I’ve briefly talked about journaling in several posts so far. This will be focusing on it!
I am a journal fanatic… although… it goes in fits and starts. When I’m “in” I’m all-the-way in. I write entries, poetry, letters, conversations and/or draw and color. I’ve written every day for years… and stopped for a year or more. I’ve got gaps in my journals that span months between.
I’ve got plain, blank, black journals with lined pages and fabric covers with papyrus pages. I’ve got art journals and bullet journals. I have guided journals and calendars that doubled as health journals. Most are gifts. Some are not. All are cherished.
They weren’t always. Cherished, I mean. No, that’s not what I mean, either. They *were* cherished. Then I got crazy-sauce and burned them. Or dunked them in bleach and ripped them up into a bazillion pieces and then tossed them into the garbage. Destroyed. Yes, that’s a better way to say it. Remember, I am a creator and destroyer.
I journaled all the way through some pivotal points in my life.
There were books full of children’s struggles, especially my son’s long struggle through neurological and mental health diagnosis’ and the education system that done him wrong.
There were my married/ family “church years” where I was a fervent Baptist (I talked about it HERE) who became a disheartened Christian. I remember dreaming of being mired in filthy, muddy, water… along with the preacher’s wife… where (of all things) bull frogs were trying to tell me something. I can’t remember exactly but do recall that it felt vitally important at the time. My brain was trying to tell me something.
I had my dream journals, which I already talked about HERE. But sometimes, I wrote dreams in the regular journals instead. I’m a rebel like that.
I also wrote through the destruction of my first marriage (from both sides and more, thankyaverymuch). Twenty years distilled down to about five journals.
Then, I moved to Canada and began a new life.
It felt to painful to have the old journals around. There was lots of pain to go around, that’s for damned sure… but most of all, I didn’t want to be reminded of the pain I’d caused. The guilt and shame were overwhelming at times. Still is.
The point is… I kinda/ sorta did everything back-asswards and way too many people got hurt… some of my favorite people… some who have since passed away, even… and I didn’t want to be reminded of it.
So… well, I’ve already explained what I did. I destroyed most of the journals. And then I started over.
Note to self: Just because you get rid of the proof doesn’t take away the actions or the consequences of those choices. Hindsight 20/20… that kind of thing.
These journals (those in the photos) represent the last 18 years. There are a few I didn’t include… not sure why but heck, why does it matter?
Destroying journals is NOT the way to go… unless it’s a ritual of letting go. Then, perhaps it is for the best. But if you’re trying to hide from yourself… yeah, not a good idea. I speak from experience.
I highly recommend writing or drawing or coloring or jotting or whatever you do with a pencil, ink, paint brush, crayons, glitter… as self-help.
I’m not the only one who says this, of course… so I will end with a Psych Central article that’s pretty darned good: HERE.
Now, get journaling!