I’ve been called sensitive, overly sensitive, emotional and dramatic. All of the above are very true.
I have kept a journal since I was twelve as a means of processing, releasing and coping with emotions that have at times felt bigger than I can manage. Writing helped me survive high school.
Blank pages were a safe space to hurl insults, confess secrets, catalogue triumphs and whisper my fears. I poured ink and tears into book after book. I doodled in corners and carefully searched magazines for images that mimicked what I was feeling, just to get it out of me.
I stopped writing a year or so after I started dating my now husband. Somewhere along the way I stopped needing journals and he became my safe space. The keeper of my hopes and hardships.
This piece is for the writers, the diary keepers and the dreamers.