From my earliest memory I have always kept a journal. Originally it was a diary, but I grew to old for one of those 🙂
I keep all my writing tucked away from prying eyes in decorative boxes. My daughters know that they can read all of it after I die. On rare occasions, I look back at my old journals and read about what was happening in my life at the time. Usually it is depressing and I regret opening up those old books and old wounds. However, there are patterns.
The most noticeable pattern is talking about food. I have a love/hate relationship with food. Always have. At times there is never enough food in the kitchen. Yes, I have gone hungry by own choice, but I have also gone hungry simply due to bare cupboards. My appetite is also strongly influenced by my mood swings. At times, I can eat more in one day than the average person eats in a week. At other times, I go for days without eating because I am not hungry. At the worst of times, I go without because the mere thought of food makes me sick and gut rot kicks in. Acid burn!!!
10/9/2012: Last night after work I actually ate. I usually do, but it’s junk food or fast food right before bed. Last night was a tasty salad. A little plain, but I have limited grocery funds right now.
Another pattern is describing how I feel. Various aches and pains, energy level and sleep pattern. Yes, these symptoms are connected to my moods, but they also show a lifelong struggle with pain. My headaches and my back are the two biggest topics I write about. Over the last five years the list has expanded to include episodes of muscle spasms and problems with my hands. Tendonitis rears its ugly head.
10/9/2012: Had muscle spasms at work all night last night and they are already starting now. And I still have the shakes.
Mainly I write about my moods, thoughts and feelings. Most of which are dark, negative, self destructive and self defeating. Here is yet another pattern. Sometimes I will write 10 pages in a sitting. Other times, I will not write for a year or more. The older I get, the less I write. And the worse I feel.
Almost 10 years ago, my husband quoted something to me that I had written in my journal. And he told another family member about it. He swears he never read my journal, but the family member tells a different story. How can he quote my journal verbatim unless he read it? Ever since then writing has been difficult and it is a sore spot. I only write late at night when he is sleeping or occasionally during the day when no one is around-including my children. Trust has been broken and now there is an unspoken agreement that I will hide my writing to make life easier. Only, it makes life easier for him, not me. He does not know about this blog. No one does. Maybe one day he will find out, but I do not think he will care about my writing.