18th January 2015, Prismacolor pencils on A3 cartridge paper
I feel safer with a journal than I do with a person. With people, there’s always a risk they will hurt you, even if it’s not intentional. I remember one time it felt like my friends were swords and I was being cut into ribbons. They thought they were being helpful and caring, but I just felt judged and misunderstood.
Sometimes it feels like the world is full of sharp objects ready to slice me. When I’m hurt and feeling attacked, I find shelter in my notebook, and my pen is my only weapon to defend myself. My notebook never attacks me and I feel safe to share my voice with it.
This isn’t meant to be a negative reflection of people but a celebration of writing. Writing isn’t better than people; it’s just safer. No matter how trustworthy a person is, a journal is safer than any person because it will never hurt me. This isn’t meant to be a negative reflection of the world, either. It’s just that life can hurt you, and when it does, writing helps.
My journal is a friend. It’s always there for me when I need it and it always listens. I can tell it anything and it never judges me or misunderstands me. It is a safe place where I can be me, and I leave it feeling better. It lets me cry, rage, whine, ramble, and be real on the page.
Most of all, it is a pathway for me to be real in the flesh. I withdraw to my journal and it makes me bold so I can be more myself and not worry so much what people think of me. It makes me brave so I can face the world again and do this thing called life.