Monday night, I spent the night in my childhood bedroom for the last time. It took me a while to fall asleep because as I laid there, so many memories ran through my mind.
I thought about the sleepovers I had with my best friends from grade school. The giggles, secrets, and prank phone calls that only those four walls were privy to hearing.
I thought about the time my friend Alexis and I spent hours jumping on the bed putting glow in the dark stickers on my ceiling.
I thought about painting my room dark purple and thinking it was so cool.
I thought about the noisy middle school years when my “neighbor” was learning to play the guitar.
Truly, I thought about the most random moments.
It was emotional, really – but in not the I-can’t-stop-weeping kind of way. I was simply there, completely content with swimming through memories. I’m not sad, mainly because as I was leaving, I was given a great gift. My mom had boxed up all of my old notebooks and journals – my memories – solidified on paper, kept safe and preserved after all these years.
When I got home yesterday afternoon, I spent over two hours pouring over past moments. I found, like any young girl, I wrote whenever I was furious or whenever I was elated.
God forbid anyone ever got ahold of these books. They’d surely conclude that I was a raging bipolar bitch
But for me, the girl who wrote each word, it was like visiting with an old friend. I winced at old humiliating stories, rolled my eyes at former passions, and felt my heart swell when I read the first words about meeting “this guy named Cory.”
Overall, it was a surreal moment to have writings and documentations of life chapters that span well over a decade.
I mean, we all have to start somewhere, right?