Dear journal,

I experienced a moment today when I felt my fingers desperately reaching out for you, yet you weren’t around. I was outside, I had forgotten to slide you in my bag before leaving, and I’m honestly not sure why I needed you then. All I know is, I could feel something loud happening inside, and I needed to turn it down.

It wasn’t going to turn down unless it made sure I’ve heard what it had to say. I needed you to help me understand how it demanded to be heard this bad, when it almost felt like it was speaking a whole other language I never learned. I needed you to translate. I needed you to untangle the voices. The ones that insisted on finding the resemblance between what’s happening now, and what took place a few years back, so they’d convince me this is only meant to end just like that.

I needed you to explain how your endless attempts to bring down my walls have only managed to strengthen my shields. How every time you begin to show me how much I’ve healed, my attempts to avoid you instantly supersede. How the older versions of myself often seem to be more in control, and how my fingers still itch to find answers you already promised you’ve given up trying to conceal.

I wasn’t sure if I was more angry at myself, or at you. I wasn’t sure if it made sense that even if I was angry at you, I still needed you there. Because even when you bring me to tears, even when you bring me face to face with my pain, even when you push me to acknowledge all the unpleasant things about myself, I still know I’ve become a better person because of you.

Dear journal, you’re never leaving my bag again.