“…reading old journal entries and I know her, but she doesn’t know me.”
A social media friend posted this quote the other day. It made me think about my long-time journal work. I have more old journals than I can count. So, I took some time to think about the writings that have carried me through so much over the years. As I reflected, I realized how much I have grown through my journaling practice.
My early journaling practice started when I was a teenager. I wrote poems in red spiral notebooks. I still have those notebooks. It was not traditional journaling, but it served the purpose of journaling for me. While I am not comfortable going back and reading those journals at this point in my life, I remember the ideas and tone of the content. Depression had entered my life. I was struggling. Everything I wrote was an acknowledgement of that struggle. The pain ran deep. At that time, I only saw darkness and my poems reflected that. Death was a frequent theme. It was a painful time and my journals, those red spiral notebooks, carried that pain.
If the girl I was then could see the woman I am today, she would have difficulty recognizing me. Yes, depression is still a part of my life, but my world is much less dark overall. Sure, there are moments the girl I was then would recognize, but I have learned to cope with the depression.
As I moved on from my teenage years, I continued writing. At some points I found myself journaling more than others. I remember all those years and all those journals. There were so many words written about living with depression and anxiety. My journals were a place of escape, a place to find a haven for my thoughts. The younger me who wrote those words would not believe that I now write about more than my pain. My writing about depression has turned into a healing practice.
This is not to say that I do not still feel the pain and darkness of depression. I do, but I have learned to use my writing as more than just an escape. My younger self likely would not understand because writing, journaling, was her escape. I have found that writing is healing. Perhaps, in a way, it was then, too. I just did not know it
Now, when I journal, I explore what I am experiencing. I go beyond the darkness of depression. I ask depression questions. Sometimes the answers find their way into other writings like this blog and my books. I have learned that by sharing my writing I am not only helping myself, but I can help others.
I journal every day. It is a part of my healing toolbox. Maybe I should I write a letter to my teenage self. I could comfort her in a way I was not comforted then. I think earlier versions of myself would be amazed at the way journaling and writing in general, have carried me through difficult times. She would never have thought the words she scribbled in the many journals would have allowed me to evolve into the woman I am today. I have lived with depression. I have written about my depression on what may be near thousands of pages. That is hard for even present day me to believe.
Journaling is powerful. I have written about journaling on this blog in the past (The Practice of Journaling). I share pieces of my journal with my mental health team in different ways. The poems I have written in my journals have made their way into all five of the books I have written. I have had conversations with others about depression and mental illness in general. This has happened because I picked up a pen almost 40 years ago and began journaling.
As we journal, we transform along with our words. I have transformed. The younger me, from my teenage years to even a few years ago, would not recognize me today. I am aware of her. I know that I am the me I am today, because my younger self fought through the pain of depression, chronicled that pain on the pages of my journals, and created a practice that provided a safe space to process my struggle. For that I am grateful.
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