Member-only story
Before I ever typed a single sentence on Medium, I was an avid journaler. From the time I was completely single and living alone until this very moment, I have kept a journal.
I wrote in it most nights for years. And years. I would pour the poison out of my being as the ink filled page after page. It was one of the most cathartic exercises I ever did to heal All. The. Things.
Starting out, I tried several of the journaling advice books. I invested in The Artist’s Way and other ‘how-to’ books hoping someone might give me some insight to baring my soul and hoeing out the sludge. But not one of them was very useful.
I found what worked best for me was to just sit down and write.
It seemed to work a lot like my therapy sessions with my beloved therapist. For over seven years — I would point my car in the direction of his office — feeling basically ok. My mind a complete blank as to what I wanted to talk about — most days. I would hit the restroom, read People magazine in his waiting room, and hang out waiting for my turn on his couch. Then as we sat down — me on the couch and him in his chair — something would just click. And like Pavlov’s Dog — the shit storm which had been My Life bubbled up and began to emerge — one trauma at a time.
The same thing happened whenever I picked up my journal and my pen.
