In these journals, I spent three years trying to understand my relationship with my offender. I covered nearly 1200 pages with ink, but I didn’t gain any clarity until after I left my church. With near-daily encounters at the church office, and within a congregation that worshipped him, it was impossible to think clearly.
After I stopped journaling in 2010, I kept these records thinking one day I might write the whole story. But in four years, I’ve never been able to bring myself to read them again. I didn’t even like walking past the shelf where they sat. Just looking at that stack made me feel tense and sad — but I didn’t dare get rid of them. What if those journals held insights that might help me or others?
Last Saturday I finally got clarity. Those books hold nothing but confusion and pain.
That afternoon, I destroyed them.
Since then, I have felt positively buoyant.
One more step in healing.