(no subject)

I spent all day yesterday writing in my journal. My actual, bound-paper journal. And I mean all day. I didn't get out of bed until 11.30-ish, and I started writing at 12.30-ish, and I only stopped in the evening to visit Jay and make a few phone calls. I started up again pretty much right after hanging up the phone and when I finished, I went to bed. I think it was good. At least, I got everything I'm thinking and feeling articulated, which is good for me because people keep trying to talk to me about what I'm thinking and feeling and I never have any clue how to say it on the spot. And I factually recorded as much as I could stand, had time for. I might go back and fill in the gaps -- like my sleepless Sunday/Monday night, and my inconsolable Monday, and my vaguely snoopy, sorting-tidying-cleaning Tuesday. I dunno. At this point, it's probably not that important. Maybe the sleepless night. Actually probably yeah. And everything he told me, I should record that.

*sigh*

I did realise yesterday, though, why I journal about the terrible things in my life. I might need some kind of outlet at the time, but I can get that from talking to people... I think it's really because these events are a part of me; painful as they are, and as much as I might want to forget them later, I need to remember them. I need to remember them as they happened. Because they make me who I am.