WRITING
Writing a Diary Saved Me
The subtle art of consolation through pen and paper
“But, dying will probably be a solace. Maybe the complete feeling of not feeling anything is better than this. But I’m not sure. “
Saturday, April 23, 2022, 12: 43 am
I wrote a diary because I want to write for myself.
For a long time, I never knew how to write my uncertainties, unspeakable sadness, and dark thoughts. I only knew how to write for the validation of others.
The right words. The right grammar. The right sentence.
For a long time, I compartmentalize these unspeakable feelings. I clung to fake hopes and toxic positivity to piece together my crumbling life.
Then, the pandemic happened. Being hopeful wasn’t enough.
I was at the loneliest moment in my life. I lived with my family or as I call them biological strangers because I found out that I managed to live with them for years without truly knowing them.
I also found out that it is possible to stop feeling myself.
It is possible to be an empty shell.
It is possible to wake up and lose all the passion and joy that I once had.
But it is also possible to find my consolation through pen and paper.
So, I wrote a diary.
This time, there were no grammar rules and silly validations to aspire to. I wrote for myself, by myself, to myself.
I wrote about my messiness and shits.
“The last years were not okay. The last days were a rollercoaster of feelings. I feel happy for a bit. I feel sad, empty, shitty, regretful and all other things. But this last days, I figuratively look my fucking self in the mirror. I look at all the bandages, stitches, pain relievers, etc that I used to live or atleast feel alive. Maybe, I should be proud of myself. I’m all ugly and things are all in the wrong place but atleast I have the courage to look at this messiness: myself. “
Tuesday, May 3. 2022, 11:04 am
I tripped. Get bruise. Stand up. And walk like it was not a tragedy. Nothing happened. I was glorious at faking okayness because I hated my ugly and uncomfortable thoughts in the open.
But, faking it is not always making it. There was a tragedy. Something happened and, it was hard to walk away and forget.
I can’t forget the feeling.
The heavy feeling of listening to my parents’ endless fights in most mornings and evenings.
The feeling of loneliness and silence.
No one taught me to talk about the messiness of family. No one taught me what to do when there is nothing to do. No one taught me what to hope when everything felt hopeless.
But my teachers taught me to get good grades. So, I did because aside from faking okayness, it was the other thing I was good at.
Outside of my family, I was the smart girl. The girl who got high marks. The girl who won competitions. And I like being that girl. She was better than the helpless girl and her dysfunctional family.
I did not figure out how to deal with the abuse and trauma. But I learned to use academic achievements, chores, and sleep as drugs and painkillers.
But the wounds are still there. There is still that helpless girl in me. Time do not heal wounds. It only numbed them.
Writing a diary helped me look at that girl for what she is. She is broken, misunderstood, and messy. And she needed help. I wanted to help her.
I wrote to help myself.
“I feel a bit well now. Honestly, I’m not fine. And I don’t have any concrete ideas when things are going to be okay. Maybe things won’t be. But right now is a step. Right now is so much better than all those fucking crap a long time ago. “
Sunday, June 26, 2022, 10:29 am
But, I felt even more helpless.
When my father died, I thought I would spend my life sulking and watching Mr. Bean to numb everything.
Everything overwhelmed me. I did not know how to feel myself. I did not know what to feel. I felt regret, joy, anger, desperation, denial and sadness.
My life stopped. Something broke inside me. Something died inside me. Something was more damaged than before.
Perhaps all those fancy metaphors are false.
There might be no light at the end of the tunnel. There might be no silver linings behind the clouds.
But light or no light, silver linings or not, somehow, I learned to reside with the darkness.
I didn’t know how or why.
All I know is that like light, darkness has colors and layers too. Like light, there is life in the darkness worthy of writing about.
I wrote about all the things that I mourned for.
“They say that you have to mourn for your losses. They say that you need to feel the pain to the bones. I’m terrified that I need to mourn for a lifetime. Maybe, my life is just a long funeral procession that will ultimately lead to the grave.”
Friday, May 20, 2022, 9:47 am
We mourn every day for the death of ourselves because when a beloved dies, we mourn for the pieces of us that died with their death.
When my father died, I refused to mourn in my own time. Like I always do, I fake okayness. But I mourn what I refused to mourn by writing a diary. And I was hoping that there would come a time when I had written all I could write that I could finally stop mourning.
But, I realized that mourning is a part of life. I will always mourn for all the things that I once was, in the same way, that I will have to mourn for all the things that I did not become.
And I will continue to write a diary to memorialize my mournings and everything there is between.
I will write about my mundane days, heartaches, and happy moments. I will write about them because I will never get the same flavor of feeling again in my life. No matter how dark, they too, have layers and colors.
I will write about them because I wanted to live through life instead of against life. I wanted to live through joy, pain, and everything there is.
I wanted to write to feel my feelings because compartmentalizing them did nothing but drowned me.
Writing a diary saved me.
I was hoping it would save me from drowning again.
