sad-disease.diaryland.com

Over the last few days I have been forced to go through my stacks and stacks of papers, junk, and books. I reluctantly threw most of it out. However, I kept a few things for memory’s sake. The first thing I kept was some high school report card with the comment: "Mark effected by attendance pattern." I got a 48%. It made me laugh. I kept the write up that I wrote for the dance costume Ted designed when we were seventeen. I found a binder full of the various issues of the "Edmonton Wiggler" – the zine Ted and I created and distributed anonymously two years ago. I kept the first research paper I ever wrote. I remember doing my research and writing all those words the night before. I kept the high school essay on Death of a Salesman with the comment: "Christy this is a memorable and mature essay. Well done." I loved Willy Loman. Basically I kept all the words that make me laugh and all the words that make me proud.

Most of the stuff I threw into the garbage bags was insignificant. Old receipts, meaningless chemistry notes, and laboratory reports were trashed with no regard. However I came across a notebook, which I had forgotten about. It was full of unsent letters. Letters to my mom, letters to my best friend, letters addressed simply 'Dear Stranger', and letters to Jerry who had me infatuated – my soul mate. These letters revealed my feelings and myself – often hostile sometimes beautiful. As much as I wanted to keep the notebook I knew it was time to throw it out. These letters were never to be sent or read. It was my therapy. It was my way of saying things I knew I could never say. It is my past. And now it sits in my back yard waiting to be collected.

Catharsis. Got to love it.

posted 2003-08-05