When I was 10 I wrote in purple pages with an invisible ink pen. Those words were for my eyes only. It was a Lisa Frank diary I hoped would gather the attention Anne Frank’s diary did; that somehow long after I had left this earth, my diary would be found, read, and admired. It was a silly thought, nethertheless, I continued writing in “diaries” from then on. However, I write for a different purpose. I don’t refer to my book of secrets or my book of life as a “diary” but rather a journal.
The word “Diary” has long been associated with an aura of naiveté; teenage girls circling boys’ names in hearts, stickers, and pages spilling in ambivalent emotions. I would be lying if I said I never possessed such a diary myself. However, as I’ve grown older my pages do not fantasize on mere infatuations. The words I scribble depict the inner conflicts I have faced and the events in which challenge the certainty of who I think I am. Sounds existential, I suppose, and for this reason it cannot be a “diary,” but rather the mature, post pubescent, “journal.”
There’s a couple of reasons why I hold journaling in such grandiosity. Not only is it an act to fight inner demons and emotional instability, but it holds memories that one can never again attain. The more we think upon our memories the more we distort them and the more unreal they become. It is a bit frightening to think that our memories may or may not have happened in the way we remember them. No one wants to live in ignorance. This is why journaling has become a treasure. The details I can so easily miss in the future will never be forgotten in a journal. The memory is locked in it’s authenticity. It is nice to find yourself surprised every time you read back on your memories, because it is never the way your remembered it. We forget the fine details. The weather, the time, the date, the color of your shirt, the way you cried after a movie, the smell of your mom’s homemade flan. What brought the sparkle to your eye or the butterflies to your stomach.
Lastly, if anything, a journal is your loyal friend who never fails you; a listener, free of judgement, and always, always understanding. When you feel like there is no one you can possibly turn to, there’s the mighty pen and paper to guide you. When everything is written down, your journal becomes a map. It shows where you’ve been and where you’re heading. In a journal you inevitably write down your hopes, concerns, wishes, goals, guilty pleasures, etc. You may return to your journal and read it or evaluate it as you would a regular book and ask what is going on with this character? Am I rooting for them? This is why writing in a journal is therapeutic.
