My Journal, My Voice - 1

Sometimes, I go crazy-like. Like:

I am old and ugly and dumb and uncool!! and I don’t even try to pretend I am not. And other people are horrid!! and life sucks!! and who asked to be born anyway??? and, you, who’s running this lousy show, will you just stop a sec, I WANNA GET OUT!!

On my journal, I write down my anger, fears, woes. I write with exclamation points and question marks and big capital letters and double underlines. As I write, my fury flows with my tears, smudging pages. Soon it abates, dissipates as though by putting all the toxin on paper, it stays put there.

Weeks, months, years later, I reread what I wrote. Whew and whoa! Was that me spewing all that poison? Was that me feeling such negative emotion?

I laugh at myself. How OA can I be?! As I read, I knew -- the next time I feel so horribly, I can and will take myself less seriously.

Today, I feel down again. Not deeply-darkly down but spring-feverishly so. I bring out my journal and force-feed on the bright and the beautiful, the good and the glad. Write three -- I commanded myself -- just three things to be high about.

At first my mind is frozen, my hands leaden. You can do it, I cheered myself on.

(I begin tentatively) Good health, with no maintenance prescriptions yet.

Hipon in my fridge, Anne Tyler, Quindlen and Lamott in my book shelf. “New” ukay shirts in my closet, a consultancy contract in my pocket. Writing, blogging, online scrabbling, badminton, baking. (Now, my pen is flying).

Warm bodies in my life. My children – not all of them bright but all of them beautiful. My Apo Andeng – certainly both bright and beautiful – and sweetly addicting. My sister, my pamangkins and apo sa pamangkin – doting and doted on.

Warm buddies – old, new, real, virtual.

Sunrise, sunsets, sunflowers.

My journal.

Before I knew it I had written down 30 and still writing.