This afternoon, I read a journal I kept my freshman year of college. It was during the first semester, as part of a requirement for my bio class (oddly enough). It is mostly filled with longing for home and friends and animals and family. And comfort food. It is easy to see why the freshman poundage most definitely found me - "had frosted mini wheats and a blueberry bagel for lunch today." Seriously, 18 year old Jen, you really did?
I was funny at times. I can recognize that. I was also probably quite lost and sad, that shines through. I can see where I elected to simply not touch on the most traumatic experience of my young life (my horse died). A passing mention, that's all - too difficult to deal with.
As I begin to creep toward my 20th class reunion, it becomes increasingly compelling to take some stock of myself. It's an interesting process. I recall sitting alone at lunch in high school, ditched by my friends, embarrassed, picked on by the cool kids a the table who wanted the seats I was saving so desperately. My story to myself for 20 years - well, of course they ditched me. Weirdo. Awkward. Ugh, her. Let's sit here, she didn't see us. Right? The guy says he would have just been pissed off at the ditching friends. The therapist says, could there have been another story?
So, could I perhaps try to shift more and more in the direction where actions of 17 year olds have really little to do with who I am at 38? I like that notion.
I said in my later journal pages such glorious phrases as "righteous babe" and "wildwoman."
Live up to 24 year old hopes, babe.
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