Life of Wry

Once upon a very long time ago — about 44 years to be exact — I lived (and evidently adventured) at 220 B Street — a six-unit apartment building, right here in Davis.

I’ve reflected on those days a little here and there (I mean, I still live in Davis — coincidentally just five blocks from 220 B Street — and walk past that apartment building quite frequently), though my memories are fuzzy and mostly selective (sometimes completely wrong), as memories tend to be.

Until yesterday.

I hadn’t planned to unearth my journals yesterday. I was busy with simple little task that turned into a more complicated project which ultimately lead me into a whole different dimension. Literally. Through the looking glass.

(I was just shifting some summer clothes from one closet to another, which then morphed into a bigger closet sorting project that resulted in moving a whole bunch of fancier clothes to a wardrobe thingie in my office closet, which required me to shift a bunch of large rubbermaid boxes from there to another location, and one of those rubbermaid boxes (long untouched, unopened) contained a lifetime of journals — about 20-25 or so — and the one on top caught my eye, so I opened it, and got immediately pulled in) (at which point my closet project ended).

Anyway, twelve hours later (minus a short break for dinner), I’d read 294 pages of 22-24 year old me navigating my move to Davis, college graduation and first post-college jobs, but LOL, those subjects were barely addressed, LOST in a web of serious (apparently) relationships, shocking breakups, complicated entanglements and way more sex than I remembered. I barely mentioned school (except when it got in the way of my relationships), never commented on running track for UCD, and barely addressed the transition to a working life (except when my 12-hr/week tennis teaching job gave my dad pause, “Isn’t there a company like TRW up there where you could get a job in the computer department?”). (I was pleased to read that my mom had been briefed on that phone conversation and wanted to assure me that she and my dad were proud of me, and also wanted to let me know that my dad felt badly about making me cry.)

Anyway… there was very little about those significant life milestones, but there was just an incredible, vast volume of detail about the relationships and, again, the sex that happened in those three years between January 1978 and December 1980. An eye-opening swath of my history.

It was a real page turner. I’m afraid to open up any of the other journals.

And so much to process.

Interestingly… the setting for all of that drama and angst (and joy and fun, let’s be fair) was the few square blocks bounded by B, J, 8th and 2nd Streets… just blocks from where I live now. Could I ever, EVER have imagined then that 45 years later I’d be 1) reading this tome, and excerpts thereof to my husband, and 2) living just blocks away on A Street, having never left Davis — which I sure talked about doing in that journal! 3) Oh, and that my husband wasn’t ANY of the fellows in those relationships, as much as I thought each might have been marry-worthy.

Also interesting to me: while that 23 year old seemed almost a stranger to me — like, who IS this kid who can’t spell, can’t write, has that much sex, that much energy, is so uncertain about herself and her worth, is so naive about relationships (but thinks she isn’t) — a whole bunch of her is exactly who she became. Honestly, I read my thought processes then (in such painful detail), and recognized them as the same thought processes I go through now. Same patterns, same responses to hurt. I was stunned by that. I promise: I’ve grown, I’ve matured, I’ve learned, I’ve wisened up… but, man, those patterns, ESPECIALLY the response to hurt… they’re stuck in there, like part of the code, doomed to be repeated, impossible to erase.

Makes me just want to cry.

At least I can more or less write, and more or less spell. THAT is certainly an improvement over 23 year old me.

For hours I was just so stunned at the details and the way the relationships developed, and I was sometimes so very (very) disappointed in myself. I kept taking these deep breaths, shaking my head, cringing at the choices my inexperienced self was making, unimpressed by my lack of regard sometimes for others’ feelings. But truly, by the end, I felt some genuine compassion for that younger version of myself and saw some value to the experiences. I wouldn’t really want to remove any of them. I’m here to tell you, there were more to come, a mix of good and bad choices, and more lessons to learn.. but these three years, while pretty wild, painful, cringy, shallow, and morally dubious, also saw some real growth. There was a noticeable difference between the beginning of that journal and the end.

I found, tucked into the pages, a copy of a letter I’d sent to Brad, one of the very significant relationships during that time. Eight pages explaining why we needed to break up. Where my journal writing was unvarnished and largely stream of conscious (and brutal), the letter was thoughtful and (thankfully) way more articulate. In the journal, I was raw and unfiltered and embarrassingly self-centered. Hard to read. But in the letter to Brad, I was reasonably smart in my analysis of our relationship, a lot more tender and quite kind. (Also far fewer misspellings!) I was glad to see all of that.

I walked by 220 B Street this afternoon. I looked at that building with a completely different eye… much differently than have for the last four decades. I just stared at that first floor balcony. At one point I laughed out loud just thinking about then, now, THEN! At another point I just cried. How interesting to still be here, to still walk by that building all the time. To think about life 45 years ago.

OF COURSE I think of all the college kids who are that age, having those experiences all around me, every day, some in the same places (I imagine). OF COURSE I think about Peter, who’s in that age window, who’s having his own college relationships and experiences.

I’m not sure what to do with all these journals. I’m glad I have them. Writing was helpful back then. It’s illuminating (if cringy) to read them now.. I may want to re-read a few… maybe. But then what?? I don’t think Peter needs to read any of them.. so maybe a ceremonial bonfire? Or should I let him decide whether to toss or read? I’m not sure what he’d do. They’re pretty personal.. maybe they should just go when I go. Will think on this.

Page turner.