I was never good at keeping journals as a kid. I always wanted to be, but never was. I’ve always admired people who consistently wrote in journals, diaries, blogs, etc. Keeping a daily journal seemed like suuuuch a commitment to younger me (and let’s be real, current me, as well). Keeping a consistent weekly one was hard, too. I’d buy notebooks and diaries and pretty stationary and I’d decide I wanted to keep a journal, and maybe I’d write a page here or a few sentences there and then just as quickly as I thought to start it I’d abandon it. I always felt kind of silly writing about my day, about the things that happened at school or at home… growing up I always felt so boring, like nothing that happened to me was worth the paper I’d be writing on or even the time I’d spend doing it. Like not enough happened to me or changed about me to warrant a record of it (I think I kind of still feel that way—questions like “How are you?” and “What have you been up to” haunt me because I always feel like the only true answer would be oh, well, nothing too interesting. I remember traveling and people saying all variations of “Wow, you’re from California, wow, what’s that like?” and I’d shrug because like, yeah, I’m from California, but like, I’m from the boring part)
Now that I’m older I’ll occasionally think to myself that it’s a shame that I never kept diaries when I was younger. There’s so much of my life that I can’t remember. I want to remember the first time I met my elementary school best friend and the last time we talked before losing touch. I want to remember changing schools in fourth grade and then again in sixth. I want to remember that year and a half where I had a baby brother. I want to remember the day-to-day awkwardness of navigating middle school. Hell, I want to remember more about my friendships in high school and conversations I had with my roommate in college. I wish I had something—anything; even scraps of paper with a few careless sentences about how I felt on a certain day—that could remind me of something from the past.
I’ll think those kinds of thoughts and then I’ll think to myself that I can start now, I can still do it. And then I’ll start a blog or I’ll go out and buy a little notebook and maybe I’ll use it for awhile (or maybe that little notebook will remain untouched for literal years) and I’ll try to stay on top of things but inevitably I’ll forget about it.
I don’t really know where I’m going with this. I just remembered a few minutes ago that I had this blog and I started looking through it and it made me kind of sad for the girl I was, the girl I’ve been. But I’m also glad that I have something to look at to remind me of a hard time that I went through, even if I don’t have it in me to do much more than skim some of the words I wrote at some other time. It’s good to remember, even if the actual memories aren’t so good. I feel okay right now, so I’m glad to have a way to remember a few months ago, a year ago, a year before that when I didn’t feel so okay.
Sometimes I feel like change happens so gradually that it can be hard to mark clearly on the mental calendar of my life. I haven’t written anything here in months—so I can’t say exactly how I went from feeling worthless to feeling like I had a purpose that I just haven’t quite found yet—I can’t say exactly when I stopped being angry and resentful of my circumstances and started being grateful for all I’ve been blessed with—I can’t say exactly why I’ve stopped feeling hopeless and started feeling good about things—but I can see that those are things that have changed. I can scroll through the words on this page and see where I was then and look at where I am now. I can see that things look different now, so that must mean I’m making progress.
I still don’t know where I’m going with this. This isn’t a promise to write more (which I’m sure I’ll lament in a few months, but also ugh, commitment). It’s just a random rambling ramble rumble ramble
Anyway. I should sleeeep. It’s past midnight and I have work in the morning (speaking of changes…!)