For the last fifteen or more I’ve had a little New Year’s Eve ritual. I take all my journals and notebooks, bring them together and read through them all. Included are all my 3×5 cards, all of those things I write for my benefit.
Once together I read through everything I’ve put down, no matter where it takes me.
The idea of course is that I’d actually go and learn something from this process and make at least a minor tweak to improve my life.
Unfortunately, though perhaps predictably, it rarely works out that way. Usually it’s an interesting exploration certainly, but little more than that.
This year I was really quite looking forward, over the past week or so, to knuckling down and doing this yesterday. I wanted to see if I could find a decent correlation at least to the near complete absence of depression this year of any notable scale. Indeed I’ve not experienced anything of a funk that would be described as more than having been in a bad mood, and even that for a day or two at the most extreme.
Compare that with the past couple decades where I’d routinely get in to funks that would last weeks at a time.
So I started shuffling around my apartment on Sunday, picking things up and bringing it all together and I had a rather curious notion that grew as I went through my depth first search of the place: I wrote almost nothing this year.
In terms of personal journaling I don’t have more than five pages, unless you count my reading journal, which consists of nothing other than book read dates and reviews, so I don’t.
And I thought to myself, I thought: “Self? That’s unfortunate. You really let it slide this year. Imagine if you’d actually taken better notes you’d be able to see what it was you did differently.”
Now as I get older I know less and less about the world around me. But there is one thing that I’ve held on to and that has stayed with me for these 38 years: God is not without a very well developed sense of mirth and irony.
So I thought that to myself again. Then again, until I started smelling smoke. I went back and did some random sampling over the past 20 or so years of journaling. It was remarkably close to all about me trying to work out some depressive mood cycle on paper; iterating all the things I felt were gross inequities in my life while cheaply ennobling them by peppering the pages with various permutations of “mea culpa.”
In short: I’m of the mind that writing this crap down, under the very well intended goal of helping to work through them, had reinforced and cemented my own obsessive whinings in my life strongly enough to drag me down in to long term bouts of depression.
Now, it may NOT be true. After all it’s a fool who mistakes correlation for causality.
Experiments would be easy to do. Evaluate things over time with and without journaling, etc. Do it in cycles. blah blah.
But frankly? This is my life, and I’m not going to take the chance that it MIGHT be true to even run some personal experiments.
I’ve got an awful lot more about things of that ilk, what I’m going to accomplish this year and how. But those are still developing.