In my journal, the only rule is that there are no rules.
I was one of those kids who kept a journal before she learned to write. No joke, I used to scribble squiggly lines across the page and pretend it was real writing. There's a whole drawer in my desk at home cluttered with old journals from childhood and adolescence. Inane crushes, tortured middle school heartbreak, temper tantrums — reading my old journals is a cringe-worthy journey through not only the events of my life, but also how I learned to handle them.
When I did write, the experience was as cathartic as ever; some pages I would almost destroy, writing angry words as big as I could and tracing them over and over to indent the pages with teenage fury. Others are still bumpy, the writing wavery from splotches where my tears fell on the page.— release — but I did it less often. I started to feel guilty because of how little I wrote.
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