This daily archiving series is about organizing and dating my journal collection, as well as acknowledging the self-directed violence as important therapeutic shadow work. Processing my projections and darkness. There is much joy in the pages. There is also a lot of pain. I try not to judge my younger self – even from last week, or yesterday or 5 minutes ago. Who I was then, who I am now- inseparable. I continue to be sculpted.
Today: Journal Start Date September 6, 1999
My daughter’s high school…
October 19, 1999
Slowly seem to be attempting to get back to actually writing personal thoughts in my journal again as opposed to collecting images and research material. Perhaps I am inclined to do this because of the lines on these sheets or because that is what Universe is calling me to do. But is it really any more “journalistic” to write words than collect the artifacts of my life and interests?
[Note: There was of course the daily struggles of money, special eduction services, just being a mother, daughter, wife, artist, etc. Life was puttering along on the Sunshine Coast. My kids and I, super happy. My relationship with my parents, great. I was corresponding weekly with my mother in law. The house was being renovated. I, however, was in denial about a lot of things happening “behind the scenes” – wasn’t writing much personal stuff in my journal, keeping a mask on, not knowing that in a year and a bit the marriage was ending and that I was sharing my life partner with another woman. I really actually thought we were happy. I cannot judge myself for my “head in the sand” approach or him. It was the way it was then. So be it. That time resides in these journals. I leave them there. It has shaped us into the so much happier humans we are today. But the pain that was around the corner, climaxing in April 2001, would at times be soul shattering.]
November 9, 1999
Enjoying my upstairs studio! A ROOM OF MY OWN! And despite the first night of guilt and bizarre feelings of displacement and listening to new sounds – we are getting used to the living room as our bedroom and it looks beautiful.
December 1999 My son’s letter to Santa.
He opened his gift and it was a large Beanie Baby golden retriever.
“There is no Santa.”
It was HEARTBREAKING. I was a piece of shit.
“His voice, synchronized to the shadow of a pinhead, intoxicates him. He hears a roar where others hear only a squeak.” – Henry Miller