Today, I Got A Journal

Today, I got a journal. 

These are a woman’s famous last words; she buys herself an overpriced Moleskin diary and decides she will revel in deeper meaning, uncovering the scary truths about herself that she will powerfully confront and thus conquer. She keeps at it for a week or so before it finds itself at the bottom of a junk drawer.

Despite this association with journals, I have always felt like a writer. I can recall days in my early childhood where I would take to my parents’ office, login to the computer, and begin working on a mini novel—chapters and all. I even fancy narrative writing, as you may be able to tell, diving deep into the ensuing emotions of any given experience. This, I have never had trouble with—for what it’s worth, I never run out of things to say. But in journal territory, it is almost no use. My handwriting looks disappointing, my margins are off, and the ink has bled through the pages. Suddenly, my years of passion count for nothing, and I remember feeling more at peace before I got the damn journal. 

With feelings of impending doom and an itch for a new hobby, I decided to try something slightly different:

Today, the journal I ordered on Amazon Prime came in the mail, along with some double-sided tape. I’m planning to take a scrapbook approach to make it more visually aesthetic, so that I actually stick to it. I’ll probably write about boys and dates and New York. Maybe I’ll feel like Carrie Bradshaw.

Ah, that’s more like it. What better way to keep yourself to a goal than to glamorize the process? There’s no harm in adding some creative flair to your journal journey (and by that, I mean pasted receipts from various rendezvouses of unnecessary money spending, because I’m early along and I don’t know what else would go in my scrapbook). 

I used to have an all-or-nothing mindset. If I messed up, I’d quit; I couldn’t move on from failure (or perceived failure) with a fresh set of eyes, nor the belief that if I tried again, I could maybe even be successful. This may have been one of those elusive, lingering effects of my spiritual phase; some things just weren’t meant for me, and for me to be shown that, I would receive a sign. 

I wish I would have gotten a sign that some things just require a second go, or, that I could have an imperfect life and still embark upon self-bettering journeys. Keeping a journal is one of those things I didn’t think I could do until I had all the rest figured out. It just felt like something you did once the stressors of everyday life took a hiatus, leaving you with the time to sit down with a pen and Moleskin. 

With old mindsets come new ones. In trying to jump off the oscillating pendulum—the kind that never seemed to find its way to stillness—I decided that challenging myself was the only means I had to beat the vicious cycle. I slowly began convincing myself that discomfort was the only way to make valuable change, even if it was the physical labor of using all of my weight and abdominal strength to slow down the wrecking ball (or, the aching in my right hand as I scribe for the first time since DBQs). Retiring from obstinacy, I figured an ideal starting point was to invite inconsistency—my biggest fear. 

Today, I wrote in my journal in a different color pen than usual. I’m not super proud of this specific entry; it was neither conclusive nor therapeutic. When I flip through the pages and land on today’s date, its style deviating from the standard of the publication, I will not rip the page out. I will not exile the Moleskin to the bottom of the junk drawer. I will sit with the discomfort, and I will develop a new mindset as my pen grazes the paper.