So, apparently, I’m supposed to be journaling. This is the latest decree from the self-improvement gods, whispered down from the mountaintops of Instagram and yoga studios. Journaling. It’s supposed to unlock your hidden potential, manifest a better parking space, and possibly teach your dog to finally stop licking his own nutsack. Or something like that.
They say it’s for manifestation, which, as far as I can tell, means writing down what you want and then hoping the universe, in its infinite and probably very busy wisdom, decides to throw you a bone. “Dear Universe,” I imagine writing, pen poised dramatically over a blank page, “please send me a winning lottery ticket and a personal chef who specializes in Brazilian bean soups. Also, world peace would be nice, but mostly the lottery ticket.” It feels less like manifestation and more like writing a letter to Santa as an adult.
Then there’s the problem-solving aspect. Apparently, if you just scribble down your woes, the answers will magically appear, like some sort of literary Ouija board. I picture myself hunched over my notebook, desperately trying to decipher the mystery of why loudmouth foreigners bicycle past our house at 3:30 am every morning. “Dear Journal,” I’d write, “Why? Just… why?” And the journal, in its infinite wisdom, would probably suggest I try meditation or perhaps sleep with earplugs in. Groundbreaking stuff.
Sleep improvement is another selling point. Journal before bed, they say, and your mind will be as clear as a bell, ready for eight hours of blissful, uninterrupted slumber. My mind, however, is rarely as clear as a bell. It’s more like a rusty cymbal being repeatedly crashed by a toy chimp loaded with fresh batteries. The idea of quieting that down with a pen and paper seems about as effective as trying to herd cats with a vacuum cleaner. But fine, I’ll try. “Dear Journal,” I might scribble at 11 PM, already yawning, “Please make my brain shut up. Please. Just… please.” Spoiler alert: the chimp with the cymbal is still going strong as I drift off to sleep, probably playing the song of its people about the futility of inner peace.
And reflection! Goal setting! Self-discovery! It all sounds terribly exhausting, doesn’t it? Like homework assigned by your own subconscious. “Reflect on your day,” they command. “Set goals for tomorrow!” As if my day wasn’t mostly spent reflecting on how I could avoid setting any more goals for myself. And self-discovery? Frankly, the things I’m likely to discover about myself in the quiet solitude of journaling are probably best left undiscovered. I suspect it would involve a lot of unflattering truths about my excessive drinking and my questionable life choices.
The instructions for starting are insultingly simple. “Just get a pen and paper!” they chirp. As if the barrier to profound self-reflection is merely the lack of office supplies. “An old notebook will do!” they generously concede. Well, thank you for lowering the bar. I was worried I’d need a handcrafted, sustainably sourced, artisanal journal bound in unicorn leather. An old notebook it is then, probably the one I used to doodle faces with dicks for noses in during high school algebra. Romance, truly, is dead.
Privacy is, of course, paramount. Apparently, my deepest thoughts are so earth-shattering, so scandalous, that they must be guarded like state secrets. The suggestion? A math book cover! Because nothing screams “secret repository of my innermost feelings” like a dusty textbook on quadratic equations. Imagine after I die, my family stumbling upon my journal disguised as “Calculus: Advanced Edition.” “Oh, look, Daddy spent the final years of his life tackling differential equations! Wait, what’s this about wanting to throw his family into a wood-chipper and run away and become a Sesame Street muppeteer?” Subtlety, apparently, is not the strong suit of the journaling gurus. Or, even better, write in a language your family doesn’t understand! Brilliant! I’ll just dash off my anxieties in, say, Klingon. That’ll really throw them off the scent. Or just make them think I’ve finally lost it completely.
They say there’s no right or wrong way to journal. This is, of course, a lie. There’s definitely a wrong way. The wrong way is to expect it to magically transform you into a Zen master or a millionaire. The right way, I suspect, is to approach it with a healthy dose of skepticism and maybe a a shot glass and bottle of whiskey. And journal prompts! Oh, joy. “What are you grateful for?” “What are your dreams?” “Describe your perfect day!” It’s like being interviewed by a relentlessly cheerful therapist who only asks questions with patently obvious answers. “Grateful for? Well, the absence of sudden, unexpected dental emergencies, I suppose. Dreams? Mostly about forgetting my pants in public. Perfect day? One where no one asks me to describe my perfect day.”
And photos! Collages! Apparently, journaling is not just for the verbally inclined. It’s a multi-media extravaganza! Soon we’ll be expected to include interpretive dance and performance art. I can see it now: “Dear Journal, today I felt… proceeds to express existential angst through a series of awkward pirouettes and mime gestures” I’ll stick to words, I think, mostly because the thought of attempting a collage fills me with a profound sense of creative inadequacy.
Implementing journaling into my day sounds about as appealing as implementing a daily flossing regimen. Intentions in the morning! Like a tiny, personal manifesto for a slightly better Tuesday. “Today, I intend to… not spill coffee on my shirt. And maybe answer at least one email.” Groundbreaking. And journaling when triggered! Oh, yes, because when I’m in the throes of a full-blown emotional meltdown, what I really need is to calmly and rationally articulate my feelings in a notebook. “Dear Journal, I am currently experiencing… scribbles furiously, possibly tearing the page in frustration… extreme annoyance! And also… more scribbling, possibly involving expletives… existential dread!” Much better than, say, screaming into a pillow, I’m sure.
Goals, goals, goals. Five minutes a day, they say, just to write about your vision board. My vision board, if I had one (which I don’t, because the idea of cutting out pictures from magazines sounds like an even bigger waste of my time than all the ways I already waste it), would probably feature a lot of comfortable pajama bottoms and maybe a lifetime supply of cheese. Five minutes of writing about that every day? I’d run out of things to say by day two. “Dear Journal, still want sweatpants. Cheese is still good.”
And the things to avoid! Fake positivity! Apparently, my journal is not a place for cheerful delusions. It’s a safe space for… honest negativity? Fantastic. So, instead of pretending everything is sunshine and rainbows, I’m actively encouraged to wallow in my own misery, but in a structured, written format. “Dear Journal, the world is a bleak and meaningless void, and my socks are always disappearing in the laundry. Also, I think I saw a crow judging me earlier.” Honesty, it seems, can be a very depressing exercise.
Never throw away old journals! Even if they’re “cringe.” Oh, I guarantee mine will be cringe. Cringe on toast, with a side of extra cringe. The thought of revisiting my past anxieties and melodramatic midlife angst is about as appealing as a root canal without anesthesia. But apparently, it’s good for reflection! Personal growth! Realizing how far you’ve come! I suspect revisiting my old journals will mostly reveal how consistently I’ve managed to make the same mistakes over and over again. But hey, maybe that’s growth too, in a deeply depressing, cyclical sort of way.
Romanticize the act of journaling! Light a candle! Have tea! Listen to music! Turn it into a whole performance! Anything to make the prospect of confronting my inner demons slightly less unbearable. Perhaps I’ll wear a velvet robe and dim the lights and pretend I’m a tortured Victorian novelist penning my masterpiece by candlelight. Or maybe I’ll just spill 180 proof vodka on the notebook and set the math book cover alight with candle and while I watch the flames, realize that romanticizing things is mostly just another form of elaborate procrastination.
The most important thing, they say, is to start. Just start journaling. Even if it’s just for four minutes a day. Four minutes. That’s barely enough time to write “Dear Journal, I’m already bored.” But fine. I’ll start. For four minutes. Maybe. If I can find a pen that still works and a notebook that isn’t covered in faces with dicks for noses. And if the universe, in its infinite wisdom, can just send me a little bit of inspiration. Or at least a decent parking space. Baby steps, I suppose. Baby, cynical, slightly resentful steps.
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