I think about Mom and my future when I read articles about memory retention like this one: http://time.com/4304589/memory-picture-draw/ because I've realized that I retain memories because of my sickness. My self-diagnosis is that I have Journalitis (tm). is the compelling fear of not writing about life in a journal. A journal can be a blog, a fancy journal I see at Target - they don't have enough pages for me - or a 200 page college-ruled spiral notebook (my preference). The end result is simply a collection of memories.
On this blog, I have composed details about my 10 year, 24 x 200 page notebook project. As a brief refresher, I began this project on 1/1/2012 and will finish this project on 12/31/2021. Though I have not begun planning (or purchasing notebooks for it), it has crossed my mind to undertake a second 10 year project, which would begin on 1/1/2021 and finish on 12/31/2030 and then a third project to begin on 1/1/2031 and finish on 12/31/2040. I would be 71 years, 3 weeks, 6 days when that third project ended. On top of that, I would have 72 200 page college-ruled notebooks and at least 14400 pages if I only count the front of the page. If I count the back as well, it becomes 28,800 pages. The cure for Journalitis is purchased with death.
Until my death, I must write.
Until my death, I cannot NOT write.
Until my death, I must fill notebooks upon notebooks with my words.
If I don't, I am discombobulated and distressed.
I rely on the ability to write, the assembling and mechanic action of seeing the image in my head on paper or on a screen. Perhaps I have replaced booze with writing as a coping mechanism for the trials of life.
All of this is being dredged up because I have zero doubt I am very much like Mom. She was a writer. I sometimes have wondered if she kept a journal. If so, I haven't found it. It would not surprise me to find her journal, tucked away in the house I grew up in and that Dad still lives in. Many of the words I wrote in high school papers that earned a good grade can be attributed to her editing. She helped me with so many assignments, crossing out words, rephrasing sentences, and adding new thoughts for me to flesh out my thesis. Later in life, Mom's dementia was difficult for me to watch. As I have mentioned, Mom spent 40 years in the Cedar Rapids education system, teaching kids to communicate and in her final years, she couldn't. I openly admit that it is my fear of forgetting that motivates me to feed my Journalitis with continuous writing. I fear forgetting the memories I write about before I die.
In fact, if pressed, it's my worst fear. It's a fear greater than spending the last years of my life without Karen. It's a fear best described as that I will spend my final years in a locked dementia unit. Being a lot like Mom scares me. She had to be in one because she walked out of the first facility she was in and was unable to return. The second and third facilities required entering a code to enter the part of the building where she had her bed and dresser. Many pages in my journal are rich with descriptive essays about the parallels between where she lived and a prison.
As far as whether or not she has a journal tucked away, it would be very interesting to me to understand her motivation for doing and saying what she did when she was alive. I suppose the motivation for doing and saying what I say could be tied to the journals I keep. Now that I wrote that sentence, I'm thinking about its validity. After I'm dead, maybe my kids will read what I wrote and realize that the sum of my actions and words in my journals is far greater than the sum of what I did and said. The lesson I hope to teach is that some ideas are best left on a college-ruled piece of notebook paper in a bookshelf in a den with 23 other notebooks surrounding it.
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