From the time I was 13 years old, I have written in a journal. I have frequently written here about my experience going back and reading all of my journals. And by “all” I mean all 38 of them. I wrote about everything that was important to me and I wrote without leaving out details. And now I intend to share them.
Some people have a hard time writing in a journal. They say they don’t know what to write about or they worry that someone will find it and read it. That leads them to not writing the truth or leaving out important details. It also means that sometimes they don’t keep what they have written.
I get it. I don’t doubt that there is something therapeutic about pouring your soul out into writing and then destroying the paper. I’m sure it’s a way to heal from a trauma. Much like writing a letter that you never send is also good for your heart.
How and Why It Works
Rest assured, there is no right or wrong way to write in a journal. You just write. About whatever you want. No need to fuss over grammar and correct spelling or if you should or should not include information or names. You just write. It is only for you. I heard one time that writing in a journal helps with your mental health because whatever is causing you anxiety or some other negative feeling will go away if you write about it. By putting your thoughts into words on paper, you are creating a permanent record of whatever it is that happened. Now you have no reason to keep thinking about it. It’s a mind trick and it works. There are countless times that I have turned to my journal when I felt badly. I may not have always felt 100% better after writing, but my mental burden was always lessened.
Leaving a Legacy
With my history of mental health issues, I valued my journal writing above all else in the arsenal of things that were used to try and treat my illness. Writing was a non-negotiable for me. I felt that writing, especially when I was struggling the most, was not only helpful for me, but it would be helpful to the people who would read my words later on. I was not one of the people terrified of someone reading what I had written. I had no desire to destroy a journal after filling it up. I wrote because I felt that people needed to know what mental illness really felt like. So many people in my life didn’t understand and I couldn’t really explain it well enough.
Early on in my writing, I decided that I was going to keep my journals. My plan was to leave them to my grandchildren, to be read after my death. By reading about their grandmother in her own words, they would come to know me in a way that they might not have while I was alive. Even knowing that I wanted my future generations to read them, I still wrote without inhibition. Details about my sex life with their future grandfather included.
People Need to Know
However, I recently came to a realization. I may not leave this life with children to read my stories. At 42 years old, I don’t have children. And yet, my desire for these journals to be read is still strong. People need to know what it was like for me. My journals start before my first clinical depression diagnosis. I want people to see how I went from a typical 13 year old girl obsessed with boys to a college student who was severely suffering with bipolar disorder and self-harm behavior. I don’t remember much about the first two years of college because the downward spiral was so steep. But my journals tell the story. Because I wrote about it. How did I recover from that? How did I get to where I am now? It’s all in those 38 journals. And people need to know.
Knowing that I may not have descendants to pass these books on to, I decided not long ago that I was going to publish them. I was going to first re-read them all and decide which entries to include. I set rules for myself in that process. I refused to read more than one journal a day. I needed to allow time for my mind to settle after reliving the past. As I read them, I made notes and a plan for publishing them. I was incredibly excited about this idea.
The Problem
But then I read the latest issue of Writer’s Digest and in an article about writing essays, one contributor basically said that nobody wants to read your journals and reproducing them isn’t actual writing. Talk about a gut punch! I wasn’t going to just type what I wrote in my journals, I was going to include commentary and reflections and lessons and all the things! I had a plan. Honestly, it made me question this whole writing project I was excited about. It bothered me for a while in fact. Until I got the idea to simply publish my journals here. So that’s what I’m going to do.
The Plan
Every week, I am going to publish one journal entry, maybe two. There’s a lot to include from almost 30 years worth of entries. I’ll let my past voice speak for itself. I’ll, of course, add my own reflections at the end of each post. There’s a lot of cringey adolescent stuff to make fun of, in addition to the serious issues surrounding my mental health struggles. Specific names and places will be edited out not only to protect the privacy of those involved, but also because I want people to see themselves in the stories I share. This life could have been anybody’s. I’m not that different.
Until I post the first entry (from 1996 by the way), please read A Conversation. When I started the rereading process of these journals, it truly felt like I was having a one-sided conversation with my yonger self. It was surreal.
As I post these entries, I encourage you to share your own thoughts and experiences in the comments. Were you as lovelorn as I was in high school? Were your friends the most important to you back then? Do you still remember those people? Honestly, I don’t remember a lot of the people I wrote about. Clearly they’re not as important now as they were then. How have you evolved as a person since your adolescence? There’s a lot to unpack with this project. Please join me on the journey as I share how I overcame the mental health struggles that seemed determined to persist. I survived it all and now I want everyone to know just how possible it is, even when it feels like it is anything but. First entry coming soon…
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