Finding Myself in My Diary
Feature Writer:
Erica Strauss, 19
Ohio
Ever since I was 10 years old, I have loved writing. I was always the girl with a rainbow-colored, glittery notebook tucked under her arm, scrawling notes to her gal pals in the middle of class while everyone else was reciting multiplication tables. I was constantly bursting with ideas for stories and made sure to capture them all on paper-from tales of fantasy involving beautiful princesses and chivalrous princes, to cute tales about girls my own age engaging in Harriet-the-Spy-esque adventures.
As soon as I hit junior high, though, I put down my cutesy sticker-covered notebooks and traded them in for mascara and eyeliner, blush and powder. My life became more about impressing others than staying true to myself and my passion for writing. I wanted to be beautiful, like a lot of girls do, but in the midst of trying to fit in with the other tan, bubbly girls at school I lost a very important part of my own identity.
The charade continued all through high school. I was constantly surrounded by a sea of perfect faces and sun-kissed skin, and that was all I wanted to be. I yearned to be a pretty face, another bleach blonde Barbie with no real substance. I was fooled into thinking that all that mattered were algebra books and homecoming dances, dating the right boy, and wearing the newest jeans.
There was a long time when my life felt like a chore. In my world, which had once been so full of color, my eyes now saw only grey. My family was worried about me and my lack of enthusiasm about things that used to excite me. The doctors I met with diagnosed me with depression and bi-polar disorder*. They attempted to cure me with prescription pills and scribbling about me on clipboards, but the only thing that ever cured me of my sadness was myself and, ultimately, my love of writing.
I spent some time in a hospital my sophomore year of high school, when I was at my lowest point. After a full-out brawl with some of my girlfriends (involving-what else?-stupid boys!), I knew I needed a break. I desperately needed to re-evaluate a lot of things in my life. I wanted to feel happy-and normal!-again. My parents signed me over to the hospital for as long as they wanted to keep me, and I knew this was my chance to feel better again, even though I was terrified.
While spending the week in the hospital, I was required to keep a diary once again. Although the bland, red spiral notebook they provided me with was not as vibrant as the notebooks I used when I was younger, something about putting my thoughts and ideas down on paper sparked something within me, something I thought I had lost a long time before.
That week I participated in a variety of activities, from group therapy sessions to occupational and art therapy classes. Engaging myself in activities where I was forced to be creative brought out another side to me that I had not seen in awhile, and I loved being able to express myself in ways other than by the style of my latest haircut or the shade of my eye shadow. I felt like I was finally becoming the person I was meant to become, someone that my 10-year-old self would have been proud of.
My first day out of the hospital was amazing. I remember smelling the November air, which was so cold it froze my nostrils, and smiling. The sky was grey, but for the first time in years I thought it was beautiful, just the way it was. I had been so focused on my outward appearance and had become so self-centered that I had barely taken notice of the indescribable beauty in nature that surrounded me on a daily basis.
I didn't give up on writing once I left the hospital. I knew that if I wanted to feel OK about myself, writing was a necessity. I have since filled a whole bookcase with diaries and journals. The pages are filled with everything from angst-filled poetry from my days in the hospital to short stories about fictional characters, to lists of what I wanted to buy with my next paycheck and even a few angry letters to friends and ex-lovers that I never actually sent them (OK–there are some sappy ones in there too!).
My diaries became my best friend when I felt I had no one else. I wrote when I wanted to cry because I had nothing to do on a Friday night. I wrote when I had arguments with my mom about petty things like what I could and couldn't wear and also about more serious issues, like my parents fighting. I wrote when my boyfriends broke up with me and my friends let me down. I wrote when I was excited that a cute new boy had a crush on me or that I had aced a test. I wrote about anything and everything. My diary became an extension of myself, holding my most inner thoughts and feelings. I still look at my diaries and read them to myself to help remind me that even when I'm feeling my worst I will get through it.
Writing is my solace*; it is what I know will keep me cool and calm in even the most dramatic and traumatic of times. People who knew me my sophomore year notice a huge difference in me and they assume I was "cured" by miracle medicines or therapy. When I tell them my real secret is writing in my diary, they are usually shocked at what improvement writing has helped me to make in my life. I realized that if writing can help me so much, everyone could benefit from putting their thoughts into written form. Lots of my friends keep diaries now, too! Writing can provide an outlet for all the crazy, mixed-up emotions life can throw at you. So next time you're feeling down, remember to put away the box of tissues and pick up a new, bright, colored pencil and get to it!
*Bi-polar disorder: A mental illness where the sufferer experiences episodes of depressed (low) and manic (high) states. While depressed, the person feels worthless; while manic, the person can be hyperactive, talk very quickly, or make rash decisions.
*Solace: to make cheerful, to soothe.
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Do you write in your diary? How does it help you deal with the stresses of daily life?
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