Stories from a life in progress.

Old writing

One of the things on my bookshelves (which I am NOT getting rid of) is my pile of journals, the cheap full-sized ones I write in now, a few Moleskines I wrote in a while ago, and the little 5x7 notebooks I started writing in nearly 10 years ago when I started journaling in a desultory, off-and-on way.  I rarely go back and read any of my journals, because for me writing in them is a tool for the present, not a way to review my past, but I flipped through a couple of the oldest ones out of curiosity.

I don't know anything about handwriting analysis (though I am curious how it works and what an expert sees), but even so the writing in these old journals strikes me deeply.  It makes me feel breathless just to look at it, not even reading the words.  Spiky and constrained, small, hard, and painful.  I don't want to read these words.  It hurts just to look at them.

This is who I was ten years ago -- spiky and constrained, feelings all repressed, trying hard to be small while always resenting it, none of which I recognized or understood.  It rattles me to see this so clearly in my old writing, and makes me so relieved to remember I'm not stuck there anymore.