For decades this blog has been my way of journaling. I’ve said often that it is a life blog. It gets political at times because that’s life in these United States these days. But it’s a life blog, not a political one. It’s where I write about my life. If it gets strange, I’m strange. If it gets disturbing, you should see my life from my perspective. Welcome to my life. Blog. Thing of it is though, I don’t get a lot of feedback here. And even if I did, it wouldn’t be of the kind we all really need. I never found a boyfriend. I never found that significant other to talk with, to share our innermost selves with. It leaves you disconnected, drifting through life. I can get things out of me in my art, and here on the blog, but it’s a one-way conversation. I’ve never had the chance to share my life with anyone, who would share theirs with me. I’ve had no companion on this journey.

I recently bought a couple journaling books in the hope that, at this end stage of my life, I can gain some better insight into myself. Self acceptance is a hard thing to achieve, especially when you believe you’ve already achieved it. I’ve often prided myself on never feeling ashamed of my sexual orientation, but that is one aspect of personality among many, and looking back I had it very hard growing up, in a bunch of different ways. Picking through all of it to rescue the exuberant, curious, expressive boy I was before getting tossed into grade school has been a lifelong journey. He got suffocated, first by my maternal grandmother and most of her family out of hatred of my dad, then by my grade school teachers who thought I talked too much and took excessive interest in my art projects, then by the pervasive homophobia that surrounded me as I came of age. After mom passed away I entered therapy for a brief period, but it was shallow at best. I was told being an only child was a “toughie” and that I “present young”, as if that was somehow a bad thing and not a lost little portion of that exuberant and expressive boy I once was, still trying to live.

I came across a card game with the title “How Deep Will You Go”, and bought it not to play with anyone, but to draw a card every morning and try to answer the questions: What is your biggest struggle right now? What’s something simple that makes you smile? Is there closure you never got to have? What are you afraid to let go of? I thought these could be helpful for solitary me, who never found a soulmate to have these sorts of conversations with. 

Later I saw a daily journal book, each day a page with a similar sort of question at the top for you to write about on the page below it. Write something you’ve been wanting to tell someone. What’s something you haven’t said out loud yet? Write a letter to someone who hurt you. When I went to order one there was another journal you could get bundled with it, inviting you to dig deeper. Where do you go to feel closest to yourself? 

These were both hardbound books and I figured I would write out my answers with my good fountain pens, my awful handwriting might even improve a tad since I seldom write longhand anymore until I’m signing a document or putting my name on some artwork. My handwriting is very scrawly. But the books have arrived and I’ve begun the work, and immediately discovered a difficulty. I have nowhere to actually write, that isn’t a computer desk with a keyboard taking up the space where handwriting would otherwise happen.

In grade school my maternal grandmother bought me a student desk with open shelves instead of drawers so I couldn’t hide anything from her. I used it all through school and when I finally moved out of the apartment I shared with mom and broke it into little bits because I didn’t want anything of hers to follow me into the rest of my life. I’ve not had a writing desk since, but I bought a very nice drafting table while I was still living with mom and it’s followed me to the little Baltimore rowhouse of my own. I’ll do the journaling exercises on that. Seems appropriate.