One morning, totally unexpectedly, I wrote about my childhood dog, Giya, whom I hadn’t consciously thought about in years. She was a black standard poodle, almost the size of a small pony. Giya was smart, she was kind, her fur was cut into poofs at her paws and tail that I would run my fingers through, wondering how a dog could have hair like spun silk. At the age of eleven, I thought she was the height of sophistication and elegance. My parents had fought viciously about buying her. “CAROL, you’ll never take care of a dog; you barely take care of yourself!” my dad had screamed. “FUCK YOU, RICHARD, I can buy a dog if I want!” my mom had shot back in her usual chill manner. My mom brought home our dog without my dad’s approval and introduced my sister and me to Giya. Since my mom had bought Giya just before their divorce, the dog, like Diana and me, was predictably, sadly, unforgivably forsaken. One day she ran away and, rather than look for her, my parents just shrugged their shoulders and said it wasn’t worth the search. I remember thinking, If I were to go missing, would anyone look for me?
I canvassed the neighborhood with my babysitter, knocking on doors and asking if anyone had seen Giya. When we reached Mrs. Miller’s house, I peeked in her front windows and saw my dog running to the front door to say hello. YAY! We had found Giya and could bring her home! Mrs. Miller, however, had other plans. “You don’t deserve this dog. Your family doesn’t take care of her, so I will,” she simply explained. I had no recourse, no adult who could intervene to save the dog. So I left her there.
For years, when I was asked if I ever had a dog growing up, I deflected and “joked” about how mine had been “kidnapped” when I was young. But as I wrote about it in my journal, I found that this wasn’t some hilarious detail from my “odd” childhood. It was something that deeply bothered me. I had never mourned the loss of Giya, so in my notebook, I let myself admit that it still upset me. I wrote about how scary and disorienting it was that, at the time, no adult had stepped in to help me. With my pen, I touched the sadness and the anger of my eleven-year-old self, the self that was confused, already heartbroken from life, scared, and probably wearing an ill-advised crop top. Since Giya, I had developed a fear of dogs in general, and I never felt like I could talk to anyone about this. It almost seems like a sin not to love dogs today. Since I was expressing all of this on paper, however, I risked nobody’s judgment. I let myself get curious about why this was coming up for me now. Did I feel jealous of Giya in some way? That she had made her way to a loving home? Or, could this be why I had developed a fear of dogs, because I was too afraid that if I ever loved a dog again, I would lose it? I decided I would try to make a playdate with a Cavalier King Charles spaniel that belonged to a friend of mine. For some reason, that dog didn’t scare me, and I felt like that might be a good baby step. It felt so good to finally have that fear out of my head and on paper. No longer was this some issue stewing in the back of my mind. I could deal with it because I was aware of it. I’m telling you, there is nothing so awful that you can’t confront it if it’s written in a notebook with a golden spine and a peony-decorated front cover.
Inspired by Tara Brach’s meditation, “The R-A-I-N of Self-Compassion,”*3 I’ve built a tool for you to effectively excavate past wounds in a way that isn’t totally draining-and-soul-crushing-and-why-oh-why-am-I-even-doing-this-to-myself?
Admit the thought or feeling you’re having, no matter how dark, petty, or seemingly insignificant. Permit the feeling or thought to exist even if it’s something as small as “An ex reached out today and it made me feel uncomfortable thinking about all the what-ifs,” or as large as “It’s always bothered me that my dad isn’t much of a hugger. I haven’t ever really talked about this, but I always wanted to be held.”
Touch all of the feels associated with that thought. This is the time to vent to your heart’s content. For example, “It’s not fair that my ex reached out after he promised to give me some distance. Was the douchebag really trying to ‘wish me well’? HE SUCKS! I’m still furious about how he broke up with me.” Or maybe it’s “I wish I had been hugged. I still feel sad that I wasn’t. I feel angry too! Parents should hug their kids!” Give in to how you actually feel. Don’t resist or deny your feelings; allow them to exist. Resistance adds kerosene to our flaming emotions. Pause and put the butane down.
Get curious about why this is coming up for you now: “Maybe I’m feeling heightened emotions because my BFF Sarah is moving in with her boyfriend….I’m happy for her, but I feel a little hollow space inside of me when I think about how in love they seem to be, how they laugh so much, and how not in love I am right now.” Or maybe it’s “I realize I’m having trouble being intimate altogether and wonder if it has something to do with my childhood.” Keep questioning yourself. Sometimes it can take a while to get answers. But you are getting into the practice of becoming self-aware. You have to know the wound to heal the wound! An easy question that always works—though you might have to ask it a few times—is “Why am I feeling this way?”
Commit to a healing action. A real one. It doesn’t have to be big. If your ex reached out and it upset you, maybe you get to put on your favorite moisturizing Sephora face mask while you remind yourself that he’s the kind of guy who likes to stir shit up. Maybe you take yourself on a romantic date at the new hip place down the street with great bar seating. If your dad didn’t hug you and it’s bothering you now, maybe it’s time to go get a massage or ask your BFF for a big old hug.
Finish your emotional mining with this affirmation: “I am lucky to deal with this issue now instead of letting it fester. The shimmering, platinum lining is:” and then fill in why it’s a good thing, a great thing, a fucking miracle that you are dealing with this right now. That which you do not deal with deals with you. Always.
In addition to working out your past traumas (small and large), I’ve found that journaling can give you physical relief and peace. I know this because when I don’t write in the morning, I feel tense and can be savage and mean. I become the bitch in line at Starbucks who is sneering and rolling her eyes while you take too long to order your drink. It’s Starbucks. How do you not know what you want to order? When you journal, you don’t have to carry your fears and anxieties with you all day and inadvertently unleash them on innocent bystanders. THANK GOD!
Keeping a diary is not only a way to deal with your “issues,” however; it’s also a practice that makes space for your dreams and wishes. STAY WITH ME, DEAREST READER; THIS WON’T BE THAT CHEESY! Somewhere along the way, I had given up on the idea that I could have a remarkable, joyous life. I was stuck in a rat-race mind-set, cluttered with anxious thoughts like You are a failure on all levels and You will never find romantic love and How are you so lazy that you haven’t picked up your dry cleaning for three weeks?! Those thoughts took up almost ALL of my mental space. But by putting my worries on the page, now I had room for dreams, too, and a place to pay attention to them. “Maybe I could work with great artists,” I wrote one day. “In my fantasy career, I would be writing and creating. Is there a job where I can be Tina Fey? Well, you know, not HER, but you get it,” I wrote. “In my ideal life, I am living in Los Angeles with a home office and desk that looks out over my own backyard.” I wanted to move to LA? And have a yard? Since when?