I was looking through my old journals the other day, and it was something that proved to be really difficult. Writing is my main (healthy) form of coping and I kept pretty extensive journals throughout the most traumatic times in my life. I was thoroughly emotionally abused throughout middle school and was also bullied restlessly by the typical “mean girls”. I was un-medicated for my anxiety and depression and was starting to experiment with my eating disorder. To be completely honest, I was a very emotionally unhealthy girl in a very emotionally unhealthy situation. As one can imagine, any journal entry that was written during a time like that would show just how broken I really was. These journals document exactly where, when and how my up-hill climb to total recovery began.
After reading these journals (with the intention of looking for writing inspiration) i was thoroughly… disturbed with myself. I must have forgotten that i once had any of those thoughts, or had been in any of those situations. I then proceeded to cry a little bit about it and debate whether or not I should throw all of the journals away. I wanted to get rid of any evidence that there was of me being like that.
Amy Winehouse is one of my favorite singers, and one of the people that interests me the most (along with Maya Angelou). I feel as though me and her were “cut from the same cloth”, or that we were extremely similar people who took extremely different paths. I decided to watch her documentary when it was finally available on demand. There were things she experienced and things that she said that changed my total outlook on recovery. But, the one thing that pertains to this blog post about journaling is when she said (paraphrase) “a lot of people experience depression. But I’m lucky because I can pick up a guitar and right a song. I sing about what I know Because that is the only way to be authentic. I have an outlet.”
Writing is my outlet. During those horrible times 6 yeas ago, I wrote what I knew, I wrote of who I was. Whether I like it or not, my bullies, my abusive father, and my battle with an eating disorder are part of my beautiful authenticity. I must never wish that a part of who I am (or was) didn’t exist.
I kept the journals