Journaling

For as long as I can remember, I have always kept a journal. I have never been one to verbally express my emotions, and have always found comfort in writing. For the longest time, I even wanted to be a writer. I have an antique desk in my room that I love. It is a worn in but dark wood with these beautiful metal handles. It was my mom’s when she was a little girl, and her grandmother’s before that. Below the table that slides out on the desk is a cabinet. I always loved this part of it because there is a keyhole on the outside of the door. Although I never actually had the key, it always felt so old and secretive to me.
Every now and then, I love to sit down on the soft blue carpet of my bedroom and open the cabinet. Inside, I read the copious amount of journals that are lined up chronologically, starting from when I was five to my most recent one. Scattered in with all of my diaries from each year, are my travel journals. Every major trip, or summer at camp, I have another journal where each day I document the memories that I know I will never have again. I start out with my first one from first grade. Or maybe it was even kindergarten. It amazes me that I have all of them.
My first journal was this brown cardboard notebook, with sinusoidal designs along the cover. I remember my dad brought it home for me after a business trip when I was about six years old. I remember sitting on my parents bed, and being ecstatic seeing my dad walk through the door after his business trip. In this first one, the majority of these “entries” and written in crayon. I skip pages, and my big, messy handwriting on displays a few sentences here in there, like “I like Elliott.” Or “Ali is my best friend.”
As I move onto the next journals, I love to watch my handwriting develop and observe how my scribbled sentences evolve into entries. I write about my day at school, fights with friends, sadness, happiness, draw a picture, copy down song lyrics, or write a funny quote I found. However, from about second grade to well maybe even now, many of my entries are about one general thing-boys. I delve into my elementary school crushes, even pour out my heart after an eighth grade break up, or the details of a first kiss.
Although my writing and thoughts have evidently developed over time, one thing remains constant with all of my journals-what they do for me. Keeping a journal for two weeks was just the norm for me. I definitely go through phases where I write every day, or sometimes I don’t write for months. My past three journals are filled with quotes and song lyrics that pertain to what I am feeling. Lately, I write down quick sentence or quote about how I am feeling-just to get it out of my system. For me, once I have it on paper, and it is out, I feel like that problem has left me. My journals keep me sane.
I even write goals that I would like to obtain in them. The best part is looking back at those once they are achieved. Maybe having a dozen notebooks of my thoughts seems strange. And it’s even stranger that I have so many. But these are just about me, and help me stay in touch with my emotions, which I don’t like to verbally express. I know that I have feelings, in fact I am a very sensitive person, I just have a unique way of handling them all.