When I was a little girl I kept a journal. You know, the velvet-skinned kind with the miniature lock and key that Mum could have probably picked with her fingernail.
It held my secrets, like which boy I had my eye on that week. At the time I thought it held my heart. It didn’t. In fact, it was more of a general account of my day-to-day activities rather than a revelation of anything deeply personal.
Consequently my love affair with my journal didn’t last too long. My life wasn’t interesting enough to record all the details. Yet now as an adult I truly believe in the healing power of journaling.