Sorry…been awhile…You know how it is.
Anyway, one of the things I was off doing was visiting my family. While searching for some towels in the laundry room I stumbled upon a pile of my old stuff. Unbeknownst to be, my Mom kept a stash of my old journals and boxes, things I hadn’t thought about in ages, or things I thought were burned long ago. She gets mega-points for not reading them, I’m not sure I’d be able to do that, wanting to know what was inside the mind of my teenage daughter’s head.
But… she is smart. There is almost nothing in a teenagers head.
Except angst, boys, made up battles with other girls, song lyrics. It’s such embarrassing stuff, that no one should read it, let alone PUT IT DOWN ON PAPER. I will remind my daughter of this one day. (Here in Vancouver there is a comedy show dedicated to people just reading from these journals, as the audience writhes in remembered angst. I have brought one home in case I need to let others share my pain)
Looking through all this old embarrassing stuff, I found… THE box. The box with the lock on it. The box with thick metal hinges and a lock on it that was the exact size and shape of the key I had KEPT FOR TWENTY EFFING YEARS AND JUST THREW AWAY. I had forgotten what my tiny key was for, religiously schlepped from one key ring to another. I knew it was for something, a lost something. But I kept it anyway, almost as a good luck charm, or as some sort of “secret key” that I could give away on my deathbed, with no explanation, therefore making myself look mysterious.
I recently bought a new car. This time I didn’t want the key that wedged itself between the others, stuck out at a weird angle, got hooked up and did nothing but annoy me. It was also irksome because I knew it was important, but couldn’t remember what the importance was, reminding me daily of how my mind has already started sliding off the table.
You know in movies where people are frustrated and yell “AAARRGGGHHH!” and they have a really twisted “I am so stupid” mad-face? I sat on the floor holding the box yelling “AAAGGGHGHHHH!” …smacking the concrete with my bare hand. WHY? WHHHYY!
My outcry lasted about three seconds… as I noticed there was a hammer just a few feet away. Oh, duh. Within a few short seconds I pried the damn hinge off and flipped the lid. I was expecting notes from my high school boy friend, or a shorn dread-lock long kept, or something equally as musty and exciting. Instead there were letters from a never-quite boyfriend, a card from the guy I “dated” for about 15 minutes and was known to my friends as “that naked drummer” (it was a very heartfelt letter, told me all about his life and how I’d have to come visit him in Texas) and a small beaded bag I used to carry around with me in high school. There was also a wooden necklace I used to wear that had a Tiki god on it. It was hideously ugly, but I thought it looked like the one on the Brady Bunch “Hawaiian Adventure” episode, so somehow it had cheesy-merit and was worth annoying other people with. Why that meant it was a fashion statement I do not know, but there you have it. I leafed through the stuff, and whoa, there was a tiny journal in there, and it reversed history for me. In your mind, a certain series of events plays out exactly as you remembered it. But if you actually DO write things down, (ok, maybe this can be a good thing) you can reverse 20 years of thinking something else happened. I know I am being vague here, but heck, it’s not that interesting anyway. Let’s just say I always thought it had been my fault, and lo and behold, it wasn’t. Details brought back memories long-buried, and I had a large lump in my throat as I realized my teenage self had thought everything was her own fault. At that time in life, one doesn’t have the wisdom to look inwardly, in a way that isn’t pure narcissism. You think everything is about you, and that’s why all the poetry and laments for lost loves are so horrible to revisit. They are raw, bare, and incredibly laaaame.
In the bag? Clandestine materials. I think I used to put condoms in here, and hidden cigarettes, and anything that needed to be hidden from parents or jailers. I realized then. THIS IS WHY THE BOX HAD A HINGE AND A KEY. Holy shit! I used to have secrets! Things that needed to be hidden from others! My husband and I have been together so long I hardly remember to close the door when I’m on the toilet. My closest thing to a secret recently was getting my eyebrows waxed and not telling anyone. Either no one said they looked nice or everyone thought like I did, that they looked exactly like the guy on the Count Choc-ula box and I should never have done that, hence their silence.
Secrets are burdensome and high maintenance so I’ve ditched the idea of having any. But journals? Yes, I still write in them. And I guess I will tell my kids to write in them too, if it helps, just make sure no one else gets a hold of them. I’ll tell them to get a box with a key, and to always keep the key, forever and ever, even if they burn the whole box, because on their deathbed they can hand the key over and croak “I’ve left it all to you…” and then exit quickly, leaving everyone to wonder what the hell you were talking about, and where the buried treasure is.