There’s something about buying a new journal that makes me feel…hopeful. Maybe it’s the smell of the unused pages that signals a new slate, a new beginning. Perhaps it’s the crack of the spine as the book is opened that makes my brain remember it’s time to let the thoughts out.
I’ve kept a journal — in some form or another — off and on since the age of fifteen. After I was diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder and Generalized Anxiety Disorder, my doctor recommended that I write my thoughts down as often as I needed to. Thus, journaling began as a simple way to get bad thoughts out of my head.
Over the years, it’s changed, of course. My journals are, to be honest, scattered, random collections of thoughts, feelings, major event recollections, and a variety of other things. Despite the chaos of the whole thing, I’ve always felt my mind to be a bit clearer and my focus and concentration to be a bit sharper after a good journal session.
I guess what they say about how a mind full of thoughts can be messy has some truth to it — in my case, anyway. Getting thoughts onto a page is therapeutic in ways that are difficult to explain to other people.
The journals I keep are just for me. I occasionally revisit pages, but mostly, they’re just a place for me to work through my thoughts. And that’s good enough for me.