i had a black notebook that i thought of in my head as my 'depression book.' it was a separate journal from my main journal i used to express all my worst thoughts. confused, mad, sorrowful things, ashamed to admit them even to my diary. eventually the book started to become a source of pain itself; an ever-growing archive of my mental unwellness, written in vivid, unforgiving language that stretched a momentary thought into a permanent record. adding pages felt like psychic self-harm, like cursing myself. evil seeped from the black book.
over time life changed and i changed. things started drastically improving. and though i had new pains, the pains i had shed outnumbered them tenfold. i didn't write in the black book anymore. i didn't need to.
but the book was still there. holding it the warmth would leave my body, i would be overcome with something like shame, regret, disappointment. a complex sadness. i would open it and read, feeling sick at the thoughts i had so recently held about myself. my heart beat heavy, my stomach knotted. god, i hated that book more than anything.
i tore the pages from the black book and took them outside. i put them in the fire pit, sprayed lighter fluid on them, and lit them. fire creeped up the paper, eating the words i had poisoned myself with, the old pain, the ruins i had lived in. i had no need for them anymore. that moment of letting go, of recognizing that the hurt i was holding no longer existed, was illuminating.
the memory of that is something that i hold onto now. the knowledge, backed up by experience, that one day, i'll be able to take all this pain i'm feeling, maybe this site even, and burn it all down.
one day, one day, i'll burn it all down.