When I was younger, I journaled a lot. It was my way of processing my feelings that had nowhere else to be released as well as unconditionally and lovingly accepted. I would write in my notebook with fervor, trying to capture my adolescent problems in barely legible writing.
I’d start my entries with a simple “Dear Journal.” But why? Who was Journal? Was I really addressing my wide-ruled notebook?
Journal became my confidante, my friend, the one who knew me best. They were everything and nothing but certainly more than just a notebook. I might as well have written “Dear God” or “Dear Spirit” because, looking back now, I wrote as if I was speaking to a larger than life force.
When I wrote “Dear Journal,” I summoned an entity to witness my experience. I was only able to share so much with Journal because they were going to accept me no matter what I felt. They held space for me, listened and allowed me to work through my thoughts without rushing me. How I wish everyone had a Journal in their lives.