I bought a couple of cheap spiral notebooks and I started keeping a journal again. I had forgotten how therapeutic it was to “detox” from the stress of everyday life through writing. Today I find myself feeling more like ‘me’ than I have in a while. Because there are some things you just can’t say out loud. There are some things you just can’t tell people without wounding them. There are things that you have to write — multiple times — before they can ever be spoken right. And I’m too kind and conscious of the power of words to just lay all that out on the table, raw and hurting. So, I tend to internalize (which isn’t healthy, especially when you get full-to-bursting).

Hence, the journal.

It’s nothing fancy. Just a 5×7 inch blue booklet (because blue is my favorite) with lined pages waiting to hold my fears, tears, and joys. Cost me a whopping $1.30 at the nearest Bi-Mart.

And right now, I think that’s just what the doctor ordered.

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