Monday, 22 September 2014
I've always bought black moleskine books to write my thinking in. Business thinking mostly. I'm very nervous about writing personal journal thinking into black books because I'm terrified that I'll get hit by a bus, and my children will find my books. And read my innermost thoughts. And that may forever skew their picture of me. And my husband, for that matter.
I've heard men say that the role of a best mate is, on hearing of his accidental death, to head over to his home and office, and search for and destroy all his porn. Wives and children shouldn't be exposed to that when they're grieving. Girls haven't really got that kind of pact. We should. Maybe journalling would be freer for us if we did.
I have actually braved my hit-by-bus fear a couple of times and started writing journals. In black moleskine books. I wrote disclaimers on the front pages: "My sons: this is a private journal. please don't read it. Even if I'm dead when you find it. It's my innermost thoughts and I don't want you to be exposed to those. Please respect my privacy in this regard. I love you, Mom!" I wonder if any of them will be able to resist the temptation?
Anyway - I lost those journals. Not forever, but for now. I landed up in hospital (more about that later) in the middle of my family moving house (more about that too). While I was there, my domestic worker packed up my bedroom. The journals have landed in a box somewhere. I have no idea which box. I'm incredibly nervous about who may be the person to unpack them eventually when we finally get to unpack. But there's absolutely nothing I can do about that now.
And now that I'm out of hospital and slowly peeling myself off rock bottom, my shrink suggested I should get back into journalling. "Or maybe write a blog", she said. "That way you may help other people wrestling with the same stuff you are.". I was to afraid to open my laptop then - it was too much like being at work, and I really couldn't face that then.
So it came to be that I wandered into a stationery shop with the vague purpose of seeing if they had any nice books for me to write in. And maybe a nice pen. Somehow, this new phase in my story needed to have an auspicious place to record it. I knew that it wasn't going to be another black one - too much risk of it landing on the pile of business books and never being seen again.
And suddenly, there it was. The Pink one.
So you need to know that I'm just not a girly girl - I never do the Pink thing. I'm the mother of 3 sons, a hard- nosed business chick, and veteran of many hard knocks. Pink. Isn't. Me. Black. Red. Shades of stone and white if I'm doing house decor. No Pink. I have nothing in Pink.
So I bought it.
The irony isn't lost on me. I am a woman in the process of severe change and not a little trauma. Everything is different. Its' ok.
And I started writing.
And when I had written enough to bring me back from the edge and give me enough courage to open my laptop again, I did that. And started this blog. Join me.