Things have been very topsy turvy in New Life Land these last couple of months. I went back to Carolyn. In fact, I see her tomorrow. I'm terrified, but willing. That is the phrase I am hanging on to at the moment. I found this journal, you see. And I read it. And I have absolutely no recollection of writing it or living it. But it's there in black and white. My hand writing. I recognize that hand writing, but I don't recollect writing it.
I have been banned from my journals for many years now. They do me no good but to fuel the fire of misunderstanding and want for The Dead Guy. But this one? I don't remember it. I was terrified of him. Most every day, I was. So scared of waking up to someone I didn't recognize anymore. But I don't remember it. Not one bit. And yet, there it is. And what do I do with that? So, I go to Carolyn. Because she's good at helping me remember. And I have no idea what kind of hurt that is going to bring. I have no idea what it is that I so don't want to remember. But it's there. And it's scary.
And I'm frightened. So, I call and I cry and I ask for help. Like I know how to do now. I request that people hold my hand. I ask for someone to rub my back. And I hope for the willingness that it takes to uncover whatever it is that I don't remember. Because I have this feeling that this is the end. The end of the hurt. The end of the pain. The very end of the unknown. And I wish I could be mad at him, but I'm not. I'm just so very sad. As usual. Sad. That he had to live his life as a lie and he sucked me into it so much that I don't even remember it. And now I do the hard work of excavation to make it real and whole and a part of my working mind.