“I can only note that the past is beautiful because one never realises an emotion at the time. It expands later, and thus we don’t have complete emotions about the present, only about the past.” – Virgina Woolf
No, I don’t mean The Notebook as in Nicholas Sparks’ Notebook. I mean my notebook.
The red spiral bound notebook I came across tonight. I am cleaning my home office. I emptied out a laundry basket that had collected random junk of mine. Most of it is related to my daughter, to my time in the maternity home.
The first page is dated 8/10/86 which would make it 3 months after my daughter was born and surrendered. Its heart wrenching for me to read. I flipped through a few pages. I smiled. I laughed. There is the page that has a list of names I scribbled as possible names for her. There is a page that has the list of names of all the other inmates at the "home" with me. There are letters written but never mailed. There are doodles.
A twenty one year old notebook.
Flipping further into the year there are scribbles that I apparently wrote while on a phone call with my daughters father. Its obvious I was in Chicago, my roommate was present in the room and knew who I was talking to.
Another section has an angry letter to my mother, telling her to stay out of my business and to never speak to me about my daughters father again…
And still farther back there is a letter to him telling him I wanted to see him again but we could not tell anyone because others wouldnt approve.
One of the most deeply healing things that has occurred for me in the years since reunion is uncovering the truth. I had spent so many years hating him. It ate me up inside.
Now I know, I see again, it ate him up too.
I suspect many good blog postings will come from this notebook. That is, if I can muster the strength to read the age old words of my 19 year old self.