Journaling: Diving into the Realms of my Past Self

“I can recapture everything when I write, my thoughts, my ideals and my fantasies.” -Anne Frank

Growing up, I’ve always been fascinated with the story of Anne Frank and how she was able to capture one of the most difficult times in the history of humanity through her meticulously written diary. When I left the classroom that day my teacher discussed her book, I felt so inspired to write my own diary that I didn’t purchase food or anything that day so I can save my allowance to buy one. Little did I know it was the start of an adventurous journey I’d very much enjoy and continue to do so until the day my hand’s no longer able to hold a pen.

On my way home, I passed by an antique shop, and there I found a navy blue leather jacket for an A5 notebook. “Perfect!” I whispered to myself, feeling the smooth leather and some of its cracks against my sweaty palm. Even after the school year was finished, I kept on writing. I filled it with secrets, tales of misfortunes, hopes, dreams, insecurities, worries, and everything else about me. Some of the pages are dilapidated yet I still continue on adding more and more. It was almost like a best friend whom I can tell anything yet I won’t get judged by it. I was not afraid to say what I truly mean, no masks, no lies. I felt so secure when I’m holding it. A sense of belongingness envelopes me like a warm blanket. No one can touch me, no one can hurt me. 

To me, journaling isn’t just a little thing to do to pass the time. It’s where I break down my day, bit by bit. I’ve lost count on how many times this sentence was written on several pages of it: “Instead of getting frustrated and acting out, maybe I should’ve listened first.” This was a prominent theme in my journal because when I was a teenager, I’m awfully impulsive whenever I get angry. I say hurtful words that I don’t really mean, and I have had a hard time dealing with the guilt that it left me. It really did take a toll on me, watching my loved ones get hurt by my own actions. I was clueless on how to control it until I found journaling. When I look back now, it was the most helpful strategy that allowed me to take charge of my life. Talking to myself alone in a dark room comforts me. It helped me realign my thoughts, which in turn made it easier for me to communicate my feelings to my family, friends, and others. 

However, one lazy afternoon, I caught my sister sneaking into our room, reading my diary, I felt exposed, I felt betrayed. I got so mad that I ripped everything off to pieces. It was a disaster, papers flying everywhere, tears streaming down both our faces. But I actually needed that moment in my life.  They say that there’s always a good reason for everything. I agree because that incident made me realize how I turned a beautiful thing into an obsession because of the unhealthy relationship I had with it. As a result, this made me lose my interest in writing. For months, I felt like a deep void inside me is constantly sucking me in. I wake up, go to school, do my chores, sleep and repeat. But in that painful journey of losing myself, the one thing that helped me find my way again was dusting off the antique leather jacket I used to love, and pouring my introspection back into the papers again.

Times change and now, peaceful and quiet time is a luxury not everyone has an opportunity to indulge. Everywhere I look, the fast-paced hustle culture is prevalent. However, in my opinion, no amount of hard work and money can satisfy me as long as I don’t pause and allow myself to live in the moment. When I don’t write, I consciously try to always be present so I can take note of everything that surrounds me. The birds singing atop the street lights, the roaring laughter of the children playing outside, and even the tender look on my puppy’s eyes. Through the magnitude of photos, paragraphs, and souvenirs I collected and pasted in my diary, I can immortalize these memories on paper. The thought of opening my journal and telling the interesting narratives I have for the day excites me. 

Reading past entries is like diving into the deep realms of my past self’s mind. It’s a labyrinth that I can get lost in. I can remember writing it. The feeling that comes with it. Pride swells inside my belly, and I can’t help but wish I can tell my past self that everything will be alright. To have faith that things will fall into their places eventually. I’ve always started my entries with “Dear Self” and I thank my past self for it makes it sound like I’m really doing this because I care for my own wellbeing. Now I’m already a part of the workforce, I never imagined that I can just breeze past the myriad of burnout I’ve encountered in my adult life. When everything else fails, I have somewhere I can go back to.

When I read the past, I’m inspired to take action in the present and expect the abundance waiting for me in the future. 

What started as a fascination with a little girl’s diary is now a benefic tool that I can count on when I feel the need to save myself from myself. No more overthinking and concealing. Journaling is like looking at yourself in the mirror, not taking your eyes away even if it hurts. Today, would you allow yourself to take a tour inside this thick forest we call the “psyche”?