new journal

I walk into a bookstore, a journal catches my eye. I love journals. I love their pretty covers. I love the feel of the paper. I love all the blank pages just waiting to be filled with someone’s fascinating life. It could be MY fascinating life. I’m excited and I buy the journal. I think about what I’m going to write. I even OPEN the journal and sit poised with pen in hand. I write nothing. Eventually, the journal is buried under a heap of discarded papers along with all the rest of my crap.

I own multiple journals. They’re ALL empty. I NEVER write in them. Sometimes, it’s because I hate the look of my handwriting. If I make a mistake, I’ll rip out the page and re-write the offending entry. Other times, I just don’t feel like thinking about my feelings. It just seems like so much effort.

The dumb thing is, I keep buying these goddamn journals!

My therapist suggests that my obsession with new journals represent my desire for a new life… a new beginning. I don’t think I can have a new beginning until I’ve put the old life to rest. To do that, I have to continue the psychotherapy and I have to force myself to think about my feelings. Let’s face it, the journals weren’t working. Maybe the blog will.