The Pros and Cons of Keeping a Journal

I always loved writing in my journal when I was young. In fact, from the age eleven on I hardly missed a day.  This is not to say my writings were profound. With entries like "Today I turned in my report on Native Americans," some of my journal entries reflect little about the former Katie Connors, but at least I can now kind of recall writing that report from forever ago...

The last couple of weeks I have felt like I should go through and read former journal entries. Some entries touch my heart like that one from 1996 "I know Mommy and Daddy love me." Others break my heart. I have started rummaging through them (in no order) and have only read through four journals so far. Unfortunately, I started with the toughest journal.

Seventh and Eighth grade.

I know life for most eighth graders isn't particularly "charmed", and I know that for me, it was tortuous. In fact, I have been trying to forget it ever since it happened.

I admit. I brought a lot of it on myself. I had crazy curly hair when the style was stick straight...so I thought I would remedy the situation. I would just stick my hair in a lacy hair net with a big satin bow hair clip thing, reminiscent of my favorite 1800 time period--perfect, right? Oh, and then I would carry around big leather volumes of Shakespeare and Dickens so I could start up conversations with peers about their favorite books. And I wanted to be elegant, so of course wear dresses with flowers and shoulder pads and maybe, occasionally, floral overalls. I just wanted to look dignified, elegant, and like I fit in. Too bad, I don't think I accomplished any of those categories looking back. And as a disclaimer, my mom tried to make me wear jeans and normal clothes and hair styles, but I was stubborn, so none of this was her fault. I put the blame all on me...

So back to the journal entries. I went from reading about a sweet, innocent girl who loved to read, loved animals, and loved her family to a girl who was constantly feeling left out, mocked, ridiculed, and frankly, alone in the world. At the time, I couldn't understand...how could people be so cruel? I was "kicked out" of friends' groups until there came the day where I went to school and had no where to sit for lunch. No where. I had been alienated from all the groups I would dare attempt to join. I remember wandering the halls feeling so very, very alone. I even wrote notes to my golden retriever in class while the other kids would write to their real friends so that I wouldn't look like the loner I was.

I tell this story to friends now because it is comical--my "outfit," writing a note to my dog, my hair...but when I read my journal the other night, I remembered that the pain I had felt was real, so very real, so excruciating.

If I could go back to that younger me, wandering around the halls without a friend in the world (other than family and church leaders, oh and the dog). I would go and hug her and say, it will all work out! You will have friends, many of them! You will get through this. Just be you! And you can even save your passion for literary figures for your Masters Degree in British literature; you don't need to spill it all in middle school. Some kind girls will reach out to you, and just like Princess Diaries--although not quite as dramatic--help transform you. And please, young Katie, wear jeans and don't wear that awful hair net thing.

I guess this is why I try to be sensitive for awkward teens; I was the epitome of one.

It hurt to read those sad, tender feelings of my young self trying to connect to others and part of me wants to throw that awful, painful journal away, but a part of me wants to keep it. A part of me wants to hold on to it forever. To remember. To remember that I have felt rejection and loss, but I can get through it. I have before, and I will again (although for different reasons as life progresses).

Because AFTER that painful time, a sweet friend told me I could sit at her table (thank you, Kari). And I started wearing jeans. And girls tried to help me through my awkward looks. And through them I learned that I can love Dickens, Shakespeare, classical music, animals, the Victorian Era, and still fit into today's world without being so dramatic about it.

Rereading my journal taught me that the young 13 year old Katie is still the Katie of today who loves all those same things, and I am still going through bumps and bruises, and although it hurts to remember those painful times, I can remember that I will get through the trials of today just as I did at 13.

Thank you, journal. Thank you for helping me remember.