I started a journal when I was about 9 years old. It was a small, pink pocket diary with flowers on it, and it had a lock that didn’t work. My cousins were visiting at the time, and I was boiling with rage and hate. The pages of that innocent child’s book were filled with poison. Malevolence coursed through my veins and onto those pages, in untidy capital letters that spilled outside the lines. Unfortunately for my cousin, she read about my dislike for her in that diary. So that put me off journal writing for a while. Years later when I read it again I was overcome with guilt and embarrassment, and I threw it away. But I wish I hadn’t.
The journals I do have go back until about age 14. Mostly they are filled with teenage angst. There is lots of sadness, despair, and an unbelievable amount of anger. There are limited writings during hypomanic/manic periods – I was too busy getting drunk, taking drugs and having sex to do anything else. Even though those writings are immature, and very badly written, they give a distinct impression of a kid struggling to understand who she is, and why she does the things she does.
This blog is separate to my journal. In my journal I write freely, without thinking, I name people, I vent, I share the thought of the moment, I’m irrational and unreasonable and I make no apologies for it. I give no thought to the quality of my writing, and I write without fear of someone reading it. I make plans and lists, and I tend to write a lot.
In a sense The Bipolar Project is a journal too. But it’s an edited, more reader friendly version. My posts are shorter – to try and prevent you from getting bored. I am honest in both places, but there are some things that Bipolar and I have done that I am not willing to share with the world. At least, not yet.
With that said. I want to share parts of my journal with you, because they are the raw form of me and Bipolar. So here goes…