My Journaling, Then and Now

Twenty years ago today, March 16, 2002, I opened up a lined blank journal and began writing. I’ve posted before about my first words in that journal (“The only way to start is just to start—take the plunge”). I still recall the trepidation I felt as I faced that blank page . . . the first of so many blank pages. What would I write about? How would I hide my journal from the world?

I seem to have figured out the answer to both these questions. It took me eleven months to fill that first volume of 160 pages, but fill it I did. And then I started another volume. I am now in Volume 73 of my journal, and I fill a volume every two and a half months or so.

I also no longer worry about people knowing I keep a journal. I write in it every morning, and usually do it ensconced in a recliner in the great room where anyone can see. And I post about it publicly.

I recently re-read the first few months of my journal, and I see how far I’ve come in twenty years. That first volume is full of the corporate politics I faced that year, as well as my frustrations about family members and generational changes.

At the time, I was still over four years away from being eligible to retire from my corporate job, but I frequently wrote about my desire to retire. And I finally did it, less than a year after hitting that eligibility date. The journal helped me solidify my plans, and when the time came, I was ready. The week after I retired, I began drafting what would become the first novel I would eventually publish.

As for the complaints in my first volume about family, after twenty years the older generation is mostly gone, and the younger generation has morphed from dependence to independence. The children have even become people I can lean on once in a while. And my husband and I do pretty well together at the moment.

Twenty years is long enough to see real changes. Mostly for the better, except for losing people I loved. But journaling can’t change death, though it does give me a way to express my grief.

I think what I notice most in reviewing my journal is that it takes me a long time to make changes in my life. Whether it be retirement, starting a novel, actually publishing a novel, or beginning or ending a particular volunteer activity, I write about it for a long time before I feel ready to pull the trigger. I am not good at “taking the plunge,” and I sometimes wonder how I managed to even begin the journal.

I suppose being deliberate about change is good. But it might not be. I had a boss who used to say “time is our friend.” I usually agreed with him, but I had a corollary, “except when it isn’t.” Sometimes, a quick decision is necessary. Still, twenty years of self-assessment tells me that I am likely to write frequent diatribes about what is going poorly in my life before I make a change.

Moreover, now the things that fill my journal pages are often not things I can change. Illness. Caregiving. Gathering records for multiple tax returns. Somebody has to deal with these issues, and that somebody seems to be me. Believe me, if I could delegate some of these things, I would, but I don’t see any delegatees nearby.

Instead, I will keep writing about them in my journal. At least journaling allows me to think about possible ways to find the help I need, to plan for future contingencies. Then I will be ready to take the plunge when the time comes.

Therapists typically advise people to live in the moment, not to dwell in the past, nor worry about the future. In my journal, however, I do both. Yet it is my therapy. And it suits me. Now I wonder not how I will fill the pages, but what will cause me to stop some day.

Do you keep a journal? If so, how does it help you?