On keeping a journal (to Didion)

by MB

I circle and earmark pages filled with meaning, as though my affirmation of them makes them come to life.  

I write for similar reasons. To remember. To process. To heal myself and soothe the noise in my head that whispers, without pausing for a breath, you are not good enough. You do not deserve this.  

I write to make sense of my life and to escape the truths I seek. I write because I fear memory is worth no more than the vessel in which it is contained; a cherished family heirloom hanging in the back of the guest closet collecting dust.  

I write because I don't understand and because I don't have the words. I write as though my mind is a jigsaw puzzle, and only by fitting round pegs into their half moon resting place can it be understood. 

I write as a confirmation that I am here. That I am now. Present and vulnerable as the man sleeping next to me who I love with a ferocity that frightens me.