I’ve been journaling for over 20 years. Over half my life at this point. Not only has it been my primary tool for trying to understand the world around me, I have to admit it’s an investment. Much like the hoard of clothes I currently have stashed in trash bags in my and my kids’ closets is an investment in my pipe dream of opening a plus-size vintage store when I’m 60. It’s because I know in the end, all we have are our memories and memories are so ridiculously unreliable.
My obsession with the old photos and letters in my mom’s tattered Payless shoebox definitely comes into play in regards to this semi-consistent chronicling. Photos of my parents and grandparents when they were all so nice looking and happy at various points in their lives–I just don’t know why it has me in such a chokehold. I’ve always been so conscious of the passage of time and how so many moments are nothing but precious, even as a little kid. Maybe it’s a Sagittarius thing.
Anyway, which memories will I attach to these photos? Definitely the best friend who took them. A best friend I made as an adult, no less. It’s possible after all to my enormous relief.
I’ll remember the dumpy little duplex I rented with the second love of my life and wearing the ring he gave me 3 years after meeting him on Facebook. Maybe I’ll remember vaping on our green velvet couch and listening to Siamese Dream while forcing myself to write this post.
I might even remember the photo was taken at the beginning of my 40th trip around the sun and how I celebrated the end of my 39th trip at a chain restaurant surrounded by friends who deliberately and thoughtfully and tenderly took turns showering me in compliments. I’ll remember I was able to humbly accept them all, to allow myself to feel the warmth of their praises.
Things I might forget that are just as important: My second layoff in a year. The devastation in Gaza. Years of personal pandemic struggle and general malaise taking their toll. My body feeling awful. My mind sometimes just as bad. A world on fire. Raising trans children in the soot of it.