In 7th grade, my English teacher expected us to write in a journal, which she would then read (or not, if we marked the page as ‘do not read’). We were graded on just the act of writing, and not the content that we wrote about. We groaned, we didn’t look forward to journal day, not to mention those books sat in her room, on a shelf, and were accessible to anyone who happened to use her room (like during study halls). So you couldn’t really be ‘free’ in your writing.
I blog. And I would like to think that I’m the type of blogger that lays it all out there. And, as it turns out, I’m not. I would never make it as a published author- I don’t like people reading my shit. The only reason that I can blog is because you people are nothing more than figments of my imagination… (In reality, I don’t have to see your faces as you read this, so I like to pretend that each of you is a sexy, intelligent man with a six pack and a big… smile on your face).
After the seventh grade, I didn’t stop keeping a journal. I’ve kept one off and on for years. I kept one all through high school and college, would write when I needed the release after I got married and had kids, and when my husband left me back in January, I ran out and bought a new, pretty journal and carried it with me and wrote everything down.
It was the only way that I could keep my sanity in a time of stress and hopelessness.
When I write, I don’t feel like I’m writing. It’s thinking on paper. Half of it doesn’t make sense. I repeat myself. I dwell. I ignore. I dream. It’s not the story of my life, day by day. It’s not me writing ‘Today it was cold. Today, I worked. Today, I ate green beans and ham.’ Because that isn’t how I think. Anyone who reads them would probably be able to find insightful details into my life- but, more likely, they’ll just think I’m some deranged lunatic.
Mike read the journal that I started after he left. I bought another one, kept it hidden. He found that, and read it. I have one more, and he knows about it, and he keeps asking to read it. And I refuse to let him. Because to me, it’s an invasion of privacy. You can’t read someone else’s thoughts, nor should you try. Yes, we all want to know what other people think- of us, politics, whether they truly love our pumpkin bread as much as they say they do, etc. But, we have to ask ourselves- do we REALLY want to know what so and so REALLY thinks?
The answer has always been, for me at least, no. I like living in my own little world, the sky is purple and the grass is blue, and everybody knows me there and doesn’t mind that I’m a little bit weird (ok, so I’m a lot weird), and they smile and nod when I go on a tangent. Because in the real world I may come off as weird and awkward, I love having a place where I can be completely and totally me.
So- I journal.
Besides, anyone reading my journal would think that I’ve gone off the deep end, since I tend to write what I’m thinking, and often, what I’m thinking is long and ramble-y and I may start off talking about why I journal and why it’s private for me and end up talking about the purple coat I saw today and how I wish I had the money for it but if I had the money for it, I’d end up spending it on things that I really need and not things that I don’t really need, even if they are really kick ass purple trench coats…
Where was I again?
The blog is different. The blog is where I go when I’m happy and want to talk about trivial things. The journal is where I go to leave my pain.
It’s why I haven’t discussed what is going on with my marriage and my life (too much, anyway). All of that is written in a teal journal that I keep on my nightstand. It’s why I haven’t written anything about what else is going on in my life, that’s in a notebook with a pink skull on the front.
The reason that I’m writing this is because how often and what I write has become a Topic Of Conversation, and that just isn’t cool with me.
And, I hope, that some day soon it blows over and my journals become what they once were again. A place to release my frustrations, my pains, my fears.