I am trying to relearn the fact that my journal is a safe place. I kept so many demons there for so many years. Just the thought of placing my pen to the pages in a journal scares me to death. I worry that truths I’m not yet ready to accept will leak onto the pages. And once they’re there, they can’t be taken back. I’m worried that lies I have come to believe will be peeled back like layers of an onion until I’m forced to stare at the raw truth of what is.
Once I write something down, it becomes real. No matter how badly I wish it wasn’t. The words in my leather-bound aren’t my latest attempt at a short story. Those words are realities taking up so much space in my mind that it’s either get them out or implode.
My journal is my best friend and my worst enemy.
Journal. Pen. Me. The recipe for confinement.
Journal. Pen. Me. The recipe for freedom.