Some things change…and some never do.

What tales these tell...

I was an avid journaler as a kid. Journals, diaries, whatever you want to call it, I kept it. I started with a tiny pink one with bears on it that had a lock and key. The entries were of the “Today, I …” sort. In middle school, I moved on to bigger books with no lock, even though the words carried more emotion, drama and secrets. Through high school and partway into college, I filled three more journals, my handwriting improving from those formative cursive-style days to a hurried, but focused combination with print, the color of the ink settling on black or blue only, the stickers and doodles disappearing one by one.

My journaling is now more or less this blog, and although I still write about very personal issues, I can’t help but notice the changes over time between those secretive, scribbled escapist entries on paper, and these well-thought out yet similarly emotional typed essays — and the differences.

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What now?

I began sitting on the proverbial and literal couch, spilling my life story, my innermost thoughts and feelings, my fears and demons, in February of this year. When I started, I figured I would do this for about 6-8 months and then see where things were and either continue or cut back, knowing that it’s not something you can put a definitive timeline on. Because how can you put a timeline on self-discovery and resolution of everything that’s ever challenged you? It’s not like, “Get laundry done by Tuesday. Pay bills by Oct. 31. Call Grandma on Sunday.” Figuring out what’s “wrong” isn’t an item on the checklist, and neither is fixing the wrong.

Why? Because it’s not really about what’s wrong or right. And nor is there usually an easy solution to the things that actually bring you to a therapist/shrink/counselor/insert your medicine of choice here. It’s not a math problem that always has an answer, and it’s not a maze that has an opening and an exit. Well, it may be a maze, but there’s not always an exit.

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