One of the presents I received was from R. R is family, but not related by blood (insert long complicated explanation here). Suffice to say, I love her dearly.
The last time I spoke with her, I found out she was reading this blog. That thrills me more than I can say. She said that she really enjoys my writing.
And like normal, my mind tried to deny that. I’ve practiced long and hard at just saying, “Thank you, “ to compliments, but honestly, my mind is just like my teen daughter’s in this respect. It starts saying, “I don’t write that well, really,” and a ton of other negativities.
Anyway, R sent me this lovely journal. It’s faux crocodile skin with silver-gilt edging, and just gorgeous. And thick. Lots of pages.
I have this history with journals.
I love them! I buy them (though I’ve never bought one this nice for myself). I use them.
For a little while. You know, when I’m a tad manic, and trying to get myself together, and thinking that I’m going to be this creative genius (because, really, what’s the point of being bipolar if I can’t be a creative genius?) Or when I’m really depressed and I’ve driven everyone away and I have no one to talk to, I write then.
Then I stop.
I get too busy, or I get depressed, or I misplace the journal, or I spend too much time online, or. . . you know, life gets in the way.
Then when I want to write again after months, or sometimes years, off, I can’t find the last one I was using (because I’m a disorganized wreck, of course). Or I think it will look pathetic to have a 2 year gap in the journal.
So I buy a new one.
Or I try to write a computer journal.
But somehow, like with math, my hand is connected to my brain. The journaling doesn’t stick unless I do it by hand.
I’m feeling a little bit of pressure to fill this one, and not give up on it 20 pages in. It’s so much nicer than any I’ve bought for myself.
I did fill four pages today.
That’s a good start, I think.
Thank you so much, R. It’s really lovely.