I met with some fellow bloggers at the Community Table at Zele this week. We discussed writing and blogging and journaling. Most all of us had written in a journal regularly at some point or another, and all for different reasons. Writing about one’s feelings, however, was commonplace. I thought about my history of writing in a diary or a journal. I didn’t start writing regularly until about five years ago. I wrote sporadically in high school and college. Then the lightbulb in my mind flickered a bit. Eighth grade. Language Arts. Mrs. Ginther. My mind was a flood of familiar, yet strange and embarrassing information. It was all happening so fast. The notebook was red. Ten minutes of writing at the beginning of class was a requirement. I wrote about constipation. Oy, the great eight day block.
I once went eight days without pooping. I know, that was more information than you needed, but seriously I went eight whole days and nothing. That’s pretty remarkable. What’s funnier about this fact, is that I was twelve years old and wrote a day by day account of such tragedy in my Language Arts Journal.
I’m not trying to gross you out or shock you with vulgarity. I’m merely trying to take you into the mind of a neurotic 12 year old who had a direct correlation with her neuroses and bowl movements since birth.
That journal had become my life blood. I was not alone in this need. My best friend, Megan, also shared the love of journaling, more specifically, Mrs. Ginther’s class journaling. Where most of the class grunted in agony at “free writing” for 10-15 minutes, Megan and I reveled in it. We talked about the boys we liked, the girls we hated and of course, about our fights with one another, which led to couples counseling (I’ll have to save that for another blog). We wrote with blatant disregard to our teacher who was grading us on our juicy eighth grade tidbits. For Mrs. Ginther, we were fulfilling our free writing requirement, but for us, we could pine over Scott Bachmann and whether or not he liked Tara Stanton or discuss how we were going to really make a go at cheerleading tryouts that year.
I have always had a tendency to share. I had become so accustomed to writing down every last feeling that when the stoppage occurred I thought nothing of keeping a daily vigil.
It started with the annual eighth grade Washington D.C. trip. This was the apex of my two year junior high career. Roughly 80 students flew out of Chicago to our Nation’s Capital for a jam packed three day tour. Although there were vast amounts of information being thrown at us, we were concerned with more important things, like who was rooming with whom and how far down the hallway the boys resided.
Three days of touring wasn’t very different from three days at home, as far as physiology was concerned. The only difference was sharing a bathroom with three other girls. What if I went to the bathroom and some how, some way a foul odor found it’s way into the bedroom? I would be doomed. My roommates would yell it down the hallway to the boys’ rooms and I would be known as the girl who made a bad stinky. NO WAY. I wasn’t game, so I told my body to stop. Just like that.
Three days later I was back home and my body had not resumed its normal functions.
You might think that a subject such as this would be shared only with my Mother or my Doctor. Nope. I felt it necessary to get these feelings off my chest and write about them in my red, Language Arts journal.
Oh the humility.
I’d written short statements like, “It’s been four days and I still haven’t gone,” “Day six and nothing,” “I had to go to the nurse today because I couldn’t button my pants. She said I needed roughage.” Beth, Beth, Beth, why oh why would you share that with your 8th grade English teacher? Simple, I had to journal about my feelings. Everybody poops, or doesn’t as the case may be. There’s nothing to be ashamed of, right?
I don’t know if Mrs. Ginther ever actually read each journal entry. However, I deserve some sort of gold star for my efforts at “free writing.” I hope she missed that week in particular, yet what’s done is done. Feelings are feelings and writing is writing, even if it happens to be about, uh, er, a constipated 8th grader.
Keeping a journal can be what ever you want it to be. Write about your feelings. Write about the abstract. Log in your miles for the day. Whatever. If you feel better when you’re done it’s probably a good thing. Though I think it was good old fashioned prune juice that actually made me feel better, I’m sure I felt some sort of confessional quality after writing, “nothing yet,” and turning it in to my teacher.
When I read the first paragraph, I thought this was going to be a crappy blog, but it turned out to be anything butt.
(Sorry, I just couldn’t help myself)
Journaling can cleanse the soul and mind and with a glass of prune juice, the body too. Thanks for reminding all of us were we started.
“Wheresoever you go, go with all your heart.” – Confucius
When I read the first paragraph, I thought this was going to be a crappy blog, but it turned out to be anything butt.
(Sorry, I just couldn’t help myself)
Journaling can cleanse the soul and mind and with a glass of prune juice, the body too. Thanks for reminding all of us were we started.
“Wheresoever you go, go with all your heart.” – Confucius
Yeah, so it’s Labor Day and I’m one tall gin and sprite into the day. I just ran to the great Wally World to make a diaper and formula run. I vaguely remember receiving an e-mail from my well traveled sister about blogging. So when I arrived to my mothers she had a portfolio made of her daughter’s blogs. Showing them off with the familiar, that’s my daughter riiigghhhtt thur….so I begin to read. The first entry I take a look at is Butte Naked.
Ahhh shit, big brother kicks in, I want to kill him already. I start reading about my sister and some guy I’ll call Mo for now. Wow, I had a great deal of thoughts run through my mind all at once. Let’s rewind here in my mind. The last guy she dated I wanted to kill (okay let’s just say hurt badly). When I met him I tried to be extra nice to him because I love my little sister to pieces. My intuition told me he was an ass, but I shut my mouth and was extra nice to him. I could tell my sister was head over heals. He soon revealed himself to my sister and my family. I can only hope Mo is better. Let’s just say my sister actually had to move to Aspen to go on a date. I hate men around her period. I always felt good being her protector, body guard, psychotic brother, whatever silly label you want give me.
Back to the original thought, I reading about my naked sister and her being a KLUTZ. She’s done all kinds of weird things. Everytime someone was there to hit on her, I was there to hit them. Everytime she fell of her bike, which was almost daily, I was there to yell at her and make sure she was okay. As I’m reading this blog my other sister rushes in the door, on time for the first time in 10 years. I can only credit this to the new man in her life. Anyway, she was running out the door to get something from her car…as I’m reading about Beth falling out of the shower, I watch the other one fall off the front porch, I look up and say, “Ma your other daughter just fell off the porch.” I didn’t even respond, I just yelled at my wife to go see if she was okay. It all turned out well– moral of the story, we are all klutzes, if that is even a word. And remember, I’m the only person in the world that can say that!
Yeah, so it’s Labor Day and I’m one tall gin and sprite into the day. I just ran to the great Wally World to make a diaper and formula run. I vaguely remember receiving an e-mail from my well traveled sister about blogging. So when I arrived to my mothers she had a portfolio made of her daughter’s blogs. Showing them off with the familiar, that’s my daughter riiigghhhtt thur….so I begin to read. The first entry I take a look at is Butte Naked.
Ahhh shit, big brother kicks in, I want to kill him already. I start reading about my sister and some guy I’ll call Mo for now. Wow, I had a great deal of thoughts run through my mind all at once. Let’s rewind here in my mind. The last guy she dated I wanted to kill (okay let’s just say hurt badly). When I met him I tried to be extra nice to him because I love my little sister to pieces. My intuition told me he was an ass, but I shut my mouth and was extra nice to him. I could tell my sister was head over heals. He soon revealed himself to my sister and my family. I can only hope Mo is better. Let’s just say my sister actually had to move to Aspen to go on a date. I hate men around her period. I always felt good being her protector, body guard, psychotic brother, whatever silly label you want give me.
Back to the original thought, I reading about my naked sister and her being a KLUTZ. She’s done all kinds of weird things. Everytime someone was there to hit on her, I was there to hit them. Everytime she fell of her bike, which was almost daily, I was there to yell at her and make sure she was okay. As I’m reading this blog my other sister rushes in the door, on time for the first time in 10 years. I can only credit this to the new man in her life. Anyway, she was running out the door to get something from her car…as I’m reading about Beth falling out of the shower, I watch the other one fall off the front porch, I look up and say, “Ma your other daughter just fell off the porch.” I didn’t even respond, I just yelled at my wife to go see if she was okay. It all turned out well– moral of the story, we are all klutzes, if that is even a word. And remember, I’m the only person in the world that can say that!