I used to journal. Poetry, stories, remembrances, song lyrics, even eulogies.

Sometimes journaling is therapeutic. Like a trusty old friend, it keeps our secrets and validates our fears. It demonstrates change and growth. It gives insight into where we used to be versus where we now are. It provides a reason to change or stay the same. It helps us clear the debris from our heads and the fallout from our hearts. But sometimes, it isn’t, or it doesn’t. Mine couldn’t.

At the tender age of 17, my mother rifled through my room and found my diary. That wasn’t enough. She shared it with my child psychiatrist father. That wasn’t enough. He waited until I came home, sat me down, and forced me to read it back to him. That WAS enough.

Enough to question my thoughts, feelings, beliefs. Enough to make me forever hate my own written words, no matter what they say. Enough to wonder how a human being, let alone a child and adolescent psychiatrist, could violate the entire contents of another’s being. Enough to give me the impetus to write these public blog posts because I finally trust my observations and truths enough to share them. Enough to realize that his unequivocal misuse of parental power taught me to be a better spouse and parent. Enough to push me to inspire you to know you deserve better, and your abuse is not okay. Neither was mine.

So, what is mine now? I maintain my love for my sweet husband and five children, their spouses, and our two grandsons. I choose the footsteps I take towards bettering myself, patiently waiting while the bricks fall into place to define my path. Mine are the borders along the trail and what I choose to plant there; flowers for friends and nothing for toxic foes. I own the right to close my gate to any who do not honor my soul.

Most importantly, my diary experience has offered me gifts I’d not otherwise have found. While journals can be a blessing, a book and a pen can't always give words to what your heart feels. I write this post from our suite at The Federal House Inn, a beautiful bed and breakfast in Plymouth, New Hampshire. The antique desk and chair face a centuries-old brick wall. Staring at it leads me to envision the original owners. Even if they journaled about life in their time, it wouldn't accurately paint an exact scenario of their story.

There are a guest book and pen on the desk for visitors to describe their stay. While I jot a note to thank the owners for their hospitality, I can’t describe the magnificent autumnal views and the memories we’ve created here in a personal journal. l am often moved to share these in a blog. Even though it may not conjure up the same experience for you, it might inspire you to visit to this welcoming inn and charming town.

Assimilating our experiences is the key to bringing our past into our present so we can move towards the future. Let your eyes serve as the camera to take snapshots from your travels and keep them in the album of your mind. We don't just have a journey; we have journeys. Let these passages interact. Let them become ongoing chapters to fill your entire library. Live from within your experience and not from externally imposed renditions.

My painful past created the writer of these words. Celebrate who you are now, not who you used to be. You are not yet done. No period is needed at the end of this sentence; it isn't the end