I have a journal. I have a box full of them. I have a bound notebook in my tote bag that is the paper journal of the moment, and I have this blog.
Having a journal and keeping a journal are not the same thing.
I have times of writing regularly vs. times that I don’t think I’m doing or thinking anything particularly interesting. I forget that I need to write regularly, whether I have anything interesting to say or not. This entry is probably a splendid example of nothing interesting to say.
I used to keep a journal for the artifact. As a teen, I belonged to a religious group that prized recording history for posterity, so as a devout member, I did the needful. After many years I came across a finding that a group of psychological professionals had uncovered. People who write journals get better faster. People who read their journals don’t get better. After some thought, it’s kind of obvious. Writing in journals helps me organize thoughts and exorcise demons. Reading my own journal reinforces the tendency to wallow in my own misery. As a depressive, this is a bad, bad move.
And so here we are journaling. Yay me!