Journal of Broken Dreams

I open the drawer, pull out the floral-patterned journal and set it on my desk. I have not added an entry in weeks, and the mental dam is threatening to burst with words of insight begging to be written. Most journals are private affairs of the mind shared between the writer and pages, no one else. We all have locked away secrets, desires, or mental ramblings that need to get out but are not meant for human digestion. This journal is different. I do get the benefit of sharing secrets with an unobjective, non-judgmental, inanimate object, but soon my daughter will read these sacred pages. Nervous waves wash over me as I think about her eyes reading these intimate words, but it is the only means of communication I have with her. Distance prevents her from writing me back, but that doesn’t stop me from imagining the scene. I fall into wistful imagination as I watch her open the journal and begin reading. Her thick, tight curls of spun gold fall into her face as she reads. She stretches a small hand up to tuck the errant curl behind her ear, never taking her eyes from the words of wisdom written just for her. Her smile fills my soul with warmth. There are pensive times, as well as incredulous looks, but after each entry she sets the book down, careful not to bend a single page to glance at me as if to say, ‘Good job Daddy’. Her cherubic, dark chocolate eyes shine at me with a reverence like only a daughter can give to her father. Arms outstretched, smiling with the single dimple she hates, she hugs my neck.

My heart aches every time my mind begins to linger on how I miss scooping my little angel up in my arms, or how we used to play on the floor with her plastic animals. Hundreds of memories from a less complicated time begin to fall like rain. If I continue walking down this path, the memories of the past dig in deep, coalesce, and press down so hard I sink into a dark hole. I can’t get lost in times before. I have work to do today, so I wrestle the dream out of my head and start writing.

Dear Daughter, I begin as words take control and flow from mind to pen then into paper. Time creeps by as I float away from my body. This happens each time I put an entry in this journal. A magical spell is cast on me as the inner writer takes over. Today’s entry is how she should be true to herself. Don’t change to make others happy as this will ultimately lead to inner unhappiness. Not every entry is a mistake that I have made in my life and the hard lesson learned, but that subject fills many pages. I know she will make mistakes just like everyone else, but my goal is to help her avoid most of the costlier mistakes. My hope is to save Jocelyn from some of the embarrassment and pain I endured growing up.

I also include dreams and hopes, any words of wisdom I am unable tell my precious child in person, and a lot of inner reflections. There are occasional memories of times we shared that get included as the stream of consciousness pours from my mental well. The journal may ramble, or appear quite disorganized, but that is the beauty of it. I want it to be as organic as possible, like a real conversation, not just a father’s gentle indoctrination.

I chose this method of communication with her because I don’t know if she is getting the birthday and holiday cards I send every year. I occasionally attach a small letter, but I have yet to receive a response. Is she angry with me? Does she feel I have abandoned her? Has she written me off as a lost cause? All are questions that constantly swirl overhead like vultures zeroing in on something bloated and rotten.

I wouldn’t blame her for feeling all those emotions. There was a stretch of time when I was not the best father I could be. I made bad decisions, stupid mistakes I easily could have avoided, and in the process alienated the most precious being in my life. When I finally had my head ripped out of my own ass, it was too late. The emotional damage to my family, and especially my daughter was done. My beautiful, curly headed princess was taken away from me. I fought so hard to prevent it, but too much had happened. I needed to get this train wreck back onto the tracks. Maybe I could have taken the time to explain to her that her daddy was unsuccessfully dealing with several problems. I could have explained to her that none of this was her fault; she was perfect and blameless. I was and am the one with the flaws. Instead, I chose to wait. I thought she was too young, too innocent to understand all the adult problems. I often feel that was one of the biggest mistakes, because as I have learned over the years, not knowing is the worst of all.

I tilt my head down to look at the journal. The inner writer has filled several pages again. My hand is cramped, my nose is running like an open tap, and my eyes burn from the tears that have burst forth and soaked into my shirt. As uncomfortable as this gets, I know it’s a crucial part of the healing process. Like a sharp thorn embedded in flesh, these emotions must be yanked out. The process is painful, but if they stay too long, infection sets in.

Now that all the pages are filled with my handwriting, I hope the chance to present this work to Jocelyn comes soon. My ultimate wish is this journal grants her understanding and solace she didn’t get before we were separated years ago. I know it won’t erase the years of pain, loss, and anger, but it’s a start to understanding why her father couldn’t be with her. The journal can be a stepping-stone to healing the broken hearts.

After I clear my throat and shake out the cramp in my hand, I take the time to wrap the journal in simple, brown paper. This is a special project for me, but I don’t feel the need to make a big deal out of it by wrapping it in bright colors. Once I’m finished with the last step, I set it back into the desk drawer for safe keeping, but my stomach sinks a notch at the sight. Sitting in the drawer, it resembles a rather suspicious looking, brown package. After searching for a few minutes through leftover wrapping paper and trimmings I find some small white ribbon. I wrap the ribbon around it, tie a small curly bow around it and call it done. This will have to do for now.

I know I will see Jocelyn again, though it may still be years to come. My chest shudders in pain at the thought of the reunion taking so long, but I will never take my precious child for granted again.

Until then, be well my beautiful daughter, and know that Daddy always loves you.

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