So I just decided to get all my old journals out of their cosy, safe box in the attic. Turns out I have been solidly journaling for at least 20 years now. Possibly even longer, because I remember writing earlier than age 11 but I don’t have the journals here (maybe at my mum’s house, maybe destroyed in a fit of shame/anxiety).
But wow! I can’t believe how much I’ve created over the years! Straight journaling, short stories, poetry, art journaling, sketches, the lot. So much raw emotion. My style has always been free writing, and then never re-reading, at all. Ever.
Now I aim to read them all, and if there’s any sense in there, perhaps turn them into a book. Needless to say I’m terrified. Step one was to get them out of the attic and put them in order (not an easy task as I went through about a 5 year phase of not dating anything 😬).
I’ve skimmed, but not read, and I’m getting ready to start the process of reading them. I think it will help my therapy, my self development and my growth of self-understanding and self-compassion.