Writing has been an integral part of my life since I was about seven years old. I think it began with seeing my parents, especially my mother, lost in books. I fancied seeing my face on the cover of a book, telling stories of my life.
I don’t remember why or how or when it began but I choked up and grew silent in tense situations but was always moved to respond by writing. When my mother scolded me, I responded with a letter of apology and/or a written explanation. That habit followed me through to my adult life. People didn’t care to read the letters I wrote under troubling, angry and painful circumstances.
“What’s this?” was their usual reaction/response, which made me feel foolish and angry. Still, I couldn’t manage to get a word past my lips. In fact, their dismissive questions and disparaging remarks succeeded only in cementing my silence, which angered them further,
|Some of the journals that hold the stories of my life
In time, although my silence continued, I stopped writing my letters and switched to pouring out my feelings in my journals.
If you asked how journaling has impacted my life, I’d say:
On its pages, I discover answers to troubling questions.
On its pages, I understand the circumstances in my life, the issues that plague me, my relationships and my dreams.
On its pages, I brainstorm solutions to problems, make decisions and devise actions to move those decisions forward.
On its pages, I deposit bits and pieces of my own life experiences and life in general.
On its pages, I decipher the hidden reasons behind my fears, why I procrastinate and feel blocked with my writing and the real stories behind the stories I feel compelled to write.
I suppose, in a sense, I can say that it is on the pages of my journal that I live the deep aspects of my life.