One Christmas, my mother bought me and all my siblings journals. At the time, I wasn’t sure what I would do with it, or even what my mother wanted us to use it for. Did she want us to write down our thoughts and dreams? Did she expect use to recount funny anecdotes to our imaginary audiences, stories that came with doodles in the margins? Did she simply want us to write down our most intimate thoughts, in hopes that she’d stumble upon the journal and get a glimpse into the private lives of her children?
I don’t know.
For me, the journal became my sanctuary. I released all my frustration and anger onto the delicately decorated pages. I wrote of teachers I disliked, boys that wouldn’t give me the time of day, my family and their antics, etc. I would use curse words. As I learned new ways to cuss, I used the phrases freely. For me, the journal held all the anger and disdain for people that I couldn’t express directly to them.
When I started high school, it seemed like the journal was needed almost everyday. Boys in high school were vicious and not just in a cliche high school way. On various occasions, as I passed by a group of them, I would hear them compare my body to soft fruit. I couldn’t even imagine what they said when I wasn’t around. Many journal entries were dedicated to those boys.
I’d have fights with my siblings. Things could get so heated, so quickly and I found it best to take my anger towards them out on my journal. It’s better to yell at pieces of paper than the people I love.
Even to this day, I can vividly remember those moments when anger would turn into panic. My body’s response to the situation would drastically change and I would have to exit immediately. The only place in my house where I could take cover was my closet. I’d lean up against my knobby, wooden dresser and allow myself to lose composure. For a few moments, I would give myself permission to sob and panic until my eyes burned, hot and red, and my chest felt compressed by an imaginary vise. Then, I’d force my body to leave the closet and I’d grab my journal. In that stack of papers bound with a red cover, it didn’t matter if my words were mean.
The journal, when I wasn’t verbally abusing it, rested in the crawl space by my bed. The cramped and poorly constructed space had a distinct smell that reminded me of splinters in my fingers. Every time I fished the journal out from it’s hiding spot, a body part of mine would end up entangled in a spider web. My journal would rest here, because I knew this spot was safe from unwanted eyes. I would’ve been horrified and embarrassed if anyone read the mean and terrible thoughts that crossed my mind.
Looking back on it now, the journal helped me mature into the person I am today. Nobody can stop from getting angry, but as we get older, we can choose whether to control the anger or let it control us.
Tiny things don’t upset me like they used to. Maybe that’s growing up. But, I know I’ll always have my journal to turn to when things become too much and I need to let off some steam.
