Our pasts are the living fibers of our souls, that weave together to embody who we become.
I recently read a post from Colleen Esdot that said, "History is not there for you to like or dislike. It is there for you to learn from it. And if it offends you, even better. Because then you are less likely to repeat it. It is not yours to erase or destroy. With all due respect, please read this and reread it again. Then teach it to your children and grandchildren." The author clearly wrote it with the country's history in mind, but it is acutely applicable to our own personal histories as well...something that has taken me years to learn, and then painfully relearn in my moments of greatest weakness. I am a writer, a lover of words. It is part of my lifeblood to document the stories, events, and seemingly insignificant moments that make life beautiful and wonderful and even terrible at times too. I have passed that passion on to my daughter, and she has invested hundreds of hours of her life into recording her experiences into handwritten journals full of pictures. But I am also a purger. And not the clean-the-house decluttering kind. I am the burn and delete, rip and erase, block and obliterate kind of survivalist. When depression hits and I am sinking fast, sometimes the only lifeline to grab hold of some sense of control over the whirlpool that sucks me down is to purge. There is a release that comes from obliterating something that carries weight. A journal entry that brings with it a nostalgic memory which now causes pain, longing to be there instead of here, or a picture that has the face staring back of a person that once caused heartache and has triggered a past spiral in some way; as good or bad as that picture or journal entry once was, making it disappear is sometimes the only coping mechanism I can grasp at a time when all seems lost. The need to purge, in whatever it's form, is a tangible entity, like a thick black mist I can feel approaching, seeping under my door and resting upon my with the weight that can suffocate. It calls to me, demanding it's sacrifice. The only hope of release comes with a price...one, at the time, I am more than willing to pay. Inevitably, however, as time and space distance me from my captor, the loss of what I have done is devastating, but cannot be undone. I had a giant hope chest filed with hundreds of letters, pictures, and keepsakes from middle school, high school and college. Not a single artifact remains. I have piles of novels, journaling my life that are missing major sections, either from being scribbled out with permanent marker or ripped out entirely. The milestones and once-in-a-lifetime moments as well as the struggles and lessons from struggle have all been banished in moments of pain and weakness...not only physical documents, but an earnest effort of mentally blocking their mere existence from the organized drawers of my mind as well. My husband gives me a hard time that I am an all or nothing extremest. If I am in, I'm all in, but once I'm done, I'm completely out. My most recent obsession has been an all encompassing fight to piece my past back together, starting with a list of moments I do remember, and attempting to shuffle them into some semblance of an order. With the help of the remaining journal entries (conveniently dated with precision to include date, day of the week, and exact time, down to the minute...because, remember, I'm an all or nothing girl), and the vault like memories I am borrowing of lifelong friends, I have begun to compile my history. That history is the bedrock for a series I am writing called Dominoes. Though Dominoes is fictional, the events and faces of my past are intricately embedded in the characters and stories (some loosely and some more directly). I have always known that writing is healing for me, and I am hoping that this new vessel will come to replace my need to purge as a therapeutic device that is used as a constructive outlet to make sense of the pain that is released through purging. My goal is that once Dominoes is published it will force my hand and eliminate my ability to purge the underlining stories that are embedded within it. I can't pretend that the overwhelming urge to purge won't return, because I have learned that with all addictions we are never fully free, just in varying stages of recovery, but I can hope. Hope that I have learned my lesson and continue to turn instead to more healthy coping mechanisms. Or that the memories I have revived through this process remain in my mind, becoming defiant enough that they wrap their little legs around the legs of their chairs and refuse to go despite my fervent pulling. And if all else fails, I can pray that the lessons I have taught my daughter, through my own experiences and shortcomings, will be solved vicariously through her as she continues to document her life and keep it preserved in a vault of permanence. My husband handmade her her own wooden treasure trove that is already brimming with memories she has collected over the years. Her journals and pictures already far surpass anything I ever created, and the Life Book I helped her make has served as a wonderful tool to document all the things between. It is my hope that only half of my genes are passed down through her and that she preserves and doesn't destroy.
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AuthorRachel Siemers Archives
January 2023
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