Back in 6th grade, a friend of mine gave me a magenta colored diary for my birthday. At the time, most of the stories I read featured girls that kept diaries. My favorite series, “The Baby-Sitters Club” by Ann M. Martin, often had journal entries at the beginning of each chapter documenting adventures at work. And now, I, too, could document the details of my life, with doodles and mementos secured by a little lock and key.
I wrote voraciously in the beginning. Be it petty complaints, mundane details, allowance calculations, it was all recorded with a date, time and location stamp. By the time I was in 9th grade, I had filled three notebooks with my thoughts and sketches, much to the disapproval of my mother. “Once you put your thoughts to paper, you cannot take them back,” she’d say. Uncharacteristically, I didn’t heed her advice, took the risk and continued.
And thankfully so! My writing slowly evolved from documentation to expressing deeper frustrations with the world which I could not express to its face. Ever the non-confrontational person, I spilled my hurt and anger into inanimate pages. And for years onward, my insecurities and self-deprecation emerged over and over, carried from the thrift store lined diary to the unruled sleek black Moleskin. But writing down these negative emotions purged them out of the system. I noticed how writing down my anxiety slowed down my thought process, keeping it from plunging into panic. I would break down the emotions, organize the thoughts, and explain myself in a way I couldn’t verbally. It became a problem-solving tool. If I felt overwhelmed at an upcoming task, I was able to break it down, give myself a pep talk and go forth. I’ve “talked” myself into writing drafts of emails I was too scared to or rehearsed conversations before important meetings.
It opened a window to access my deep inner voice and allowed me to be more reflective.
I think the most important gift given to me by journaling was the space to be myself. I am free to express myself without fear of being judged or mocked. Without feeling awkward or suffocated. In the physical world I am shy and introverted and hyper-aware of how my actions are affecting others. In the blank pages I am open to express the most uncomfortable and selfish of thoughts, most of which dissipate soon after being let out. However, because of this, it is often disturbing to go back and read previous entries. As a child I would sometimes imagine someone reading my personal thoughts and would take care not to paint an unflattering picture of myself. However, now, regardless of whether someone will peek in or not, I write me as I am. I can be selfish and bitter and giddy and excited, without holding back.
With the comfort of raw honesty, came understanding and self acceptance. It opened a window to access my deep inner voice and allowed me to be more reflective. I remember coming to the conclusion that my introversion was not a bad trait. For so long society dictated that introversion was the lesser trait, and here I was, finally coming to terms with it. I learned to laugh at my awkwardness and social mishaps. Moreover, I became aware of how blessed I was with innumerous privileges. Through that lens my complaints became subdued. It was important that I was able to complain about my stinging papercuts, but it was also important to conclude that they were in fact just teeny-tiny papercuts.
After some time I can see patterns in the lists and confront those in moments of reflection.
My writing style evolved from mostly minute details of the day, embellished with heavy emotions, to mostly long bursts of introspection and reflection. Recently, my entries transformed again to lists of all types and sizes. I have lists for things to do, gifts to buy, goals to achieve, prayers to make, blog posts to write, you name it.My cousins joke that this is a genetic trait that we have all inherited from our utilitarian fathers. Perhaps so. Because even though I was surprised by this style change, it seems to be practical. Since I don’t have time to sit and write about how overwhelmed I feel, I can, instead, express and decrease the stress, by writing what needs to be done in neat bulleted format. It’s convenient to have all the information in one place. After some time I can see patterns in the lists and confront them in moments of reflection. It’s easy to spot that I’ve been wanting to take swimming lessons for three years. It’s time I acted on it.
Reading back, whether it be lists or long winded entries, is certainly always eye opening. It is a time capsule that takes you back to travel sketches, pressed flowers, and answered prayers. While I’d rather my teenage angst wasn’t captured and preserved, it’s definitely fascinating to be able to go back to your older thoughts. It can be a source of gratefulness seeing how the despair and darkness was transformed and the demons destroyed. Granted, life doesn’t work like a fairy tale and much of my older entries are battling the same monsters I am today. Often the pain numbed by time comes crashing back flipping through the tear stained pages. But it is reassuring to see that through all the hurdles you faced, you survived them all and that you will definitely surpass whatever else comes your way.
It took some time to develop my journaling style to what it is today. It is reflective and purposeful in the most part. I don’t write as much, but what I do, matters more. It helps me overcome barriers that I’ve constructed or console myself when I can’t. By writing on those pages I list my blessings, and in times of despair spell out the pain. Choosing the next new journal is now an exciting and rewarding venture. I will spend weeks looking for my next companion. The way I see it, If it’s such an effective tool to organize my soul, then it’s worth a small splurge, right?
Let me know your experience with journaling and if you see some practical point to it.
