On Journaling
When I was about eight years old, my dad took me to a bookstore – I think it was called New Horizons – and I picked out my first journal.
It was a small scarlet wire-bound hardcover notebook with crisp lined white pages.
It was one of my happiest childhood moments; I’d always wanted my very own diary.
That night I wrote in my best and clearest cursive handwriting, about the trip to the bookstore and my new diary.
I’ve kept a dairy/journal of some sort since then.
Keeping a journal for me has always been therapeutic, it helped me through childhood and adolescence.
I’d like to think that it sustains me in adulthood.
Every child with a miserable life fantasizes that she/he is adopted; I took my penchant for drama to another level when I started writing letters to my ‘real mom’.
I’d write elaborate theatrical letters to her about how much my life sucked and how I was looking forward to be reunited with her.
One time when I was about ten and my mom (the one I was convinced wasn’t/couldn’t be my mother) wouldn’t let me go to Deborah Haffner’s birthday party, I wrote a long letter entry to my ‘real mom’ about how everyone was mean and wouldn’t let me do anything I wanted.
My mom (who used to read my diary back then) got very angry and screamed at me “You think I am mean? Wait till Alice is your new mother” – my dad was deep into his affair then. I don’t know why I still remember that incident, I guess because it turned out to be true.
I recently found my journal from 1997 and it’s full of angst and self discovery.
I was a little obsessed with breaking away from expectations.
Most of my entries were about getting away and beginning the rest of my life.
