Before You Destroy the Evidence

Dear Reader,

A few years ago, I wrote a piece called “The Words That I Destroyed” about the pages I ripped out from a notebook when I was a teenager. It was only the third post I had written on Substack. The title makes me cringe. But I’ve been thinking more about writing and shame and preservation and archiving and felt compelled to return to that post and reshape it.

It is the end of January in 2024, and I have just finished another journal—a blue, green, and gold one, the inscription on the inside reminding me that it was a gift from my cousin from when I turned twenty-one. Over the past five and a years that it’s taken me to fill up the notebook, it’s been handled so much that the pages have come apart from the spine.

Now onto the next one. I’ve known for awhile which one it’s going to be, despite the numerous choices at my disposal.

It’s not new. I don’t remember when I got it—just that it was probably also a birthday gift. I know it was a long time ago because the cost on the back is 10.99 CAD. (Remember when you could go into Chapters with a ten dollar bill and pick out a paperback?)

I have journaled in this notebook before , at least ten or so years ago, sometime in the early years of high school. There’s the brief mental snapshot of a night spent writing at the kitchen table, surrounded by lit candles because the power was out, pretending that I was a character in one of those spooky, gothic period pieces. One clear image in a pool of murky memories, fuzzy and out of focus. Writing about feelings and friends and teen angst and jealousy and confusion, and more teen angst.

And then, pages ripped out — and not just a few pages — almost half of the whole notebook. The jagged strips of paper still attached to the spine are the only pieces of evidence left.

I didn’t burn them. That would have been cool, and kind of badass, at least. I ripped out the pages, grabbing a sheaf of paper thin enough to be easily torn, then methodically tearing them all into little piece to be stuffed down into the trash. Rinse, repeat, until I was satisfied with the level of destruction.

I can’t remember the details around why I decided that this was the best course of action; I can’t remember how old I was, just that I was in high school. If it was spurred on by something — if I had come across the journal while organizing through my desk drawers and started leafing through it and deemed it so awful that any and all evidence of it must be destroyed. Or if I had just written something in there that spooked me or disturbed me so much at the time that I had to do more than erase or cross it out — and then maybe I got a bit carried away? No, it wasn’t that. I think I would remember if I had confessed to murder or grand theft. Maybe it had something to do with not being ready to confront my queerness, even to my journal.

There was definitely shame attached to it. But besides the small part that stemmed from the actual content—I think I just really though the writing was so bad, so cringe, that it shouldn’t even exist. Embarrassment has always had a stronger hold on me that I would like. Like my psyche being stabbed.

It’s small and silly and inconsequential, and I always feel a little sad whenever I come across this journal.

I wish I could say, I will care about what you had to say. I will wish you had believed your words mattered enough to just exist.

I would empty out the trash on the floor, sort through the gunk and gather up all the tiny scraps of paper, spend hours and days piecing them back together. I would wipe away—gently, so as not to rip the paper—the residue of shame and self-denial and hang the pages up to dry outside in the wind, reminding them they have nothing to hide.

If only.

But maybe the next best thing I can do is pick up where I left off and let the rest of the pages live.

1. If you're practicing letting your own messy pages live this week, I built a few tools for the journey. You can grab the free Threads & Thresholds guidebook here.

2. Also, I’m opening the Tarot Treehouse for our monthly rituals next week—if you want to join the inner circle before the shift form $40/year to $50/year on August 1st, the keys are right here.

3. Finally, some jellyfish.

Float on and write on, sweet faerie freaks,