Paint Pictures with Words-Keep a Journal!

Ever since I became a teenager, I have kept a journal. Writing in a journal has helped me learn about how my attitude and outlook change as I grow older. Self-expression has always been very important to me, and when circumstances have indicated that silence can sometimes be the best option, I have been able to use the outlet of writing to help me deal with my feelings.

When I was a teenager, my journal was filled with "wow" and "fantastic" and whole sentences written in all caps to describe my frustration at being unable to verbalize my feelings. For years, I described the object of my infatuation on paper because I did not dare share my feelings with anyone out of fear that I would be ridiculed. There were many schoolgirl "crushes" on boys who had beautiful eyes, great hair, a winsome smile or who dressed exceptionally well.

In third grade, "Craig" was the object of adoration, and I wanted to change my name to "Linda" because that was the name of the girl he liked. My fantasy life was at an all time high. In my dreams, I became "Linda Black" with long golden curls down my back, slim, trim and athletic so that I could join the boys in the rough-housing out of doors. By the time I entered fourth grade, I had made a complete turnaround to the delicate lady with long, flowing skirts and an elaborate upswept hairstyle. I spent hours trailing my dress-skirts through the dust, hobbling in my mother's best high heel shoes as I fulfilled my fantasies in play. Before bed, I secretly wrote every detail of my dreams into my journal.

By the time I started fifth grade, I had given up playing dress-up and concentrated solely on my Barbie doll collection. In my fantasies, I was Barbie, and I wanted a Ken doll of my own. Everything that Barbie had I wanted for myself. During those preteen years, I read novels about girls beginning to date, the problems of being the new girl in school, and these novels fed my desire to possess the same experiences.

Once I became a teenager, the fantasies took on new meaning. Even though I still admired certain boys from afar, I was scarcely able croak out a greeting without turning beet red as if in fear they could read my mind, I lacked the confidence to make conversation with anyone other than my closest girlfriend. One boy that I adored from afar was named Trigby, who turned out to be friends with my brother. Debbie and I spent hours following him around our apartment complex, reporting any new incident one of us witnessed while we were apart.

In school, there were the usual cut-ups in class who managed to disrupt class long enough to make everyone in the room giggle and guffaw with their antics, and I faithfully recorded every moment of casual eye contact, every smile, and every comment. Each recording was followed by expletives of "wow." I recorded every dream, especially the ones that seemed to be "sending a message." There was the night I dreamed of a giant ice-cream robot who was about to crush everything in its path, and my job was to warn anyone I saw. I was running at the giants' heels-I was ten inches high-when I saw the rock band, Mark Lindsey and the Raiders standing by the fence. With all thought of the ice-cream robot vanishing from my mind, I detoured to get an autograph, magically returning to my normal size.. Since there was no paper at hand, the lead singer wrote his name above my left elbow. When I woke up the next morning, there was ink on my arm that looked suspiciously like a signature.

Since I knew that sleep-walking was not something I had ever done, there was no way to explain my experience so I wrote it down in my journal. I also recorded the day we saw Ed Sullivan on the Champs-Elysees in Paris. My mom stopped mid-stride, mouth agape, and all she could do was point. To this day, I remember saying, "Hey Mom! There's Ed Sullivan!"

Then, there was the day our family was on our way to eat lunch at the Officer's Club on the Rue Marbeuf, and I was twirling my umbrella like a baton. As we passed a group of four, I accidentally hit a woman with my umbrella, and my mom turned to the woman and said, "Merci."

Word pictures are sometimes more eloquent than a photograph.