I used to keep a diary or a journal almost religiously. Every day I would take a few moments before going to sleep and write down the day’s joy or sorrow, expunging it from my mind. I think this helped me sleep better, and it definitely helped me work out problems and stress.
I love going back into those journals and seeing what was going on. After whom was I pining? What was going on in the world, or with friends? Where was I traveling? What demons were plaguing me (oh there were some big demons to write about). I laugh reading the stories from Italy when I was living abroad as a teenager; I am still in awe from the experience of sailing around the world; I am often perplexed that I got so worked up about something stupid, but I keep learning from mistakes made and resolved.
But since moving in with Damir I have all but stopped writing. Sure, snippets here on the blog, but that’s hardly an insight into what’s really going on behind the scenes or in my brain.
I think I am self conscious about the actual act of writing in front of him, which is silly when I think about it. He is my best friend and my partner, why would I feel so vulnerable just by writing? If anything, I feel more comfortable with him than with any other person that has graced my life. I am certain part of it is that sometimes I would be writing about him, especially when working out a little worry or some issue between us (still getting worked up about stupid stuff I guess). I wouldn’t want him to later come across any of my bitching and take it the wrong way… not that I think he would ever read my stuff uninvited. The obvious solution would be to find a cozy private corner and have my way with the pen, but that’s not really possible in our current set up. You know. The Parents.
And now… I am so out of practice I feel awkward and uncertain in front of a page. Where would I even begin telling the story of the past 2 years?