I’ve been writing in my journal a lot more. It’s easier than opening the laptop for some reason. Being able to grab a pen and my cherished journal, the one that says “Professional Dreamer” on the front, the one bought as a gift from my dearest friend several years ago – it just seems easier to confide in.
I don’t write everything in it or I’d be sitting there for hours. I like to keep records of how each day is going, as long as I find the time to write in it each day. Keeping these kinds of records is proof that I’ve been alive, proof that I’ve felt the way I’ve felt and done the things that I’ve done. It doesn’t have to be well-written or even interesting. It’s just there for me when I need it, and I could need it right now or in a few years, when I re-read these entries and feel glad that I wrote anything at all.
Sometimes it’s hard to be completely honest, even in one’s private journal. As I think about what I’m going to write next, I think about who may read it in years to come. Will I cry at these pages the next time I read them? Will my daughter be reading them when I pass away? Would any grandchildren be taking them into school for show and tell? I hope so, and yet, these questions can make me hesitant to write about what’s really going on in my head.
Journaling helps me make sense of how I am feeling. It provides a sense of relief. Blogging does the same, except I’m putting it out there for all to read, for you to read. Hitting publish comes with a little bit of fear – a fear of being judged. That’s why I have held back in the past, that’s why I continue to hold back a little.
There are just some things that are still somewhat taboo to talk about when it comes to mental illness – though these are the things that need to be talked about. Maybe one day.