It began when I huffed and puffed organizing the millions of books that were on the shelf. Zac instructed me that some of them were to go to Goodwill; however, I felt that even Great American Revolutionary Stories, British Literature during WW2 and How To Educate the Young books were relevant to my life. So far, the only thing I tossed in the Goodwill pile was an old devotional book I got when I graduated high school.
I read it, I swear.
I have a thing about books. I love the smell, the touch, the thrill of telling myself Ok Mackenzie, you have to read this one this year. I love retracing my highlighted notes with my fingers and sitting quietly, puzzling over why I thought a particular quote was critical enough to underline.
I love rediscovering. That was until I stumbled upon some old journals. I have spent most of my life, even since I was about five, journaling. I struggled a lot with finding my way growing up and often felt the heaviness that comes with being an ENSF (Myers Briggs). I needed reflection time... constantly. Even as a little girl with pigtails, I would sit on the top bunk in the room I shared with my sister and write. I would write what I did, what I ate, who I saw, where we went... it was precious, timeless, effortless and my thing.
It was the one thing I did for me.
Yet unlike my ocean and starfish journal of my much younger youth, This journal outlined 2006. A turbulent year and tumultuous year.
A surprising year.
I opened the first few pages of the journal, skipped a few paragraphs, then skimmed the rest of the journal. It was about halfway full. In my every messy cursive I saw dates, March 3, May 17, almost everyday that summer and then nothing until December.
The paradox in reading an old journal is creating a safe place to do it. It’s like looking at a very old scab that has scarred over and trying to rip it back open again. It’s like walking the halls of the library to the scary back section where all the files are hidden. I felt myself walking in that direction.
I read the first couple pages. Mostly about the love of my life at the time, my high school boyfriend. About the joys and desires of wanting to go to CSU with my best friend Kellie. The magnificence of being a senior in high school.
Blah blah blah.
But then. April.
I began to write on dysfunction I sense in my house. The unbelievable urge I had to get away all the time. The disdain I felt toward my friends who drank all the time... they obviously were not sensitive to the situation in my life. The fear of going to college and leaving my family behind yet I desired to be engulfed by an entirely different life. My words are messy and don’t make sense. I find myself reading the words fast as the sentences are short and caustic. Harsh even.
Summertime. Broken up with boyfriend who I loved more than anything. Dad is moved out of the house. I’m going to start a new scary life and feel ill equipped and unprepared. My handwriting is messier reflecting the wee hours I would spend journaling and even at times wake up in the middle of the night to express my thoughts so my head would stop spinning. I didn’t know it then but I was drowning in grief.
I put down my journal and felt uncomfortable. It was an odd sensation considering it’s been almost six years since a lot of this happened...
But I do believe that the Enemy has a way of reminding us of pain. Now, I’m not talking about some silly old devil that laughs and pokes fun of us. No, I truly believe that if you have the hand and favor of God on your life, he’ll do anything he can to remind you of your pain. To literally grab you head and stick it in your old shit.
My head... glued to the pages.
I continued flipped the pages and found myself longing to talk to this Mackenzie, encourage her, uplift her and give her some amount of strength to press on and keep fighting.
On July 16, 2006... I stopped trying to fight the battle. In my eighteen year old mind, I had lost my dad, my serious boyfriend, my identity, my mother, my family, my life, my school, my friends and my joy.
The only thing it said on the page was “I don’t give a f*** anymore.”
And I didn’t. Why should I? I was simply tired of pretending to be a sweet Christian girl who seemingly had her life all zipped up.
I read that statement over and over and over.
I didn’t write in my journal until December. I announced that I was pregnant and that I wanted an abortion. I wrote about how much I hated my life and how I’ll never get out of the “hell hole” I was in.
I closed the journal. It felt like a trap in so many ways.
I looked around at the boxes of stuff, the pictures of my little family on the wall, the albums of weddings and birthdays, the dishes, the clothes.... memories.
I looked around at the boxes of stuff, the pictures of my little family on the wall, the albums of weddings and birthdays, the dishes, the clothes.... memories.
Zac, Co and I are moving into my moms for 6 months. We are saving some money for the new baby as I will stop working when he/she comes. We are paying off debt and honest to goodness it’s just really expensive to live right now between everything.
I’m grateful for a place to go and for a healthy relationship with my mom.
That moment however, my mind let me relive a lot of the pain of those years long ago. Of feeling out of place and out of touch. Here I am... pregnant... again.... living at home... again! It felt cyclical.
My day today reflected a less than happy Mackenzie. I moved 14 boxes, packed a dozen more, cleaned clothes, swept up crap, picked up, cleaned out...
Moving... home.
I thought about packing up that journal. I thought about my face as I sat cross legged retracing and re-imagining my life. I thought about July 16. It seemed illogical and ill fitting but alas, it felt like that today.
I reminded myself of the lie that can so easily influence me. The lie that I’m just not enough and nothing will ever really change.
Yet, so much has.
And then there’s a part of me that’s still in grade school in my patten leather shoes climbing on top of my bed, sitting next to my polly pockets and writing in my journal... escaping.
Fifteen years later and now I can just type it all faster.
It’s always imperative to remember. To document. To express the extent of the circumstances that you find yourself in.
2006 journal found itself sandwiched between an old Bible and a novel titled Regeneration. I thought that seemed fitting.
Closed the box, put it away and continued to go about my day.
Life stops sometimes, you remember, grieve, cry, get angry, then laugh...
I guess life doesn’t actually stop. That in fact it is just that.
Life.
No make up day, the best
