I Hate Journaling Novels & Stories

It was so familiar, and yet it felt like a cruel reminder of everything that was slipping away. Then I crawled into bed, hugging my knees to my chest, curling into a ball like I could protect myself from the storm inside me. The journal sat on my nightstand, exactly where I left it. Waiting. Always waiting for me to pour my thoughts into it, to make sense of everything. But tonight, it only felt like another task I couldn’t bear. I reached for it. Opened it. Held the pen. Then set it back down. I couldn’t write.

Dear Harry Styles, We ended it. I just don't know what went wrong, how it went wrong he told me that I was all a bet that it was to just a show. I don't even know what to write in this journal anymore all this time this book was about him, I hate him from the bottom of my heart I hate him so much that I can't even shout I can't even scream at him. I didn't realise how much I fell for him for the past two years, was I honestly nothing for him ?! All I did was love him and this is what I get in return ? I am writing this tell you Harry that I won't be continuing this because I need to get over him. So see you soon Harry.

I think: me too, and I am done being afraid of it. I don't write it in the journal. Some things don't need to be words yet. They just need to be true.

Actually let him go. Not because I don’t love him anymore. I do. God help me, I still do. But because loving him is killing me, and I deserve to survive. My hand is steadier now, the words flowing easier. When I finish, I close the journal and set it aside. The clock says six-forty-seven. I need to get ready for work. Need to shower again, put on my borrowed clothes, apply makeup that will hide the evidence of my breakdown. Need to go out into the world and pretend I’m fine.

But the deeper I went, the more frustrated I became. The journals were… empty. Not literally. They were filled with details, with trivialities, with the mundane thoughts of a teenage girl who had no idea she was about to vanish from her own life. Complaints about homework, notes about clothes. Passing mentions of people without depth or context. No trauma. No warning. No hint of the wall that now stood inside my mind. It was like reading the diary of a stranger. I dropped the journal back into the box and reached for another. Then another. Different years. Same result.

So why did I feel like I was forgetting something important? I walked over to my nightstand and pulled out my journal—the leather-bound one Jules had given me last year for my birthday with the inscription "For your thoughts, dreams, and everything in between" on the cover. I hadn't written in it much lately, too caught up in work and usual the chaos. But this morning, I felt the need to write. To ground myself before everything changed,to reassure my self and be grateful. Things weren't perfect but it felt like if I wrote in this book, I would feel better even more free.

My heart fell to my stomach when I realized they were blank. I’d foolishly hoped that she’d written something of value in here. Some naïve part of me had even hoped she’d left me a note apologizing, explaining why she had abandoned me and sent me away with Lucille of all people. With tears in my eyes, I snatched a pen from my bedside table and flattened the journal with rough hands. You left me, I scribbled. You left me and I deserve to know why. It was silly and pointless. I’d stuffed the journal beneath my torn mattress shortly after in a fit of frustration. Nothing would come out of it, but I’d been so angry—so upset that I needed to set the emotions free before they clawed their way out

You know what the problem is with being a journalist in the year 2022? Everything has been done before. If you think you've come up with an exciting new idea, chances are somebody has already done it. The unfortunate truth is, no matter how obsessed you are with your job, no matter how committed, you have to really think outside the box. All this obsessing and hours spent journaling will inevitably lead to one thing- a serious hit to your dating life. In fact, if you're anything like me... it's pretty much non-existent.

It will be a long time before anything changes. There are a lot of other people who are more disabled than I am and in worse pain, which is truly appalling. Does it give them any consolation to open up a diary? Or, on the other hand, would they say they are adequately ready to keep everything in their spirits? — I used to want to read, but now I find that all books bore me. I can't check out anything, and more importantly, I hate myself. My spirit is furious. Again, Nina returned, to a lunch get-together this time. It was a horrible day with a heavy downpour. She told me of her connections—as a

Yet, it was worth jubilating for. It took every atom of strength for Gianna to message him. So much so that, she'd even lost count of the number of times her phone's screen had blacked out as the constant results of her fingers idly hovering over the keyboard for too long. Every time she thought of a friendly way to approach him: to write him, the cruel past events he'd made her go through surfaced, churned her gut, changed her mind, and made her type a series of profanities and an application letter of abuses that will end up being deleted instead.