How Journaling Saved Me
Trigger warning: mention of depression, anxiety, and suicidal ideations
It was when I had just turned 19 that depression hit me with full force, thrusting me down into the subterranean world of despair and hopelessness. I had a sense that this was coming, but not the force with which it hauled me. I came to a full stop. I simply could not continue life as usual. I left school for some time off.
I rented myself a room that was so tiny it should have never been legal for anyone to live in. The room was 5.5’ x 6.5’ with no proper windows. I locked myself up in that room for approximately 7 months.
I was depressed to the point of being suicidal. I couldn’t see any way out of it. Without a proper view outside, it was hard to tell whether it was day or night. I just laid down in bed and stared for hours at the red light radiating from the smoke detector.
I started a blog. I don’t exactly remember what my thoughts had been behind starting it, but I started one. I typed out everything that came to my mind. I felt like I would explode if I didn’t let it all out. It was more of a personal journal than a blog.
One person was allowed access. It was my ex-girlfriend with whom I was in a long-distance relationship. She read everything I posted on the blog.
I wrote ceaselessly. I couldn’t stop. I was crushed under the weight of too many jumbled thoughts and feelings that I had to unload them somewhere, somehow.
I had never written so much. I typed and handwrote. It helped to see my thoughts and feelings written out in physical forms. And I began noticing some knots slowly being undone. My brain had been a gigantic ball of knots and twists, but some things were getting oiled and straightened out.
I did quite a bit of editing even with an audience of just one person. In a pool of thoughts, I reorganized my paragraphs and swapped sentences. Phrases were sharpened and words were reworded. When given structure, the backbone of my thoughts slowly revealed itself, unnecessary clutter draining away.
I started realizing what I was struggling with. I had an identity issue. I had a self-esteem issue. I had a family issue. I had a trauma issue.
I also began to see what it was that I truly desired.
By the seven month mark, I’d had enough of that tiny cell, and I left. I wouldn’t say that I was completely free of my mental illnesses then. But I had a direction. I knew where I needed to go. I could orient myself toward the future I wanted.
The next five months I spent recuperating. I got myself in much better shape and was determined to go back to school.
A dark tunnel comes to mind when I think back on those seven months. Time of darkness, both metaphorical and literal. But the journaling that I had done during that time was the biggest asset I could have bought for myself. I still struggle with depression and anxiety to this day, but I am a much more grounded person thanks to the soul-searching I did more than a decade ago. I know my life philosophy, I know my values, thanks to those seven months of heavy journaling.
It was also the first time I experienced growth through writing. I grew as a person, but it was also my first spurt of growth as a writer. For the first time, I had viscerally felt the healing and empowering nature of writing.
That’s why I’m trying to get back into writing. Things are a bit more difficult this time around because it’s been a while and I’m trying a new style. But I know that I just need to get in the groove of things, and growth will come, naturally.
