So I keep a journal. It’s on my phone, and it sends me a notification at 8:57pm every night and has done so for over three years. I’ve logged 739 entries on 483 days. From 2013 until now I’ve got my memories catalogued to go back and see. I’ve got all my failed attempts at wooing boys, all my friendships, random people I met, the good times and the bad times.

It’s weird because I have physical representation of my memories. I can go back and see times that I thought I would never get over the pain of something, and I don’t feel that pain anymore. That’s why my journal gives me hope as a person. To share something personal, my boyfriend recently broke up with me. We had dated for a year and I don’t have that many entries because I slacked off on my journal, but I do have some, especially from the beginning. I can see myself falling in love, and I have now documented my pain. One day I know that I will look back on the journal and be able to see those fondly, but right now they’re a source of heartache. So, I’ve started filling the journal up with new memories, with friends and with myself.

Journals, in general, have been kept for as long as we have had written language. It’s a way of communicating with yourself and cataloguing ideas and events. Having it on your phone is an easy way to keep it nearby and the app I use, which is called “Day One” allows me to password protect the app, so I don’t worry about prying eyes. This is my vault. I keep the good and the bad as a reminder that both happiness and pain fade and come again. I may be sad now, but I won’t be forever. And as someone who likes empirical evidence, it’s nice to see proof of that. I have to stop myself from looking at recent memories over the past year because they involve my ex, but I still write in it every day to keep reminding myself life moves forward. It always does.