The Early Days of My Writing Journey

As I recall the youth of my writing journey, I can reminisce on my first diary.

My mother who gave me my diary said that it would be good to record my daily thoughts and experiences. At eleven years old, I wasn’t quite sure why that was but I did as she suggested and I found it kind of amusing. As I got busier however, with my animals, friends, and getting into mischief, my diary got snubbed and forgotten.

My diary gave me a voice

As I got into my teens, things got kind of rough: being bullied at school, tension and fighting at home, the alcohol, the drugs, and whatever else I could get into, I got mired in the enigma of my young life. I also felt there had to be more to life than what I had witnessed, both with adults and my high school peers.

With all this perplexity I rediscovered the diary and found writing to be my solace. I wrote about my struggles, my pain, my experiences while high on drugs, and my hopes and dreams. I spoke to the page while having no idea what the answers could be. I was sensitive and reserved and my diary gave me what I needed most – a voice.

I wrote every day, and at times when I felt especially inspired I found the pen to be a conduit for an energy that seemed to come from the deepest recesses of my mind and emotions and my diary was the receiver. I would spend hours alone in my room writing, pondering, listening to music, and writing some more. The diary was my best friend that I could visit any time I needed to vent, cry, muse, and to just get my thoughts and emotions out and onto the page. There it was, my diary offering a voice I could express by the pen in my own way. And it was my safe haven.

My first diary lost

When I moved away from home my diary remained there as I thought I would return one day. Later on I had a conversation with my sister who was eleven years my junior. She told me that as our family prepared to move to another town, she found my diary while they were packing. She wanted to read my diary and my mother said by no means was she permitted to read it. I asked my sister what they did with my diary and she said our mother demanded that it be destroyed. I was relieved to hear that it was destroyed rather than read. I remember the appreciation I felt for the respect my mother had for my privacy. I was also a disappointed that they destroyed it as I wished I could have revisited the diary of my youth.

My diary, my ally

I continued over the years to fill many diaries just as the one I had in my teens. To purge onto the page continued to be my outlet whether in hard times to gain more clarity or to express my gratitude for my blessings. There was never any plan to my diary entries; I just kept the pen moving to allow this mysterious voice to speak. The writing flowed and I found this to be a great opening to connect with this energy that joined me to a source I could access in my own way.

The diary was always there for me, whether or not anyone else was. During times of loneliness and aloneness, I could always have faith in the pen. It answered more of my questions than I had hoped for – even if the answers came simply to show me thought patterns I grew tired of for repetition. To see my words on the page made my thoughts more concrete to help me put things into better perspective.

Either way, my diary was my rock in times of pain and confusion as well as joy. How could I ever say no to that?

Joyful journeying.