I’ve written in journals, sporadically, for years. I used to want to be that person who got to the end of their life and had written every day, but I don’t think I’m ever going to be that person. I’ve gone periods where I’ve written every week, every month, whenever I felt like it. I went almost a year, most recently, writing every day.
But I look back, at journals I wrote in when I was amidst my toughest, most breakable, when I was sinking or mindlessly happy or fluctuating. When I was thinking or considering something, anything, and I’ve felt so changed, in the months or years that have passed, and when I look back at the words I scrawled I feel almost distressed. Because I don’t remember the intensity of my feelings. I don’t vividly remember how close to shattering I was. And it hurts, to see, to relive. And what if someone else read it, I can never stop thinking. What if they read it and didn't realise that it wasn't their fault. That I don't blame anyone. There are excuses and I fill myself with them, but all the same- it's almost too hard to write down anything at all. Because what would they think of me.
But then I remember that it *was* accurate, even if it isn't anymore. It was my life. And I'm so glad to have recorded it.