any value to it?

I have been working a lot these last few months of letting go of the stories that are holding me back. They don't define me; they don't comprise the whole of who I am. They are things that happened to me. Some of them, a very long time ago. So why am I still pulling those stories out like badges of malevolent honor?

I don't know if I'm going to buy another journal. I am thinking very seriously of burning those that I do have. There is a lot of my tortured heart and soul poured into those pages. Maybe it's time to purge the pain and free myself from those age old stories.

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