I’ve kept a journal-type diary on and off since I was in my teens. Not a little handbag-sized printed diary with pre-written dates, but an encyclopedic succession of A4 lined notebooks that start and finish as and when I run out of pages. I mean, I do still have a little handbag diary I carry around with me for noting birthdays and doctors appointments and things like that, but the diary I’m talking about here is a book filled with all sorts of hand-written secrets and feelings and rants and general introspective navel-gazing.
Writing in my book is a regular habit I’ve never ever regretted, as it truly helps me deal more rationally with my ongoing recurring depressive episodes. I write when I feel good and I write when I feel bad, and over the years I’ve found a familiar rhythm in my moods, a particular pattern to my thoughts and feelings. I read them back over sometimes to get a feel for how far I’ve come, or to remind myself that I have the written proof that however bad I feel at this precise moment, things do always get better given time… 🙂