When I Found My Journal From the Year Everything Came Crashing Down

OMG… why do you always have to be such a drama queen? You’re not going to find it right now, so get over it and move on. 

Ummm… seriously? Drama queen? Why can’t you just accept that this is important to me? If having a heart and being committed to something that no one else understands makes me a “drama queen,” then yeah… I guess I’m a drama queen. 

I was already having a shit day. It was Christmas Eve and the roads were awful, it was freezing outside, my car wasn’t cooperating, Bodhi was boycotting the snow and I was running late.

On top of that, I had noticed earlier that day a super special something was missing from my Christmas tree. How could I have forgotten to hang up Bailey’s ornament? What kind of a mother was I?

Bailey was the beagle I adopted after my first stint in rehab. She had since passed away and it was incredibly important to me to keep her memory alive. Especially at Christmas.

Just before she got sick, I had taken her to get a picture with Santa Claus at the neighborhood pet shop. When Bailey died, I had the photo made into a special Christmas ornament to honor her life and remember our last Christmas together.

Admittedly, it’s probably true that losing this keepsake wasn’t technically an end-of-the-world crisis in and of itself… but it definitely was the straw that broke the camel’s back. So yeah, dismissive statements such as “get over it” and “move on” were not helping.

Where was that dang ornament?

Did I leave it in the Christmas boxes?

Nope.

Had I accidentally put it away in the wrong place last year?

Hmmm… possibly.

So I ran upstairs to the closet, pulled out my step ladder and climbed high enough to reach the boxes on the top shelf.  I honestly didn’t think I had even touched those boxes in years… but, at this point, it couldn’t hurt to look.

As I was pulling the first cardboard box off of the shelf, the bottom decided to give out and the contents of the box went everywhere! Are you fucking kidding me? What else could go wrong today? Ugh!

I climbed down and started cleaning up the mess… and that’s when I saw it. No, not Bailey’s ornament, but an old, faded red Mickey Mouse journal. I hadn’t seen that journal in a million years but I remembered it well! Inside the front cover was a sweet note from my high school cheerleading coach, Miss Sammon.

She had a way with me. She saw me, she always had. She had sensed the pain hiding behind my smile and had given me this journal in hopes that writing would help me make sense of the chaos in my mind.

I began to flip through the pages, almost cautiously, a little scared of what I might find. And as I flipped, I found that most of the journal was filled with pages of some seriously awful poetry! The sad little rhymes were all rather depressing verses that spoke of love, loss and life.

I had forgotten about my little “poetic period.” For a while there, I was fairly certain I was going to be the next Sylvia Plath… and if that doesn’t give you an idea of my emotional state at the time, I don’t know what will.

I cringed as I skimmed through the rather pathetic little “poems.” But I stopped dead in my tracks when I turned the page and saw the date of the next entry. December 24, 1996. Christmas Eve. Exactly 24 years ago to the day.

It wasn’t another poem though. It was the messy, desperate ramblings of a frightened soul. This would have been my first year away at college. It was the year everything came crashing down. The year that time stopped.

It was clear that the three short months I spent at the university had me tangled up in a new sort of hell. A hell that would unfortunately be my “home” for the next 24 years.

The name they gave to that dark, cold, barren land was “anorexia nervosa.” But the label itself doesn’t really matter. Pain is pain no matter what you call it… and I could feel the pain of this lost, little 18-year-old girl.

Sadness and despair seemed to drip from the pages and my heart ached for her.  Crocodile tears of love, shame and sorrow ran down my cheeks. Tears for all that she had been through. And tears for what she would have yet to endure.

As the salty, wet bitterness made its way to my lips, I wanted more than anything to scoop her up in my arms.

To hold her close and tell her that she was loved.

That she was good.

That she was safe.

I wanted to tell her what I now know to be true.

That it was never her fault.

It wasn’t that something about her was fundamentally flawed.

It wasn’t that she had done anything wrong at all.

It was simply an unfortunate case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Throw in clashing personalities, fear and open, bloody wounds, and it was the recipe for inevitable disaster. The perfect storm.

She needed to know the truth. Even if it wouldn’t change the course of her life, she needed to know. If only I could tell her, maybe some part of my younger self would hear what I had to say and finally be able to heal.

But how would I reach her? How could I possibly explain all that had transpired over the years in a way that would make any sense to an 18-year-old? I needed to speak her language… but what was that?

Hmm. I looked down at the journal and knew what I had to do. Since I was obviously fairly fluent in the language of “seriously awful poetry,” maybe that was the best way to connect.

So I picked up a pen, tapped into my “inner poet” and began writing…

On a Christmas Eve
So many years ago,
Your cries were heard,
And I want you to know…

You’re not a monster.
And it’s not your fault.
You were growing and learning.
You weren’t the adult.

It wasn’t your shame to carry.
It wasn’t your cross to bear.
Your anger is valid,
And your feelings are fair.

You were never too much.
You never needed that cage;
You weren’t out of control,
Only acting your age.

They didn’t understand you,
And they didn’t even try;
They squelched your fire,
And silenced your cry.

I am so very sorry,
You never knew who you were;
But if you listen closely,
I’ll tell you about her.

You’re beautiful. You’re perfect.
That’s how we are made;
It was your spark and your spirit
That made them afraid.

You never were crazy,
And you didn’t tell tales.
I see you. I hear you.
The truth never fails.

I know you feel desperate,
So lost and confused;
Alone in the dark,
Mistreated. Misused.

I can’t walk it for you,
Your path is your own;
But I’ll stay right beside you,
As you brave the unknown.

You’ll look for an answer,
You’ll search high and low,
For a hero, a savior,
A reason to grow.

Your search is not futile,
I know there’s a key;
To unlock the secrets,
And set yourself free.

I know you won’t believe me,
You’ll say that it’s not true;
But there are no exceptions,
It’s there inside of you.

You’ll want to tap out,
And give up the fight.
It’s hard to keep going,
With no end in sight.

But I’ll send special “helpers,”
So when you feel alone,
You can borrow their strength,
Until you find your own.

It’s not just one moment,
It doesn’t happen like that;
It’s a million little pieces,
And you’re met where you’re at.

You are made of magic,
You are made of gold;
Claim your own power,
And your life will unfold.

I know you can’t see it,
I know you feel weak;
But this is your birthright,
You’re the answer you seek.

So hang in there, sweet girl,
There’s lots to unpack;
It may take a while,
But you’re on the right track.

My Christmas Eve wish,
The last words of this letter.
Are “Carry on, my dear warrior,”
Because I KNOW it gets better.

I never did find Bailey’s ornament. But I was OK with that because what I did find was worth so much more! The truth is, there was something I needed to “get over” and “move on” from.

But it wasn’t about the ornament. It was about healing a piece of myself that hadn’t been met with love, compassion and empathy. Until now.

Had I not been such a “drama queen” as I searched for that ornament, the journal would have never fallen into my lap. If the journal had never fallen into my lap, I wouldn’t have been given the opportunity to heal.

And I know with absolute certainty that I could not carry on like the warrior I am if I didn’t help that wounded child heal.

As it turns out, we don’t always know what we’re looking for until we start digging.

So go ahead and be a “drama queen.”

Grab your shovel and dig …

Even if you’re not sure what you’re looking for.