I was art journaling quite a lot a couple of years ago. I never reread any of those until tonight. This is a slightly (purposely) obliterated page from the day my son quit speaking to me. It has been twenty months, much has changed in both our lives but still...no word from him.
That day I could only draw flames because of anger and hurt. Now the fire is gone. It is just frustration and sadness that we can't agree to disagree. Some say I am better off this way--TV's Judge Joe Brown calls it "disownment." It feels incomplete. Undone. A mess. Unfixable.
My journal fell by the wayside. I've got to get back to it.
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