Each year, around this time, I start
gathering up my journals. Not just the ones from this year, but as
many as I can find. My rule is to always, always be honest in my
journals-- even when it hurts, even when I can't bear to be honest in
real life. So these journals, they sometimes hold parallel realities:
what I knew vs. what I lived.
My favorite journal was penned in
2009. It's red (the only non-black journal I've had in over a
decade). I kept this journal when I was having daily panic attacks
that left me incapacitated. It's filled with fear, sadness, and
intense emotional and physical pain. A lot of the entries are bleak;
I wrote a lot about not knowing if I'd ever overcome the panic
attacks, wondering if it was all too much to deal with, wondering
what the scarring would look like if I ever managed to heal.
That journal, though dark, depressing,
and filled with pain and suffering, is such a testament to how much I
(we) can endure, and how something better is waiting to emerge. That
year is still teaching me lessons about how to be more honest, more
open, more healthy, more happy. I'm a better person for it.
We're stronger than we think.
