I’ve always been one to keep little diaries or journals. When I was 8 or 9 years old, I discovered that writing was a possibility. My mom showed me her old journals full of poems she had written, and I fell in love. I started out writing little songs to myself, not even writing them down. I did eventually graduate and began using composition notebooks to house my hopes and dreams.
In my angsty teenage years, the journals became a place to express the emotions I didn’t feel safe expressing to the adults in my life. I documented things that happened to me, but I would also include snippets of little stories. I liked to create worlds for myself to live in that weren’t my real life. Sometimes, the worlds I created were even worse than my real life. It’s like how when you have an awful, terrible dream, you wake up feeling so grateful that that wasn’t your life and you woke up to a better one. I did the same with my stories. I created such scary circumstances that I found myself grateful for my own dreadful life.
Throughout the years, I didn’t journal very consistently. I would start a new notebook up, just to have my writing fizzle out a few months in. When I’d get the desire to write again, instead of picking up where I left off, I’d just start a brand new journal. It’s for this reason that I have a plastic tote filled with half-written in journals. Some have only a few pages, while others have as much as half filled in.
It’s always fascinating getting a glimpse into younger B’s mind. Sometimes, I can even remember having the exact thoughts I was writing down. It’s interesting, too, to see the patterns. There are certain things that have plagued me for years. Having epiphanies in my journal about my behaviors weren’t always enough to stop such behavior. Or, it’s like I’d have moments of clarity as I wrote. I’d see myself through a lens I didn’t typically. Then, as soon as I shut the journal, my mind shut out the discoveries I’d made, and I’d continue right along the same path of thinking. I noticed this more with a lot of my depressive thoughts. Thoughts like, “I know exactly what it is I should be doing to be a happier, healthier me, but I can’t seem to bring myself to actually do them.” That was a theme throughout most of my teen years. I felt trapped in this cycle of seeing my flaws but being incapable of “fixing” myself.
When I did a lengthy stent in a mental hospital, I started writing in earnest. I walked up to the desk one day and asked for a composition notebook to jot my thoughts in. The staff member obliged, and after that moment, you would always find me writing. At that time, I was writing a lot of poetry. I thought that all poetry had to rhyme, so a lot of the poetry doesn’t make a lot of sense. It’s words forced together simply because they sound good. I’d write until I ran out of rhymes, and then I’d go around and ask people for rhyming ideas with the last word I was stuck on. Someone would say one that inspired something, and then I’d keep writing.
Those days were pretty dark. I don’t actually remember much of them. I was either writing or sleeping. I could have slept for 16 or more hours a day. Some of it was probably medication side effects, some of it likely depression. Regardless, I filled at least three entire composition notebooks in my 6 month stay. When I got home, however, I had the internet and friends to distract me. My writing fell to the wayside. I would still find myself inspired to journal at times, but it was the same pattern of filling a few pages and moving on. Before undertaking my entire traveling journey, I even made a stop to buy a journal specifically to document my time traveling. I wanted it to be pocket-sized so that I might be able to write wherever I found myself. Back in those days, I was a bit disillusioned. I thought that if I were going to write, it must be something profound. Most days, I decided not to write at all, due to the pressure I was putting on myself to write some magnificent, world changing journal entries. I’m sad that I only have a handful of entries from those days to look back on. As I’m writing a memoir about those experiences now, it would be absolutely invaluable to have a glimpse into my mind. I do have a few entries, but nowhere near the volume of writing I am able to crank out these days.
This method of my journaling fizzling out went on until about 2018.
I remember I got a journal from someone as a Christmas or birthday gift. It was blue with geometric patterns on the cover. I started writing one day, and then I didn’t stop until the day it was finished. I was so proud of myself for having actually filled an entire journal. The consistency was something I had lacked for so long, but the sense of accomplishment I felt was enough to propel me forward. I told Josh about how excited I was to have filled my journal. I started a new one right away, and meanwhile, Josh had a plan brewing.
I managed to fill another entire journal throughout 2019. On Christmas of 2019, Josh gifted me a simple fountain pen. I fell in love immediately. We began watching endless videos on YouTube of different pens. It opened up a whole new world for me. January of 2020, I was still writing in my neon pink composition notebook when Josh surprised me. It was meant to be an additional Christmas gift, but I think it took a bit too long to arrive. It was a custom leather journal cover. On the cover, he had inscribed “Lilium inter spinas,” which means “Lily among thorns.” It was a beautiful English tan, and paired with it, Josh also gifted me a Leuchtterm 1917 journal. I guess they’re highly regarded in the world of journaling. It was an incredible thoughtful gift that led me to falling even more in love with Josh. He has a tendency of doing that.
So in February of 2020, I began my “first official journal.” It felt so superior to every other medium thus far. My neon pink composition notebook dulled in comparison. The simple upgrade was seemingly all it took to take my journaling to the next level. I was suddenly writing nearly every day. I was contemplating every aspect of my life. I would write down even the most mundane details of my every day. The first entry in that journal goes like this:
“The time has come, finally, to retire my old, coffee-stained notebook. I replace it with something much more dear to my heart. This fancy moleskin journal is the nicest I’ve ever owned. Yet, it dulls in comparison to the cover encapsulating it. English tan leather with navy stitching. Hand-crafted. Engraved with a phrase, chosen by Joshua to describe me: lilium inter spinas. Lily among thorns. My heart filled with joy when Josh told me what it meant. Now, a concept a few months in the making has come to life. This is a new era of journaling for me, and I’m excited.”
Since then, I’ve filled two entire Leuchtturms, each taking their turn being enclosed in the journal cover. The second of which, I finished just today, March 14, 2023. I had hoped to make each journal last a year of my life. The first journal had ended perfectly on December 31, 2021, leading me to begin a new one on the first day of 2022. There were many months of 2022 that I didn’t feel like writing. It’s been a tough year for me, and thus my writing was slower going. Still, I maintained some consistency. The last entry was written this morning. I must preface it by saying I had just watched some weird video about how the world is likely to end with floods, destruction, and a new ice age. Don’t ask. Anyway, the last entry goes like this:
“If the world ends in cataclysm in my lifetime, I think I can accept it. Death only scares me insofar as having to 1) leave my loved ones behind or 2) live without them. If we all die all at once, well, I guess it wouldn’t be so bad. There’s some truth to my idea that life is just a big experiment, and I’m here to observe and see how it all plays out. One thing’s certain, it’ll end in death, which is, in my opinion, the greatest experiment of them all. I mean, who doesn’t wonder about what happens when we die? There’s only one way to find out.
All of this sounds quite morbid, but I’ve found some peace in it. I will continue making strides toward the life I want. If anything, the looming end of the world will encourage me to live the way Tim McGraw wants us to, as if “you were dying.” Anyway, Josh and I are upward spiraling again. I’ve got hope for my future. Things don’t feel so heavy and bleak anymore. There’s a lightness in me that I didn’t have even one month ago. I’m back in my groove. I’m running, socializing, writing, and loving deeply. I’m reconnecting with myself after months of being lost.
I feel happy. Even in stress, I am confident in my ability to get through anything. Now, if I can only remember this when all begins to darken again. I’m proud of who I am.”
Another cool feature of Leuchtturm journals is that they come with stickers that can be used to label the journals. My 2020-2021 journal, I called “Self-Discovery.” That year really showed me who I was. This year, I decided to call “Self-Growth.” I definitely feel that’s what I’ve been spending all these dark days doing. I’m super excited to see what my next journal’s main theme will be. I’ve got a feeling, but I don’t want to spoil it.
This year, my journal is bright yellow. I had, at first, avoided buying any colored journals because they’ll be covered by the beautiful leather anyway, and it seemed pointless. That was, until Josh reminded me that one day, they will lose their spot in the cover and join the shelf of all journals past. There, I may one day have a rainbow of journals filled with my pointless musings through the years. I also gifted myself a mango colored Lamy Safari fountain pen for Christmas and a mango colored ink to match. I guess yellow is my color this year.
Thanks again for reading. This blog, in a lot of ways, is just an additional journal. I am a bit more mindful of what I write here, but more often than not, I find myself being vulnerable and sharing things that I typically wouldn’t tell strangers. I guess the internet is weird like that. I appreciate the weirdness, though. I appreciate the comments I receive, but mostly, I appreciate the knowledge that even one person may relate to, be inspired by, or learn from what I have to share. That means more than anything.
Until next time ~
