Yesterday, I read my journals from 2010-2012 for somewhere in the neighborhood of thirteen hours. I couldn’t stop, devouring page after page after page like it was something I’d never seen before.
I never talk about what my life was like in 2012. I’ve never written about it, nor was my ex-husband involved in any part of it. (Related/unrelated: I left my husband in 2013.)
There’s another entire person I was very involved with during this time that I never talk about. He makes no appearance in anything I’ve ever written, but he consumed almost two years of my life.
Ha. He has consumed a great deal more than that.
I read about things yesterday that made me actually gasp out loud, hold my hand over my heart, slap the pages with disgust. Some of it is a little choppy because I talk in code that I only sometimes understand now, and because I was beginning to realize my ex was reading my journal behind my back so I stopped being as open as I had been. It’s incredible what you can forget when your life has been so tumultuous.
I learned the following interesting things.
First of all, I was still going to see “Alex” up until the end of 2012. I mean, it was really infrequent, maybe once a year, once every six months, but. I’m surprised that I had forgotten this development. He has never stopped trying to pull me into seeing him.
2/21/12: Today, Max and I danced to Jason Mraz and he said, “Raise your hand if you like Jason Mraz.” So we both raised our hands. Then he said, “Raise your hand if you like [Alex].” We raised our hands again, and he said, “But I can’t want to be like [Alex] because he’s bad, right?”
The unliving companion I have now was given a lot of grief for being involved with me. For two or three years, our relationship was tumultuous… to be totally honest, he was almost never around. I spent much of that time mourning yet another new and unexplained absence by him. I see now that the only way my marriage was ever going to end was to be completely abandoned by the dead. I had to face the real world, and realize how much potential I had within myself.
There seems to be a certain hierarchy or status attached to living a lot of lifetimes, or achieving a great deal while living them. I don’t necessarily mean fame, but rather how much you evolve. This disappearing friend of mine has been around a long time but actively chooses not to live many lifetimes (because he doesn’t like to suffer).
Allegedly, people were telling him that there was really no way once I get back over there that my entire self will want to be around him. In one entry he says, “I mean someone who’s like a Level 25 doesn’t want to be around a Level 3.” It’s why he continued to leave- at times, to try to “become better,” getting very serious about changing and evolving, and because he was being shamed out of seeing me.
It was partially how deeply I suffered in his absence that convinced him he was wrong. Considering the fact that he alone kept me alive through the nightmare of last summer, I’m glad he didn’t give up on himself. I’m glad we stopped listening to everyone else.
Who I used to be, and what she was/is doing while I sleep is still a mystery to this day. I never felt rested, even though I slept almost constantly from 2011-2013. My entire self was also extraordinarily fractured during this time, operating with two entirely separate agendas. I am both fascinated and horrified to read about a time where I easily talk about who I once was as if she is not who I currently am. And in many ways, she isn’t, I suppose.
It seems that we all probably live two lives- this waking one, and the complex, confusing puzzle world of the unconscious mind. Where everything seems like a mystery until you learn the answer and realize you’ve known it all along.
Once, while going through a deep period of depression and suicidal dreams, one of my friends said to me, “Trust me, you do not want to be here. I would be surprised if you didn’t come back here and immediately request a bounceback. You’re walking into a mess. You were set up in such a nasty and destructive way, and you’re going to have to face a ton of criticism when you return.”
I was constantly under investigation or being watched or lectured or judged or chastised for years at a time. I didn’t remember how long I struggled with my sexuality, how sick I really was, how many times I relapsed. I didn’t remember how hard people had worked to make me better. I didn’t remember how involved I’d gotten with the person I don’t speak of here. His name feels like it weighs a hundred thousand pounds. I can’t recall the last time I said it out loud.
And I miss my old beach house. I made several attempts to reclaim it, to have Alex moved elsewhere so I could return to it, but it’s been ruined. Every single time I write about it in my private journals, I cannot stop marveling over how real and how beautiful and how powerful this place is in my mind. Every time I would go there, I’d walk in a shuffling, wide-eyed wonder from room to room, running my hands over counters and peering into the enormous fish tank with delight and awe.
I feel very different lately. This may be my new place to sort it all out, because I can’t stop thinking that I probably need to. Quickly.