Saturday, April 18, 2009

A Fleeting Truth

This is why I write. Yesterday, as soon as I had finished that post about being depressed, it was no longer quite as true. It was as if I had put it in front of me, looked it squarely in the eye, and now it had a life of its own--outside of me.

Before I got married, I made my husband promise he would never read my journals without being invited. The reason was that I only wrote in them when I was depressed, so they gave a desolate picture of my inner life that was only partly the truth, because the moment I wrote in them, what I felt was transformed into something more managable. Which meant my journal entries were a fleeting truth. I did not want to be judged by them. Writing has always been therapy for me, the thing that keeps me relatively sane, even as it aims for the heart of a moving target, my fleeting, everchanging truth.

I'm also happy cause my boy comes home today!


  1. I so know where you are coming from! I have always used journaling to explore my inner self. I feel very private as well, as they only show me from one angle.

  2. Rhonda, makes you wonder about all those depressed writers we studied in school, doesn't it?

  3. I have a journal that is pretty much filled with the same sentiment over and over and over and . . you get the idea.

  4. lilaphase, i know just what you mean!


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