I Feel Nostalgic for the Me I Meant to Become

Sorry for the long title…it just seemed appropriate for this posting. I’ve been rifling through old journals (ouch) and it occurred to me that someone out there may benefit from reading excerpts from them, depicting my struggle to get to where I am today. OK, I don’t really know what you’d call where I’m at, except to say that I’m in a better place than I’ve been for…cripes, I guess you could say decades. Since I was seven, really.

As I was considering which parts of my journal to post, sadness overwhelmed me at the realization (not new to me, perhaps, but one which I keep forgetting), that I don’t know who I am.

 

 

Oh, I know who my parts are, to some extent. I’ve a sneaking suspicion I haven’t yet met all of them–but that’s not quite what I mean anyway. This person who interacts with the outside world, this person known as Mom and Nana–who is she?

 

Funnygal and Jenny and Mrs. Homebody and Vava (pronounced VAYvah) have their own pages on my website, but where is my page? Aside from the general postings on this blog, where do I go to post journal entries, to pour out my soul? My old journals were a pathetic attempt to find my place in this world; I vividly remember waking up early one morning, several years ago, and before my eyes were even halfway open, scribbling down the words, “I’ve been looking in all the wrong places trying to get back to my childhood.”

And that’s just it: my entire life has been an uneven struggle to attempt to survive, while simultaneously excavating my past for clues to the me I meant to become. On my bookcase sits a bowl of vintage marbles, because it’s grounding, it reminds me that I actually had a childhood. That I was ever innocent enough to enjoy such simple pleasures (though innocent is not quite the word I want; something like uncontaminated comes to mind.)

I’m not explaining this well…I know I write these blogs on behalf of my insiders; I know I’m mainly in control of what material gets used, what gets the axe and what stays. But that’s not enough. I need (oh that self-conscious word!) my own little space on here in which to write (if possible) with little input from the others. It’s getting crowded in here, I suppose–I could use some elbow room.

So to that end, I’m going to gift myself with a journal separate from the rest of this blog, and hope that by allowing myself the freedom to express myself without always wording it in DID terminology, I’ll discover some artifacts to this person I call me (not me, myself and I and I and I and I, etc.)

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My roots go deep…

 

 

 

 

 

 

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