“My brother and sister had a flannel fight.  I opened the door and got a wet flannel in my face.”  My first attempt to keep a diary began when I was seven.  I had a five year Flower Fairy diary.  I felt so grown up having a tiny gold key to lock away my secrets.  By thirteen, my secret diary included pictures of the pop group Boyzone.  I’d also started listing goals, noting achievements and writing about difficult feelings; worrying about school or sadness that a beloved pet had died.  I began each year with the intention to write in my diary every day.  That rarely happened, but my diaries still give a wonderful snapshot of my childhood.

As a young adult, my diaries became a place to record college timetables.  I had many notebooks to jot down to-do lists, ideas that excited me, research for my music and practice notes.  Everything got written down somewhere.  I was often advised to keep a health journal.  I didn’t want to.  Why would I wish to focus on my symptoms any more than I had to?  At various points I reluctantly tried this, usually at times when I was desperate to solve a medical puzzle that doctors couldn’t.  These diaries never lasted.  They gave little back for their efforts.

I started a new journal in the run-up to my FND diagnosis.  It was another point of desperation but something was different.  This diary lasted.  Initially I wanted to track symptoms, (hopefully) spot patterns and keep on top of appointments.  But it soon became more than that.  Maybe I could hang onto a little bit of a life that was rapidly descending into freefall if I wrote everything down?  As I faced four months of hospital admissions in one year, my journal became my friend.  Not only could I record fact and conversations when I felt submerged in a blurry fog, but I could also pour out emotion in a safe place.  I could express myself.  I could make some sense of the trauma I was experiencing.  I began to live life in chapter titles as words spilled onto pages, filling book upon book.  I found comfort in the words as my journal became an extension of me.  It gave me back my voice.

Journaling has many therapeutic effects and can be approached in so many different ways (a post for another week).  Four years on and my diaries continue.  My journaling has fuelled my blog and the book I’m working on.  I have a story to tell, as I believe we all do.  What’s your story?