I’ve been journaling since I was a child. Many years ago, when my mom was still alive and living with my stepfather, they had a box of my old journals in their garage, from when I was teenager. I had this one journal whose cover was Matisse’s Nu Bleu II, from when I was about thirteen.
I was appalled when I reread that journal as an adult. I’d had it with me when I was a homeless runaway, and it was filled with self-loathing and self-hatred; notes about how ugly I was, how I didn’t deserve good things, and so much (warranted) anger towards my mom and stepfather.
Yet I know now how healthy it is that my journals were filled with so much despair. Those words, and the act of writing them, probably kept me alive. It’s not that writing them made it all better— it didn’t. But the act of writing them externalized my feelings, and writing was the only safe way I could express myself. I wasn’t allowed to express my feelings to my mom and stepdad without the th…
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Gathering to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.