This isn’t my regular day for posting here on Segullah. That was yesterday. Er, I mean, Wednesday (I think). But on Wednesday, I was running all day that I didn’t even say hello to my husband until 10pm, and even then, it was a quick hello said as I flopped on the bed and flicked on “Cheers” on Netflix (which, incidentally, is much funnier now that I’ve spent a large amount of my life in Boston, and much dirtier now that I’m an adult and can understand the constant sexual references. The fact that all 11 seasons are available on Netflix instant streaming gives me no small amount of pleasure.) So here I am, late, as usual, and more than a dollar short. (I’ve been spending all those dollars on cold treats for my kids because, for whatever reason, God has decided to send us weather reminiscent of hell. Perhaps our part of the world is being prepared for something great, a temple, maybe, and He felt we needed humbling. Nothing makes a soul repent faster than 99 degrees farenheit, 90% humidity, and a heat index of 116 degrees.)

All of this means that today and yesterday (when I could have blogged, but didn’t) we have (all) spent a large amount of time indoors. Which means that last night, my husband and I were reading as our kids played around after dinner. And while perusing potential reading material, my husband came across my old journals.

It was like the man struck gold.

He read for HOURS. At one point, I tried to physically pry the book from his fingers, but darn if the man isn’t stronger than I am. He claims that he was enjoying them, and not in the “Oh my GOSH this is hilarious! You actually DID that? You are SUCH A DORK!” kind of way, but in a “I’m catching a glimpse of the inside of the soul I fell in love with more than a decade ago” kind of way. And I believe him. (Sort of. Kinda. Almost. Well, at least the “I was in love with you more than a decade ago” part.)

But the journals make me cringe, for a lot of reasons. One, because the stuff I wrote that I thought was incredibly insightful at the time now sounds, well, lame. Two, it is so full of unnecessary stress it makes me want to reach back to the hysterical 21 year old and smack some sense into her and say, “My heavens girl, CHILL OUT!” Three, it makes me secretly fear that in fact, I haven’t changed much from that ranting woman who sometimes can’t see the forest from the trees, and I’d be lying if I said I haven’t needed a good “CHILL OUT!” pep talk recently. That’s the main reason I don’t read my journals much. Because I fear that I’d recognize the woman in them, and wish she was somebody else.

My husband disagrees with me on all counts. He says he CAN see a progression, changes in my life, my attitudes, my happiness. Fortunately, he particularly noted a change in tone when we started dating (“Wow, babe, you were REALLY gaga for me! Awesome.”) and (again, fortunately) a particular brand of dopey-ness when we got engaged (“Yeah, you were totally in love bubble mode. Majorly twitterpated.”) So maybe I should trust him and hope that for all of her angst-filled tortuous nights, somehow that 21 year old girl pulled herself together. Sometimes it’s hard for me to see it, though.

Do you go back and read your old journals? Do you try to find patterns of growth, or do you see patterns of stagnation? Or have you requested, as my MIL has, to have all writings burned at your death?

Related posts:

1. With a Lot of Lying Down Comes This
2. Why Don’t You Go Downstairs and Carve an Ice Sculpture Out of Your Heart?*
3. How Anne of Green Gables helped me get my groove back