“I just want to feel pretty. I know it’s a selfish and awful thing to wish for when there are so many more important things, but I think I need that right now.”
These utterly cringe-worthy sentences are the opening lines of a journal entry entitled “Stream of Consciousness #1” that I wrote on November 17, 2011. I was fourteen at the time and in addition to not understanding the term “stream of consciousness,” I was clearly suffering from teen angst.
Reading this entry as well as other entries from my old journals is always a surreal experience. Half the time, I feel like I can’t relate to the girl pouring her heart out onto the pages, even though it’s in my hand. In this entry, for example, I go on to say that I won’t be able to feel pretty again until I get my braces off and I talk endlessly about wanting a certain boy to find me attractive. I also end the entry with “Tonight was so infinite,” meaning that I had just finished Perks of Being a Wallflower and spent too much time on Tumblr.
Recently, I dug the battered notebook that contains my middle school journal entries out of my bookshelf to show my friends. We had a good laugh as we read needlessly dramatic lines like “flying always seemed so easy, until I tried.” At the same time, each of my friends expressed how relatable these entries are. In these pages, they found their own middle school insecurities expressed freely, in a way they had never dared to say aloud.
There’s something therapeutic about divulging your greatest fears and sources for embarrassment into a book that is intended for your eyes only. My journal was the one place that I allowed my thoughts to come out unedited and unrestrained. For that reason, I cherish these sophomoric entries more than some of my published pieces of writing. These pages show me the girl I was in contrast to the person I am today, giving me an appreciation for how much I’ve grown. In the five years since I wrote “Stream of Consciousness #1,” I got my braces off and though I did not date anyone, I realized that you do not need someone else to define your own beauty and worth. I am much more secure in who I am and I don’t shamelessly copy young adult novels anymore.
At the same time, I don’t think I’ve completely left behind my earlier insecurities. Even now, I struggle with feeling guilty for self-pity and seeking the approval of men. It’s hard to admit that, especially as a vocal feminist, but journaling has helped me accept these flaws and work through them.
Looking at my old journals has also been a surprising source of strength in my current life. As I flip through the notebooks I’ve been keeping over the last five years, I find entries about little moments of happiness that remind me how wonderful and fortunate my life has been. My favorite entries are about seemingly mundane activities, like going out to dinner with friends or chatting with someone in their driveway. These accounts remind me of specific moments of euphoria or simple contentedness. Reading entries like these right after ones about the time I was mugged or the time I felt homesick after starting college remind me of my own resilience and show me that I can decide how my narrative is told.
I can choose to be angsty or mature, dramatic or subtle, serious or light-hearted. Most importantly, I can decide whether I want to get stuck in my past or use it as a way to move forward. Journaling provides validation for my thoughts and emotions in a way that nothing and nobody else can. It empowers me to stare straight at my insecurities, reflect and turn the page to start anew.
Image Credit: Vahni Kurra