Journal

I keep a secret journal. I have mentioned this before, I think. I talk a lot and I write a lot but I need a place, a room, where I can write candidly about my pain and disappointments. My dreams and their interpretation. I can be silly and uncertain. Bold and still completely unsure of myself. It’s a diary but a grown up one. For the last five years I’ve gone to that little room with that little book and I’ve been able to say anything I wanted without fear of reprisal or rejection.

The beauty of that place is that it’s honest. It’s bare. It’s raw. It’s real. I don’t have to weigh each word I type. I just let fly. Grammar be damned. There is no manufactured anything in that place. It’s stupid, it’s vulnerable, it’s open. It’s password protected. I’ve poured a lot of tears into those pages, but I’ve poured a lot of hopes too. There’s more uncertainty in there than definition, but that’s a function of me when I need to process something. When I’m feeling good, I don’t need to articulate that. Isn’t that funny?

The magic of having a room like that is that it helps. Putting my inconsistencies and hurt on to a digital piece of paper; the physical act of the movement of my fingers, the turning of my mind and the stirring of my heart acts as a balm.

When I glance over those 44+ pages of Arial font size 10, I see a progression. I see that I was able to live through years of loneliness and disappointment and frustration. I did not die when I wanted to dig my guts out by hand to make the pain stop. I’ve hated. But I’ve forgiven. I’ve cried. But I healed. I despaired. But I was loved and lifted out of it.

I hope everyone has a place they can go to like that. Maybe it’s someone that they can confide in with complete trust. Maybe it’s a pillow in their room that they scream into. Maybe it’s their car on the commute to and from work.

I still have disappointments, and I’m still working through them in the same way. And I’m still ok. And I’m still loved and being lifted up.