I always thought that keeping a journal or diary was stupid. Why would anybody keep a written testament of their most intermittent thoughts unfiltered, especially when it could be later used against you? I saw journaling as a weakness, and yet one day I found myself partaking in the activity. Oddly, despite my previous recollections, I found that I enjoyed the activity. For the first time in my life I experienced true freedom. I could write whatever I pleased and no one could had any right to be upset about it.
The first time I wrote uncenssored I thought that I would immediately rip up the page when finished and discard it, but I didn’t. Instead, I continued to return to the journal daily to write. I wrote about anything that came to my mind. I didn’t think twice, I didn’t stop and ask myself what I was writing, I just wrote. To society, the things I wrote would be considered cruel and heartless. “A heartless monster,” that’s what my brother calls me and in my journals that’s exactly what I am. I come first. I am the center of the universe, the world revolves around me, and I take absolutely no shame in that fact. Instead, I embrace it. This is the one place in the world where it is truly all about me, and I enjoy it. This is my life and I get to write my own story.
I journaled daily for nearly a year before prying eyes intruded on my words. I knew it would happen, and although I know it’s not my fault I do partially blame myself. I was reckless with my journal, I believed myself invincible and made no effort whatsoever to hide it. I left it out in plain view constantly. Perhaps you’ll figure I wanted it to be read, but I can tell you that isn’t the case. I thought I was safe. I thought I could trust those around me and within a few days time I found that my whole world had been turned upside down by the pages I’d confided so dearly within. My greatest strength had been used against me and I was left completely exposed. Everything that made me myself… all of my secrets that I’d acquired and recorded in my journal were now no longer my own.
I stopped journaling for a few months after this incident, but I couldn’t bring myself to throw them out. These journals were who I was. These journals were my identity, and without them I would be reduced to nothing. My story would no longer exist, everything I had experienced in those days I’d written would be erased from history. No one, not even me would remember those words, and I couldn’t let that happen; so I wrapped my journals up in a white sheet, and hid them away, promising myself that I wouldn’t write so freely again until I was truly safe and out of risk.
My promise didn’t last long. Nearly two months later, beneath the night's darkness I unwrapped my journals and found myself writing again. This event was nearly two years ago. For the past two years I’ve journaled daily on and off. More recently, I’ve found that I’m struggling to write in the same way that I used to, and this is how I’m failing myself. I want to write. I want to journal, and yet no matter how long I stare at the blank pages of my composition notebook no words seem to come to my mind. Everything has been taken away from me, I don’t have anything to confess to the page anymore… I don't have any more secrets. Everything is gone.
I know that one day I will write again with the same feeling of freedom I had when I first started journaling, but unfortunately I don’t see that day occurring soon despite how hard I try for it. My mind knows that it’s unsafe for me to write and for these reasons it’s blocked my thoughts. My mind is no longer as open as it was previously, I can feel the walls that have been built around me and I just wish I knew how I could break them down.
Don’t worry about me though, although I may not write in the same capacity I did when I first began journaling, I’m still writing, and I won’t give up on my freedom.
— March
The first time I wrote uncenssored I thought that I would immediately rip up the page when finished and discard it, but I didn’t. Instead, I continued to return to the journal daily to write. I wrote about anything that came to my mind. I didn’t think twice, I didn’t stop and ask myself what I was writing, I just wrote. To society, the things I wrote would be considered cruel and heartless. “A heartless monster,” that’s what my brother calls me and in my journals that’s exactly what I am. I come first. I am the center of the universe, the world revolves around me, and I take absolutely no shame in that fact. Instead, I embrace it. This is the one place in the world where it is truly all about me, and I enjoy it. This is my life and I get to write my own story.
I journaled daily for nearly a year before prying eyes intruded on my words. I knew it would happen, and although I know it’s not my fault I do partially blame myself. I was reckless with my journal, I believed myself invincible and made no effort whatsoever to hide it. I left it out in plain view constantly. Perhaps you’ll figure I wanted it to be read, but I can tell you that isn’t the case. I thought I was safe. I thought I could trust those around me and within a few days time I found that my whole world had been turned upside down by the pages I’d confided so dearly within. My greatest strength had been used against me and I was left completely exposed. Everything that made me myself… all of my secrets that I’d acquired and recorded in my journal were now no longer my own.
I stopped journaling for a few months after this incident, but I couldn’t bring myself to throw them out. These journals were who I was. These journals were my identity, and without them I would be reduced to nothing. My story would no longer exist, everything I had experienced in those days I’d written would be erased from history. No one, not even me would remember those words, and I couldn’t let that happen; so I wrapped my journals up in a white sheet, and hid them away, promising myself that I wouldn’t write so freely again until I was truly safe and out of risk.
My promise didn’t last long. Nearly two months later, beneath the night's darkness I unwrapped my journals and found myself writing again. This event was nearly two years ago. For the past two years I’ve journaled daily on and off. More recently, I’ve found that I’m struggling to write in the same way that I used to, and this is how I’m failing myself. I want to write. I want to journal, and yet no matter how long I stare at the blank pages of my composition notebook no words seem to come to my mind. Everything has been taken away from me, I don’t have anything to confess to the page anymore… I don't have any more secrets. Everything is gone.
I know that one day I will write again with the same feeling of freedom I had when I first started journaling, but unfortunately I don’t see that day occurring soon despite how hard I try for it. My mind knows that it’s unsafe for me to write and for these reasons it’s blocked my thoughts. My mind is no longer as open as it was previously, I can feel the walls that have been built around me and I just wish I knew how I could break them down.
Don’t worry about me though, although I may not write in the same capacity I did when I first began journaling, I’m still writing, and I won’t give up on my freedom.
— March
Comments
Post a Comment