I would look back at them and say: How fantastic! Look what I wrote when I was a kid. Look how thoughtful I was. Or, look how much pain I was in. Whatever I had written, I would look back upon it with awe and fascination and would use it as science and fact. It would help me uncover the mystery of why I was the way I was, and it would give me material for my book. But I threw those parts of my life away. The “dumb parts.”
How may dumb parts of my life have I thrown away altogether? How many have you? What could I have said that I thought was so dumb?
When my father died, I refused to cry. Maybe I wrote that I felt sad, and then regretted it so I ripped it out? Being vulnerable was never easy for me. I thought it was dumb to show how I felt. That it meant I was weak.
I will hunt for my old pages. I will search for those words.
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