Several years ago I journaled. Every so often I'll come across one of those journals and laugh at what an idiot I was. To think that I spent so much time worrying over such ridiculous things like the girl picking her cuticles till they bled during English class. Watching each. Dead. Piece. Of skin. Fall to the paper on her desk. (Insert puking noise here.) I consider myself lucky to be able to go back and experience a piece of my history. However small and insignificant that piece is, it's made me the woman, wife and mother I have become. Looking back I realize that journaling allowed me to express myself in a way that I otherwise would not have been able to. I was able to say the things I wouldn't normally say and reflect on things that I thought were my core beliefs, later to discover I had no clue what the hell I was talking about.
It must be said that I am not a writer and am not exceptionally intelligent or insightful. This venture is not well thought out on my part. However, as I get older, I'm becoming more aware of the importance of knowing and understanding the self and am willing to use this as a small (and quite public) exploration of my self. I choose this because it gives me the opportunity for feedback, criticism, and, hopefully, encouragement.
Special note: Months ago I started reading my friend, Linday's, blog. I enjoy her wit, wisdom and honesty. She inspired me to do this, so if this is a fail, blame her.
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