You yung’uns out there may not remember what the world was like before you could journal on the internet, but I used to be a prolific journaler. I like writing. A lot. And what in the world could be better than writing about your own life? It really gives you a new perspective about what’s going on in your own world. It helps you to look at things objectively. For example, I’m just sitting here thinking about even the journals I kept my sophomore year in college and reminiscing how foolish and immature they are. I’m sure that in 5 or 10 years, I’ll look back on anything I’m writing now and think ‘geez what a tool I was then!’ But besides that point, it helps me when I’ve got things bottled up. I have a problem with emotion. Or rather, I have a problem of having too much of it. However, unless you live at my house and hear my occasional outburst, you won’t know I have all of this emotion. I will never cry in your presence, I will never meltdown around my colleagues and peers, and I will certainly never be..ahem..witchy. Actually, that’s partly a lie. I’ve done all of those things in public, but not frequently, at least in recent years. However, I have emotions that I don’t share. Why? Well because I’m ashamed of them, I suppose. Therefore, I journal. Pen and paper do not care if you are being ridiculous or foolish. A spiral notebook will never judge you. It is like the perfect listener. It never offers criticism or even well meant, but unneeded, advice.
And yet, in recent months, actually since I was in Ireland almost a year ago (Saints preserve me, has it been that long already?), I haven’t journaled. Why not? Well I don’t know really. Time? Patience? Forgetfulness? Laziness? All possibilities. All likely. And yet, I’m probably at a time in my life when I’ve never needed it more. I’ve had…shall we say…emotional trials over the last few weeks. I could have stood for some emotional relief that journaling does. It’s almost as though it lightens some of the burden.
But I’m sure you are wondering about these aforementioned trails. What are they, you ask? Ah, you thought you had me fooled, blogging is not journaling, and therefore, you don’t get to know the specifics. I’m not yet to the point where I’m willing to put every detail of my personal struggles out there for a stranger in Timbuktu to read. Which makes me wonder why I’m really writing any of this in the first place. To let those who love me know that I am struggling, I suppose. It’s easier for me to communicate through writing than in person. Perhaps to try and help you understand me just a little bit better.
But for now, it’s just me, my pseudo-journal, a luke-warm glass of white zinfandel (which actually should probably go in the fridge to rechill), and some of the best Irish music I’ve heard in a long time. I.e. in a pub in Dublin.
So fill to me the parting glass, and drink a health what ‘er befalls, and gently rise and softly call good night and joy be to you all.
