I do not remember what I was looking for but I thought I might find it in an old file box on a shelf in my closet. So last Saturday night I pulled down the box and began looking for what now I cannot remember.
Inside I found newspaper articles I had written over 20 years ago, papers from my divorce, 2 Newsweek magazines from 1963 of JFK’s assasination and a navy blue folder. I knew immediately what it was. A journal. That horrible ball of anxiety rose in my chest. Several years ago, early in therapy after a major depression, my therapist asked if I had kept a diary when I was young. No diary but I did keep journals. She wanted me to bring them in, read them and share them with her.
I found the journals in a trunk buried beneath Christmas ornaments. I started reading them but stopped after a few pages. 
They were too painful. I wanted to throw them away but I had told my therapist I would bring them in. I brought them to my next session. I gave them to her, told her I would not read them or review them with her. As far as I was concerned they were trash and she could keep them, throw them away…whatever.
That was that. Until last Saturday night. I sat looking at the navy blue folder as my thoughts ping-ponged back and forth. Should I read them? Should I throw them away? Should I give them to my therapist? What the heck, you have been well for a few years, what can it hurt? Maybe it will help you now.
“I’m not whole. I have to do something for myself. I try to tell myself I am not tired. Try to convince myself. It used to work but now it is no use. I need one minute to think. Everything is going so fast…I want to make myself whole. I don’t want other people to do it for me. I want to do it. For me…I don’t think I will ever be able to. Wishes never come true. Die.”
That is the suicidal mind of a 20-year-old with untreated depression and bipolar self-medicating herself with alcohol. Page after page. My ramblings, morose poems and song lyrics. Letters written but never sent. Pathetic efforts to put 4 years of Latin to good use: Non semper erit aestas - “It will not always be summer.”
Thirty years later I am better. Much better. For three years I have been taking my medications and seeing a therapist. Three years of calm waters with both oars in the water. I have been feeling so well I began to think that my memories of my teenage years, when life turned ugly, were make believe. I can’t remember the details or incidents anyway.
Maybe I was just being a drama queen. Maybe those two suicide attempts weren’t really suicide attempts. Maybe I was just looking for attention. Apparently not. I was sick and I still am sick. I need to remember that because when I start feeling well - start taking my wonderful life for granted - my mind tells me I don’t need all these medications and therapy.
Apparently I do. I put the box back on the shelf.
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