My mother gave me a journal when I was in the fourth grade for my 8th birthday. It had dates on every page. It was a yellow, with Ziggy on it. It had a lock. I liked the idea of writing what I thought about. I liked the idea of it being secret so I could lock it up. But I felt frustrated with it and gave it up.

I was too young for a dated journal, and I never have liked them since. Sometimes I write every day. Sometimes I don't. Sometimes I write long passages. Sometimes they are short. I find dated journals restrictive, and I prefer blank books (lined and no lines)

In fifth grade, when I was 9, I started writing in a plain notebook, possibly inspired by Harriet the Spy by Louise Fitzhugh . This was much better! I could write when I wanted, how I wanted and I didn't feel pressured by having dated pages staring at me all blank like that. This spawned a succession of notebooks -- some plain, some decorated, some fabric covered, some not lined, some lined. I did try another dated journal when I was 12, but still felt they stunk. In later years I've started using archival paper sketchbooks. I spent my adolescence writing furiously.

For a period right after high school, I stopped writing. I was going through a lot of depression in college and struggling. Writing about the pain made me relive it not once when I experienced it, but again when I tried to sit down to write about my feelings. Overwhelmed, I put my pen down when I was 18, and a college freshman.

Throughout college, I'd try to start again, buying fresh books, trying to distance myself from the pain. I have several such books-- half started, put away again.

Putting my pen down was the worst thing I could have done. Even if the pain was rough, not having that creative outlet was rougher. I contemplated suicide. I got more and more depressed. I also withdrew into myself , got sick, had to take off from school. This started a long line of doctor's visits, trying to find out what was wrong with me. I even had endoscopy done to see why my stomach was always making me nauseous. I was put on Paxil to even out my moods. At the same time, my sister was going through similar experience, but she took it a step further. She not only thought about suicide, she attempted it several times and was eventually hospitalized.

My poor parents would call me and be sad and feel frustrated. I hadn't the heart to tell them I was going through similar thoughts, although not as extreme. I became the liaison between my sister and my parents since for a time, she refused to speak to them. She was put on medication, went through therapy, and seems better. Her creative outlet is poetry. I am glad she has that.

For me though, it was insane. I didn't want to burden my parents with my problems. Yet I needed to find peace as well. My doctor's could not find out what was wrong with me, and I while under their care I turned 22 and was no longer covered by my parent's health insurance. I didn't want to ask them for money, since my sister was under treatment and the bills where making my mother worry if they'd make it through -- it was draining their savings.

I turned to on-line support, looked into taking control of my health in my own hands, sought other doctors. Eliminating dairy helped my stomach feel less nauseous and that led me to investigate vegetarianism. I knew I had to get fit, because all this stuff was seriously affecting my health. I looked into finding female doctors who I felt would listen to me more than my previous male doctors. It's been a rocky trip, and my husband has been my lifeline many times.

But trip led me to veganism, the creation of my on-line journal, and another off-line journal. I write in that one far less frequently than I do the one on-line, but it's there.

I'm no longer afraid to pick up a pen.

~Astrophe