My trusted companion

We all have different ways of getting through life, but collectively I would say that it is a constant process of taking in impressions, marinating them and integrating them, and then possibly adding the experience to our memory bank or letting it change our path forward – or just forgetting. Since our brain does this for us daily, we usually don’t need to use our own thinking power to decide where the experiences should go. Should I let myself remember this delicious sandwich forever, or should it go straight to the trash?

On the other hand, it is the strong impressions, positive or negative, that trigger us to need to process them a little more actively. Some do it by talking. Others prefer to contemplate in solitude; perhaps through something creative such as painting or listening to music. Then there are those who are like me; who like to write their way through experiences and impressions.

It started with me making a New Year’s resolution when I was ten years old: to write a diary every day for a year. I can’t remember it happening for any other reason than to just give myself a challenge – and sometimes it did. Some days I didn’t feel like it at all; then it was mostly a factual account of what had happened between the time I woke up and the time I went to sleep (and write).

Pretty soon, though, I noticed that I had created a need to ”write off” at the end of the day. Or perhaps it was more of a habit that had developed into a need. So when the year was over and I had written a diary for 365 days in a row, I just kept going. Not every day. A daily routine that was rolling along didn’t feel that interesting to take the time to document. But if something happened, no matter how small, that affected me. Then I noticed that I felt a strong pull to pick up the pen and start writing.

In retrospect, many years later, I see clearly what had happened: I had created an excellent way for myself to vent and process emotions, and in this way gain some distance from them. By writing, I created my own place that no one else had access to. A place where I could say, think and feel whatever I wanted – because you couldn’t do that in all other contexts. We censor ourselves daily, depending on where we are and who we hang out with. Sometimes without us knowing it.

By writing, I gained access to my innermost self. And it was incredibly helpful, but I didn’t realize it at the time. When I wrote out the little blue diary with the penguins in it, I continued with the next one. And the next. And the next. Now the pile is quite substantial. And I look back on this pile with an enormous amount of warmth; these pages have been like a friend and a safe place over the years. A faithful companion.

Regardless of how we remember, it is important that our unique experiences are told. I think there is something incredibly empowering about being able to tell your own story – from your own perspective.