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My mom saved everything. In the years before a final fall resulted in permanent nursing home care, I urged her to allow me to begin a process of decluttering her crowded home. Her response was an adamant, “You can get rid of my stuff after I’m gone.”
When she died last year, 88 years of life’s “stuff” was crammed into boxes and bags, completely filling one spare bedroom. Located in one box was a green spiral notebook, from which three loose pages fell. I recognized the beautiful penmanship and realized it was Mom’s journal.
Although she was no longer alive to object, the idea of reading my mother’s innermost thoughts made me hesitate, although I was sure no juicy details would be revealed. The development of dementia in her waning years ended any potential plans Mom may have had of destroying old journals.
Journaling can be beneficial for both physical and mental health, for humans of any age. However, the decision to read someone else’s deeply personal thoughts can be perceived as a massive betrayal of trust.
Should adult children read their parents’ journals? To sociologist and “60+Me” online blogger Candy Leonard, this scenario can be both damaging and enlightening: As she writes, “For some, the revelations could be disruptive to the next generation. For others, it may bring understanding that serves them well.”
I stared at the green notebook and pondered whether my natural curiosity would triumph over my desire to preserve any right to privacy I felt Mom deserved. I was not searching for closure, as I thought we had left nothing unsaid. Mom and I had enjoyed an unusually close bond as mother and daughter. But with the onset of her cognitive decline, our closeness evaporated.
I retrieved the first loose page that had fallen from the notebook and began to read. Titled “Child of Pain,” it told the story of a man who offered a six-year-old girl a shiny nickel. He coaxed her to take it.
“You can have it. Just come here. I won’t hurt you.”
As I began to grasp what I was reading, I was filled with rage. Thanks to the descriptive writing, I had a clear vision of his dirty face, hands, and clothes, as well as his ugly, yellow teeth.
“He pulls her close to him; he smells of kerosene. He hears her mom in the other room and pulls away quickly. ‘Don’t tell, it’s our secret'."
As I read the awful, but perfect recollection of a heinous act that occurred over 80 years earlier, uncontrollable sobs wracked my body. The little girl in the story was my mother. She carried this secret throughout her long life.
The writing was in third person, as if the storyteller were an observer of the abuse. Known as disassociation, it’s a device used by trauma victims when dealing with emotional pain by mentally distancing from the event.
This was not a solitary experience. Mom mentions later in the journal that she was fondled by this man on three separate occasions. When I was young, she explained to me the dangers posed to children by predators, though I never knew the details of the molestations she experienced.
The story ended as Mom mused about the possibility of others being abused. The assaulter had two daughters.
“Did he molest them?
She wonders . . .”
For my parents’ generation, counseling was not a widely accepted resource, as it was often associated with the stigma of mental illness. How I wish my mother had sought professional help, though, knowing her parents, that would not have been encouraged. Releasing her pain in words was Mom’s singular form of therapy.
Reading her journal, a memory flashed into my mind. When I was a young child, Mom and I were seated in a waiting room when an older man entered and took a seat across from us. He was trying to get my attention by offering me a quarter. Mom noticed and brusquely informed him in a tone that startled me, “No!”
Ultimately, the decision to read a late parent’s journal is one only the adult child can make. I vacillated between feeling regret that I had imposed on Mom’s privacy and feeling thrilled to be handed an opportunity to understand the complex woman who raised me.
Mom’s journal took me to a very dark place. The details of what happened to her decades ago were a shocking revelation to me, as her daughter and as a mother. She may have been a “child of pain,” but she emerged as a woman of resilience, a forcefully protective mother and a true friend to me.
I use writing as part of a search to find the lightbulb, that luminous, “aha” moment when a mystery is solved. Reading her journal enabled me to flip the switch and finally see my mom — and maybe myself — a little more clearly.
Have any of you read a parent's journal? Would you ever allow your kids to read your journals? Let us know in the comments below.
Michelle Kondrich
