Journals

aka Why Journals Are Important.

I've journaled for most of my life. Kept a diary, kept a notebook, kept whatever. In high school I stopped, because I had LiveJournal, and also I passed a lot of notes to my best friend, so that took care of a lot of the need to get things out.

In college I picked up again, probably because I had more secrets and needed more privacy. And that's continued for the past 12 years.


Right now I have a main journal, and I recently started 3 (holy shit!) new ones, to take care of various and specific writing needs in my life. The sensation of them is important to me. I chose them carefully. I have a little mini pocket one that rides in my purse, a Composition notebook that cruises through life on my table and couch (used for... well, what you might expect, if you have a mind like mine), and a little hardbound book that sits next to my bed. Plus my main, which tends to occupy all parts of life.

Yesterday I was idly flipping back through my main, thinking about going back to a journal from 17 years ago, because I had something I wanted to check, and possibly show someone.

Some things caught my eye, and I started reading my words from last March and April, thinking about things I had written recently. Thinking about my mood at this time, a year later.


This is why journals are so important.


Almost a year ago, but still, less than a year ago, I wasn't... happy, not happy as could be, but I was reasonably happy. I had some hopes and expectations. I was unburdened by a lot of the things that trouble me almost daily now. Sure, I had my own troubles and worries last year, but also, last year, someone held me in their arms and made me feel OK.

I flipped back another year, to 2014, and found myself even happier.


This is why journals are so important.


I've been wallowing in this mess now, not for a long time, but for a deep time. But I've only had this stone in my heart for a year. Less than a year. It's just so heavy that it distorts time, it warps my perception of my happiness, and my ability to be happy, and how life has really gone.

It's only been a year since having real emotions. It's only been two years since being freely happy. In the grand scheme of things, look how much changed in a year! How can I say "Life is awful, I'm always sad and lonely!" when I have my own written proof that it isn't, it's only been awful recently?


It's important to remember how things really went.


It's important to remember, also, the good that hadn't yet happened. The good that maybe got overlooked. Last-year me hadn't run a marathon yet. She wasn't even training. Hell, I don't think she even had the idea for it back in April. She didn't have her own apartment. She wasn't dreaming of Ultras. She hadn't yet read The Library At Mount Char, or any number of other excellent books.

She had shit ahead of her, but also good things. She just couldn't see any of it, and eventually, I couldn't see the half of it.

Even if my journal from a year ago is just my perspective, and may not be the truth of things, that's not what matters. Life happens to me, and I have to allow it to be mine. My life happens to me, and my perspective is the only one I can trust. Even imperfect. Even wearing rose-colored glasses. Even carrying stones.

And last-year me saw the world as a hopeful place. So maybe next-year me will too.