The Things I Don't Say

During my blog review, I was surprised at how many details I left out. Some of those posts are so vague, I'm not even sure what life events I was talking about.

The same with my paper journals from the last 20 years. Not that I've journaled a whole lot on paper, but when I did, they are fairly general topics, and very few names, unless they are prayer requests.

Pretty sure I learned this as an undergrad. In the therapy field, the written word can get subpoenaed, and becomes part of court history and what feels like the entire world reads it. If that isn't enough to make a person's palms sweaty, well, you're a lemming. Write whatever you want. You won't notice when it bites you.

Of course, it should have been Harriet the Spy and Biloxi Blues that taught me to keep my pen shut, but my adolescent journals are not nearly so close-mouthed. God forbid, should any of them be published posthumously, my deepest apologies to all slandered. I was a child ranting about childish things.

Why don't I destroy those? Shrug. They're part of my history. Perhaps the nieces will realize Aunt Robynn makes mistakes, too, and not just in her close-minded clinging to guns and religion. I come from critical stock. I've worked hard to prune that branch.

Fact is, I write when I'm upset, and that's a terrible time to commit details to paper. Bad enough I say things I shouldn't. Writing them down is as close to permanent as we come in this life. I don't need that following me around like a time bomb.

Push button. Receive bacon.